“What is happening?” she asked, her voice pitched low, as soon as she reached the other woman.

“I’ll tell you in a moment. Girls—inside.”

A German officer had emerged from the gloom of the stables and was striding toward them. If she’d met him under different circumstances, she’d have judged him an average sort of man, with an ordinary build and a pleasantly boyish face, his hair a medium shade of brown, his eyes an irresolute blue. One of those harmless types who never quite managed to work up the courage to talk to the prettiest girls at parties.

She could not separate him from his Nazi officer’s uniform, however, nor could she forget the pistol that was holstered at his hip, nor the two soldiers who now stood a few paces behind him. There was nothing harmless about any of them.

“Good afternoon, Obersturmführer Zwerger,” Rosa said evenly. “I’m sorry I was inside when you arrived. How may I help you?”

“You know very well that I’m here to see your brother, signorina. He and I are old friends, after all.”

Only with the greatest difficulty did Nina resist the urge to turn her head and goggle at Rosa. Nico was—had been—friends with this man?

“My brother is away.”

“Away? On what business?”

“Helping our cousins slaughter the pigs,” Rosa lied. “He should be back in a day or two.”

A faint look of distaste crossed the man’s features. “I see. Yet it was my understanding that he left the seminary in order to help your father with the farm here.”

“He did.”

“For a man whose presence is so essential to the operation of this establishment”—here his face contorted into another wincing sort of frown—“I am surprised he is so often away. This is, as you know, the third time I have come to call and found him absent.”

“Our uncle died last year. Our cousins need Niccolò’s help. Shall I tell my brother you were asking after him?”

“Certainly,” he said, and then his attention turned to Nina. “Who is this?” he asked idly. “Yet another cousin?”

“No. This is my sister-in-law. Niccolò’s wife.”

“You’re his wife.” He looked her over, his gaze assessing and openly contemptuous. “His wife,” he repeated, and still he did not look away.

“Yes,” she managed, though her throat was tight enough to choke her.

“Congratulations on your marriage, Signora Gerardi. Your very recent marriage, I presume?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask how you met?”

“It was by chance. In Venice.”

“You are from Venice, then?”

She only had to stick to the story. Add nothing. Merely answer the question he asked. “Not originally, no. I grew up in Padua. I was only there for my schooling.”

“Schooling?”

“I was training to become a nurse.”

“And your family? Was it not difficult to move farther away from them?”