She knew that Mario needed to believe she was a newlywed, giddy with happiness and oblivious to the world’s ills, so she tilted her face into the fading wind, let it dry her tears, and turned her attention to the mainland.

She’d lived her entire life only five or six kilometers away, but she’d never set foot in any of the coastal towns; when she and her parents had gone on holiday, they’d always taken the train from Santa Lucia to the mainland. Here, on the outskirts of Campalto, the farms came right down to the water’s edge, with jetty after jetty occupied by variations of Mario’s sanpierota and smaller craft.

As Mario directed the boat toward the only empty jetty, Niccolò took down the foresail and furled it neatly, then did the same for the mainsail.

“See? I haven’t forgotten a thing,” he told his cousin.

“It’ll do. Take the bowline for me?”

It was a short walk from the shore to the closest of the farmhouses. A woman stood at its door, a baby in her arms, a toddler clutching at her skirts, and as soon as they drew near she smiled widely and waved in greeting.

“Niccolò! Welcome!”

“Good morning, Sofia. I’m sorry for taking up so much of Mario’s time today.”

“No need to apologize,” she said, her smile directed at Nina. “You had to fetch your bride, after all.”

“Nina, this is my cousin’s wife, Sofia. In her arms is Chiara, and the little one is Emma. Sofia, this is my wife, Nina.”

It was startling to be introduced in such a fashion, but she remembered to smile and admire the children, and then Niccolò papered over any remaining awkwardness by making funny faces at little Emma until she began to giggle.

“Are you hungry?” Sofia asked. “You’ve a long way to go before you get to Zia Elisa’s.”

“We’re all right, for now,” Niccolò hastened to answer. “We had breakfast not so long ago.”

“You’re sure to be hungry later. I’ve packed up a basket for you. There’s bread I baked yesterday, some cheese, and some apples.”

Mario had vanished into the stables, but he must have been close enough to hear them. “There’s fresh water, too,” he called back. “I put a cask in the cart. Should be enough to see you to Zia’s.”

“What about Bello?” Niccolò asked.

“He’s here.” Mario now emerged from the stables with a bridled and noisily protesting mule. “I’ll leave you to hitch him to the cart,” he grumbled. “Foul-tempered beast tried to take a bite out of me just now.”

“He never gives me any trouble,” Niccolò protested as he took hold of the bridle.