The afternoon was more of the same, kilometer after kilometer under the baking sun, with the mule’s gait slowing and slowing until they might as well have been moving backward. Niccolò got down to walk by the cart and led Bello by his bridle, which increased their speed the tiniest bit, but all the same it felt like the hours were stretching into days.

Just as she thought she could bear it no longer, Niccolò turned Bello and the cart through an archway built into the low stone wall flanking the road. “Here we are.”

He had stopped the cart in the courtyard of a small farmhouse, its exterior walls neatly whitewashed, its front door open to catch the last of the afternoon sun. An old dog lay under a bench by the door, but after opening a single eye to inspect them, and thumping his tail in approval, he went back to sleep.

“Nico? Is that you?” came a voice from inside.

“Yes, Zia Elisa—we’re here!” he called back.

Niccolò’s aunt came rushing from the house, her arms open wide, and no sooner had Nina stepped down from the cart than she was kissed soundly on each cheek and enfolded in the other woman’s capacious embrace.

“Such a happy day—a blessed day! Felicitations to you both! And never you mind what others may say, for I always thought you were meant to marry, my dear Nico, and have a family of your own. I did, I always did, and if your dear mother were still alive, she would agree, would she not?”

Rather than wait for an answer, Zia Elisa propelled Nina inside and insisted she sit at the head of the table for an early supper.

“You’ll both be famished, I’m sure of that, and a bowl of my best soup is exactly what you need, and there’s bread to go with it, baked fresh this morning, and I’ve wine, too. Is the soup too hot? No? Then eat, eat. Go on, now—eat!”

Nina hadn’t realized how hungry she’d been until her first spoonful of soup. It and the bread were delicious, and the wine softened the edges of her worry, and rather than try to take part in the conversation she simply listened as Niccolò deftly avoided answering his aunt’s questions about how he had met and courted her.

“Another day, Zia Elisa. Better for Nina to tell you the story herself when she isn’t so tired.”

She had begun to feel quite comfortable, and nearly at home in Zia Elisa’s unfamiliar kitchen, when Niccolò pushed back his chair and announced that he and Nina were very tired and would be heading up to bed.