I reached up, stroking his beard. I snuggled into his neck, grasping the collar of his shirt.

“I love you,” he whispered.

I closed my eyes, listening to the thumping of his heart. The rhythm lulled my eyes closed. He was speaking to someone in the distance. I couldn’t understand his words anymore, just the vibrations from his throat as my face pressed into him.

It amazed me in that moment how two people could fit together so well. We never stop to think that it is not just the heart or the soul that is a match to our other. It is the body as well. José and I fit together. We always had. We always will. The world around me fell away and all that was left was me, my husband, and the bird in the window.

There was only one request. One thing left that I needed from her, then she could have me. I gathered what was left of my strength, forming the words in my mouth. “Take care of the children.”

Epilogue

October 26, 1860

José

The wood creaks under my grip as I brace myself for another wave of memories, my fingers digging into the aging dresser. Faces of the people who went before me swim through my mind’s eye. The tang of gunpowder fills my nostrils. Not again, I pray as I feel myself being pulled back to the fierce battles long since past. I press down on the dresser, resting my forehead against the cool mirror, bringing myself back to this tiny room.

Opening my eyes, I stare at the man looking back at me. I hate what I see. The graying beard, the eyes that have dulled, the vitality of youth faded from battle. When did I become so old?

Today should be a happy day. Victor Emmanuel and his entourage are waiting for me. I will walk down those stairs and sign a treaty that will create the Kingdom of Italy. This is the culmination of everything I have ever worked for. Everything that I sacrificed. I look toward the ceiling, pockmarked with mold, trying to avoid the old man in the mirror. The man who outlived them all, who casts a judgment that I am not ready to face.

“Anita.” Her name escapes my lips like a prayer to my patron saint. I lurch forward as another wave of images catches me in the gut. That night at the dairy farm. The impromptu burial during a hasty retreat. The— Oh God, I can’t even let myself think of what the dogs did after we left. Our unborn child. Guilt making my knees buckle.

And all at once I feel her beside me, like a warm Brazilian breeze. She is stroking my arm, like she did before. “I can’t do this,” I say to the presence.

“Yes, you can.” I turn to find Anita perched on the bed, her hands neatly folded in her lap. That smirk, the one that lights her eyes, tells me she is set for mischief. “You will walk out this door and sign the treaty that will create a unified Italy.”