Chapter 4: The Cottage

My father gave us the guest cottage by the boathouse, as far from the main house as the law allowed.

Two of his men stood at the end of the path all night, and I lay awake and listened to them not talking.

Ciro slept on the couch with his coat over him and one hand on the floor.

At dawn the pain woke me.

I curled around it and didn't make a sound, because I had learned that in a year of nobody listening.

"Serafina."

He was crouched beside the bed, fully dressed.

"I'm fine," I said.

"You're gray. Can you sit?"

He got an arm behind my back and lifted me against the pillows.

There was a bowl on the nightstand, steaming, and the smell of it was chicken and a little lemon.

"I made that," he said. "The cook left a tray of eggs and ham, and I put it outside the door. You can't eat eggs."

"How do you know what I can't eat?"

"I watched you push food around a plate for an hour last night." He picked up the spoon. "Open."

"I can feed myself."

"I know. Open."

I opened.

The broth went down warm, and it stayed.

He fed me four spoonfuls, then five, and he didn't say well done, the way people did to children.

"Where did you learn to cook?" I asked.

"My mother was a bad cook, and my sister liked to eat."

"You have a sister."

"I had a little sister." He loaded the spoon again. "Eat."

He didn't say anything else about her, and I didn't push.

I had seven days left, and I wanted to spend them on the thing in front of me.

When the bowl was empty he set it aside and sat on the edge of the bed.

"What do you want?" he said. "Not the revenge. What do you want to do before it's over?"

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