“I’ve never been.” Ben looks down at me. “It’s your turn to be the guide now.” I grab his hand, tugging him through the doorway and down the long, dimly lit stone passage beyond.

Inside the museum is a treasure-trove. Dozens of rooms crammed with all sorts of fascinating exhibits. Others might have been horrified by the gruesome anatomical wax models that fill several of the rooms, but Ben listens with interest, as I explain that they were used in the eighteenth century to teach medical students. “They’re incredibly accurate because they were copied from real corpses,” I say, as we linger over a waxwork heart.

Ben’s eyes light up. “I would love to come back and sketch some of this.”

“So would I,” I admit. “I feel like Stubbs with his horses.”

“So we can tell your uncle that I made an artist of you after all.” Ben grins. “I’m sure he’ll be relieved to know he got his money’s worth.” The words have a slightly bitter ring to them, and I look up, surprised, but Ben has already moved on to another model and is asking me what the names of the various veins and arteries are.

I take him into more rooms, rooms filled with entomological collections. “Of course you want to spend your time with the bugs,” Ben grumbles, but I’m not listening.

There, on one of the long wooden drawers, is a label, Collezione Rondani. “Camillo Rondani’s collection,” I whisper, awed as I pull out the drawer, slowly and with a muffled shushing sound.

“Who was he?” Ben asks.

“He was an expert on Diptera, or—”

“Flies.” Ben cuts me off. He flushes at my surprised expression. “You mentioned it the other week. I looked up what it meant.”

That warm feeling in my chest is back and I try to fight it down, to keep a lid on the thing that is growing inside me with every day we spend together, the thing I don’t want to name. I try not to beam at him, like a moonstruck ninny, like so many girls have probably beamed at him before.

“Yes, flies.” I clear my throat. “He also wrote some fascinating things about insects in Sicilian amber.”

“Like what?” Ben asks.

I walk around the room, pointing things out. I like that he’s interested, and that he doesn’t mind me knowing so much more than him about this. He asks me just as many questions as I asked him in the gallery. Mother and Father always told me that a man wouldn’t appreciate a woman who had more education than him. I smile. Ben seems to appreciate me just fine.