NOW IT WAS SATURDAY, the fourth of May, and they were hurtling around some hairpin turn toward this ancient yellow-brown town nestled into the neck of the Sabine Hills. Behind them, the Roman countryside spread out in a quilt of new green fields. The sun beat down on Iris’s head. The draft streamed through her hair and filled her lungs. The land was so beautiful, her eyes ached with it. She would remember this drive forever. She’d remember the smell of exhaust and of asphalt, and the delicate green scent of spring.

THE VILLA WASN’T MUCH, after all. It sat a mile from the center of town, up on the hillside overlooking the falls, and the view was the best thing about it. The privy was outdoors. The kitchen sink had a pump handle. Needless to say, there wasn’t an icebox or a stovetop in sight. Iris wandered from room to room—hall, living room, snug bedroom, walls of pink stucco, dark, monastic furniture, old books, sunshine, dust—everywhere the smell of centuries—and declared she loved it.

“It’s rustic, all right. Like camping,” Sasha said.

“You’re the camping type, are you?”

“I wouldn’t say I’m the type, exactly, but my brother and I used to climb up around the Adirondacks in August, while Dad watched his horses run at Saratoga.”

Iris clasped her hands. “Your father has racehorses?”

“Why not? Profit in pursuit of trophies.”

“No. You’re not going to ruin horses for me. They’re noble and beautiful, I don’t care what you say.”

He stood in the middle of the pink stucco living room, blinking at the dust and at her. He opened his arms. “Come here.”

Iris launched herself at his chest. Her feet flew through the air in a loop or two before he settled her back to earth. “Horses should do useful things,” he said, “not race each other around some crummy dirt track for the amusement of the wealthy.”

“And the gamblers. Don’t forget all those poor people losing their wages at the pari-mutuel window.”

“You see what I mean?”

She shook her head against his shirt. Her arms still looped around his neck; his arms circled her waist. She felt the thud of his heart and the tingle of gin on his breath. (He’d packed a Thermos for the drive.) “They’re still noble and beautiful, and it’s noble and beautiful to want to run fast. They can’t help it. It’s who they are.”

He grunted—agreement or disagreement, who knew—and kissed her.

“Am I ever going to meet your father?” Iris asked.

“You only want to meet his horses. Admit it.”

“I want to meet everything that belongs to you.”