Chapter 7: The Terrace

I did not slide the bolt that night.

I did not unslide it either.

I lay on top of the blanket in my clothes and listened to my mother's monitor through the wall.

At two in the morning I gave up and went to find air.

The clinic wing opened onto a stone terrace above the garden.

A single cigarette glowed at the far end of it.

Alessio stood at the rail in his shirtsleeves with his back to me.

He had loosened his collar, and in the light from the windows his shoulders looked narrower than I remembered.

"You can't sleep either," I said.

He did not turn around.

"I have not slept since the airport."

"You haven't eaten since I left Paris."

"That is not true."

"Your cuffs are loose."

He looked down at his wrists, and one corner of his mouth moved.

"Livia leaves a tray," he said. "I take two bites."

"Why?"

"Habit."

He stubbed out the cigarette on the rail and turned.

His right hand was wrapped in a white napkin that had gone dark in the palm.

"Alessio. You're bleeding."

"It is nothing."

"You broke a glass at dinner." I crossed to him. "I saw you put your hand under the table."

"Serena."

"Give it to me."

He held it out.

I did not think about the terms, or the bolt, or the six years.

I unwound the napkin and found a deep cut across the pad of his palm, with a sliver of crystal still in it.

"Hold still."

I took the sliver out with my fingernails.

He did not make a sound.

I rinsed the cut with the water jug from the table and wrapped it in my scarf.

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