Chapter 7: Warm

I didn't touch the pen.

I picked up the form with two fingers, tore it in half and dropped both halves into Fabrizio's wine glass.

The red soaked slowly up through the paper.

"Dinner's lovely," I said to the room. "Thank you for having me."

Thirty people watched me walk out.

Nobody stopped me.

Leone held my coat at the door like he'd promised, and the butler looked at the floor.

The night air hit my face, and I didn't make it to the car.

I sat on the curb of the Montanari driveway with my head on my knees and shook all over.

"Breathe," Leone said, crouching beside me. "Slowly. You did it."

"He looked straight at me," I said. "And there was nothing in his face."

"I saw."

"You saw it too?"

"I've seen that look on men who've lost something and don't know what," he said carefully. "Let's get you home."

"I don't have a home."

"You have a cot and a terrible coffee machine."

I laughed, a cracked little sound, and let him pull me up.

The ward was quiet when we got back.

Most of the beds were asleep, and a lamp burned at the nurse's desk.

The old baker had left a loaf wrapped in a cloth on my pillow, with a note in shaky capitals.

FOR THE BRAVE LADY. EAT.

I broke off the heel and held it under my nose.

Warm yeast, brown crust, a trace of salt.

Something moved in my chest.

It was small, a faint tug under the ribs.

I stood very still.

"What is it?" Leone asked from across the room.

"It smells like my grandmother's kitchen."

"That's good."

"I haven't thought about her in three years. I didn't miss her, and I didn't know I should."

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