“I know. I know. Father Bernardi told me not long ago that he’d been speaking with the local head of the Guardia. The man’s like a sieve. If the Germans had any idea how much he gossips they’d never tell him a thing.”

“And?” she prompted.

“The men who disappeared have been recorded as deserters. That’s what Father found out.”

“See? Now we really don’t have to worry.”

He nodded, but his unease was still palpable. “It’s only that . . .”

Carlo came roaring up, his eyes wild with excitement. “Did you see? The wind is sending the smoke to the east! We’ll have good luck this year!” Then he was off again, darting through the crowd, and Nico smiled and hugged her a little closer, and Nina tried to remember if the smoke was meant to go to the east or to the west. Perhaps Carlo was mistaken and the year ahead would be a bad one.

Just then the wind picked up, casting a cinder in Agnese’s eye, and though it was easily rubbed away, Rosa’s patience was at an end. She sent the older boys in search of their father and Carlo, and when the latter was returned, his sooty face streaked with tears, Nico was the one to comfort him.

“The bonfire will be nothing but ashes before you know it. And surely you want a little piece of cake before bed? Maybe some chestnuts, too?”

Soon they were home, and the kitchen was warm and bright, and the delight in the children’s faces was infectious, and the vin brulè that Rosa now ladled out, together with more slices of pinza cake, was the perfect cure for a case of the worries.

“It isn’t so very late,” Nico pointed out, “and I’m still hungry. Do you think we might roast some chestnuts?”

“As if I can say no with all of you staring at me,” Rosa pretended to grumble. Nico scored the chestnuts with his pocketknife, Rosa stirred up the embers in the hearth, and Matteo and Paolo took turns holding and shaking the long-handled pan. When the entire room was filled with the tantalizing scent of roasted chestnuts, the pan was emptied onto the table and the work of peeling began, with everyone exclaiming over burned fingers and the occasional withered surprise. No one was faster at it than Aldo, but then, as he explained, he’d had more than fifty years to practice.

They said good night soon after, and it was a joy to settle in bed, the lamp faintly aglow, the sheets warm from the hot brick Rosa had given them to take upstairs. Nico still turned his back while she changed, and she still shut her eyes while he did the same, but it felt natural to lie close to each other, their feet tangled together, and talk of their day in tender, affectionate whispers.