Luna followed her to the reception room. A servant placed a basket of each fruit on the table. The oranges were glossy and some knobbly with bumps. Luna concentrated on threading the string through the eye of the long, thick needle and then into the flesh of the orange and out the other side. Juice dripped down her arm and onto the flagstones. She picked up another orange. The lady sat beside her with lemons in her lap.

‘I am sorry for last night. I fear my husband’s enthusiasm was not welcomed by you.’

Luna shook her head, embarrassed that Elisabetta felt she needed to apologise. ‘I should not have reacted as I did but sometimes my grief overwhelms me. It’s hard to talk about my family.’ Her needle sliced through the flesh of the orange. Luna was grateful for the distraction of the work at hand. The log in the fire hissed and cracked.

Elisabetta shuffled in her seat and described the celebration on the Epiphany for the estate workers and household staff. Luna remembered how Mamma Lucrezia would give them sweets and fruits entwined on spruce twigs at this time of year. She listened to her hostess talk enthusiastically about the dishes her kitchen always prepared, and that too reminded Luna of Mamma Lucrezia. A rush of emotion threatened to undo her. Tears prickled at her eyes. She put down the orange, confused and embarrassed. She missed Mamma Lucrezia but she was angry with her too, angry at her passive reaction when Luna had told her of Guido Palagio’s attack and angry because, in the end, she’d wanted Luna gone. Yet still Luna grieved. Her hands were sticky with juice. She wiped her eyes discreetly and the citrus smell shamed her with its sweetness.

What right did she have to sit comfortably preparing for Advent festivities when the rest of her family was dead? She excused herself and hurried out, pulling on her cloak. The rain had stopped though the sky was cloudy and dark. She strode out, only thinking to put some distance between herself and the comforts of the house.