“I asked Lucrezia to fix her a plate, so if you just—”

“Eli, go. I’ve got her.”

Except, maybe I don’t. When I head for the pool, a platter of grilled seasonal veggies in one hand and a charcuterie board in the other, I’m already too late.

Sunset in Sicily is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Vibrant fuchsias and blues brush across the sky, soften into stripes of coral and indigo that curl around Mount Etna. The ocean underneath is the same shade as a lavender field, and fragrances of rosemary and citrus waft up to the terraced gardens. Around the villa, down the cobblestone paths, the shadows of the walls lengthen, dusting the lawn. The garden is already bright with strings of light bulbs and the occasional lantern. Thanks to the marine breeze, what’s left of the sweltering heat is simmering down.

Rue and Tisha are poolside, sharing a sun lounger meant for one, eyes glued to the sky. Their focus reminds me of Tiny’s little face when he works on his mental-alacrity dog toys. “We started early,” Tisha says when I deposit both trays on the table next to her bed. There’s something odd in her voice, toneless, almost like…

I glance around and find it immediately. Clumsily hidden in her fanny pack is a plastic bag full of gummies.

I grin. “How?”

“Do not asketh about the provenance of ye olde herb of merriment,” she tells me, “for ye are not prepared for ye shadowed truth.”

“Lucrezia’s grandsons?”

“How the fuck could you possibly know that?”

“Splinter skill. I’m really good at spotting who’s likely to have something interesting to sell.”

“In that case.” Tisha reaches under the bed and slowly, gropingly, finds the plastic bag. “Have some. With ye olde chef’s compliments.”

The good thing about having extensively experimented with recreational drugs over my misspent youth, is that I was able to catalogue my reactions to psychogenic substances with the dedication of an amanuensis monk in a fifteenth-century scriptorium. I’ve had my lows (such as the first time I tried DMT and gave myself bangs with a nail clipper) and my highs (when shrooms unlocked the concept of quantum entanglement for me; in fact, doing schoolwork while on shrooms was such a pleasant pastime of mine, I began growing them under my bathroom’s sink at fifteen; when Eli caught me, I let him believe that it was not for personal use but “to barter them for designer clothes.” Bless my fashion-challenged brother, who remains convinced to this day that Old Navy is a luxury brand).

That’s how I know that weed doesn’t do much for me. “Thanks,” I tell Tisha, with no intention of partaking. Instead I watch her and Rue stare up at the first few twinkling stars, making up names for them (“Pip of the Twilight,” “Great Pricketh,” “Big Dipper of Yore”). One by one, the others make their way downstairs to join us.

“I missed you, darling. I yearned for you. And that is why”—Nyota tosses a ball of fabric at me—“I got you this present.”