They were back at the farm a few minutes later, but rather than beckon them inside for dinner, Aldo—still sitting under the olive tree—told them that supper wasn’t quite ready.

“You might as well show Nina around,” he suggested.

“I would like that,” she said, and it wasn’t only because she wanted to put off returning to the kitchen and Rosa’s arctic company as long as possible. She genuinely was curious to see more of the place where she’d be staying until she returned home to her parents.

“Has your family always lived here?” she asked as they walked away.

“As far as I know. My grandfather’s grandfather built the house. The one it replaced was much smaller.”

“More like your zia Elisa’s?”

“Yes. I’ve always thought my ancestor must have come into some money. That’s why this house is so large, and why some of the details are so fine.”

“What’s on the top floor? More bedrooms?”

He shook his head. “That’s the granary. The stairs to it go up the outside of the house—you’ll see in a minute. And here are the stables. We’ve the pair of milk cows over there, and the oxen next to them. We’ve a few dozen chickens, too. Forever underfoot during the day, but they go back to their coop at dusk.”

They stopped by another pen, this one empty, and she looked at him questioningly.

“My father took the pig over to my uncle’s farm last week. We’ll fatten it up alongside the other pigs, and when it’s time to butcher them my father and brothers will go.”

“But not you?”

“No. I’m too softhearted. I can’t even wring the chickens’ necks for Rosa, and the sight of blood makes me dizzy.”

She giggled at the thought of it. “A grown man like you?”

“I know, I know. Laugh all you like. I pay for it, though—when they’re off dealing with the pig I have to run the farm on my own.” He turned to her, frowning, as if something had just occurred to him. “Nearly everything is cooked in lard. Will you be all right?”

She nodded uneasily, remembering her father’s insistence that she do her best to fit in. That she eat whatever was put in front of her. If lard was so important to their diet, there was no way she could refuse it. Not without ensuring that Rosa’s initial dislike would transform into outright antipathy. “I’ll survive,” she promised. “Although I’m not sure I could eat a pork chop.”

“No fear of that. Most of the meat you’ll see comes from the chickens, and even then it will only be a mouthful or two.”

They walked past a sleeping Bello in his stall, his ears twitching with every snore, and Nico stooped to scratch the head of a passing cat.