to Christopher.

Katerina blushed and giggled.

“Step into my carriage, and let's head home. It's quite a drive and there is a

lovely hot dinner waiting for us.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Christopher assented. “We've had nothing since a bowl

of soup in Livorno, and I don't know about my wife, but to me, a hot meal sounds very promising to me.”

“Yes, I agree,” she seconded. “Thank you, Nonno.”

He nodded in acknowledgment and sent them up into the carriage. Once

everyone was comfortably seated, Alessandro took up the conversation again.

“So, Signor Bennett, what do you do?”

“My father owns a cotton mill. We make fabric,” Christopher replied,

slipping his arm behind his wife's back.

“Cotton mill?” The bushy eyebrows came together in an unmistakable

expression of disapproval.

“No, Nonno, not that kind of mill,” Katerina defended her husband.

“Christopher and his father run a progressive mill. They have safeguards for the

employees and pay decent wages. They do everything they can to make their mill a pleasant place to work. They're so generous that some social reformers won't buy fabric from anyone else.”

The bushy brows returned to their normal position. “Ah, I see. Well then, Mr.

Bennett, I suppose you know where I can get good quality cotton fabric?”

“I'll see what I can arrange,” he agreed. Exporting to Italy. Now that would

be new. I wonder what Father would think of the opportunity.

“Do you offer a family discount?” Alessandro asked with a sly smirk.

Christopher grinned. “Perhaps. I'll have to talk to my father, but it seems likely.”

“Buono,” Alessandro replied, leaning back against blue velvet upholstery.

“And you, sir?” Christopher asked to continue the conversation.

“Our family has owned a large olive grove for generations. We export oil all

over the world. We also have a small vineyard. It's not as expansive as the orchard, but we make a charming red wine for our family to use. The people of

Firenze buy a bit for restaurants as well. Would you be interested in a glass with

your dinner?”

“That sounds wonderful, Nonno,” Katerina assured him.

Christopher nodded in agreement. "After so much travel, a nice glass of wine

would be very soothing."

The three lapsed into silence. Katerina's eye flitted to the scenery passing outside the window of the carriage where dense city thinned to open countryside. A strange sensation gradually grew within her, and she turned to see Alessandro regarding her with a considering expression.

“Cara,” he said to her finally in Italian, “How did your mother die?”

She looked at him, feeling haunted. “She had a fever,” Katerina replied at last, in the same language, quite forgetting her husband did not understand.

“So, it was a natural disease?” he pressed.

She bit her lip. “Are you sure you want me to answer that question?”

“Sì.”

Katerina closed her eyes against a sting. “The fever undoubtedly killed her,

but the source of the fever was not natural disease.”

“Did that figlio di puttana cause it?” Alessandro snarled.

Pain welled up in her soul. “Sì.”

Christopher took his wife's hand.

He has no idea what we're talking about, and yet he knows I need

comforting. She gave him a sad smile.

Alessandro continued his interrogation. “And you, cara? Were you in danger

too?”

“Sì.” She looked down at her lap, smoothing the fabric of her skirt with nervous fingers.

“Did he hurt you?”