‘But Mum took me from Italy,’ she returned. ‘Apparently, she was very bold.’ Then, as if she needed to fling open her mental filing cabinet and empty it, she gave more detail of the story Harry had poured into her ears. Darkness gathered. Fireflies flickered gold and the stars silver. Zia’s voice was the only sound apart from the rhythmic whirr of the cicadas. Piero found himself under the spell of her voice as she brought the chapters of her story together. She breathed life into a young Vicky as a defiant single mother in a less tolerant society, Vicky and Harry bringing up their kids in one household and later sharing the misery of Gerardo failing to love Tori as she yearned for. Her voice dropped as she talked of the psychosis that had sent Tori careering off to Italy, only to leave her baby with Lucia. Vicky snatching back Zia then arriving home to news of Tori’s death. Lucia clamouring for information. Vicky fleeing, living the lie she was Zia’s mother. Gran and Pap eventually perpetuating Vicky’s lie because telling the truth seemed too fraught with difficulties.

‘You know Lucia now. I’m sure Vicky didn’t need to be so scared,’ he murmured when she finally showed signs of winding down.

Zia nodded. ‘Perhaps grief for Tori and guilt she’d snatched me from Lucia magnified the situation and brought Vicky to desperation stakes.’ Quietly, she added, ‘I wish she hadn’t had to live with those feelings. She was a special woman. Loving and capable. Kinda quirky.’

Softly, he laughed, enjoying sharing this time with her beneath the stars. ‘She sounds special.’ He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers. ‘You’re special, too, Zia. You’ve literally had people fighting over you from the day you were born.’

He watched as her gaze fell to his mouth. For long seconds the world stopped still.

And then her phone rang in the darkness and she snatched back her hand to grab it. ‘Durante?’ Her voice was high with anxiety. ‘How is she? Piero’s here. I’ll put you on speaker and you can use Italian, it’ll be easier for you. He can translate any bits I miss afterwards.’

She made the necessary on-screen adjustments and set the phone down, gazing at it with fierce attention.

Piero said, ‘Durante?’

Durante’s voice hovered between strain and panic. ‘She is gravely ill,’ he cried. ‘Piero, my Lucia! She rolls and gasps and holds her belly.’ The words flooded out as he described the controlled urgency of the hospital staff, what they’d said, Durante’s feeling of helplessness as he drank in their grave expressions while they gave pain relief and arranged a scan.