San Grigori, Apennine Mountains, Italy
March
1785
“It’s so quiet here,” Kaya Conrad said to no one in particular.
No one stood beside her in the small cottage, barricaded against the
harsh winter storm. The shutters occasionally rattled against the windows,
sending the entire structure shivering, as if it, too, froze in the cold. The
mountain wind sneaked through the gap between the floor and the door and
slithered around her ankles. In the kitchen, blocked off only by a long wooden
table, a wood fire burned brightly.
It did nothing to warm her.
She closed her eyes and let the constant wind soothe her. “I never
thought a snowstorm would be so…calming. Cold, yes, but calming.”
She looked over her shoulder to where she expected her husband, but the
room remained empty. Paul lay sick in bed, still recovering from the last weeks’
events. Kaya rubbed her hands, but they remained numb, more so due to all that’d
happened in this small village than to the current snowstorm howling outside.
Six months ago, when she watched her grandfather sign the marriage
contract, she had not expected to stand, alone, in a tiny mountain village in
the middle of a snowstorm. New adventures? She craved those. Kaya didn’t even
mind the snow, her first true experience with it.
“Paul, this was not how I envisioned our life together.”
“Nor I,” came the rasping answer.
She whirled from her position by the table and stared in surprise. “You
look awful,” she blurted out before she could stop the words.
Paul snorted but wobbled. “I feel awful.” He shuffled to the table and
sat in one of the sturdy chairs.
Rounding the table, she tilted his head to look at him. He didn’t feel warm,
and though pale still, didn’t look as if he were about to be sick. She could’ve
done without that sickness. Nonetheless, Kaya eyed him warily. “How’s your
stomach?”
He grinned and took her hand, holding it between his warm ones. That
touch did more to steady her than anything had since arriving in San Grigori.
“I think the worst is over, sweetheart.” He pressed a kiss to her
fingertips. “There’s nothing left in my stomach.”
“True,” she allowed, and forced her feet to stay rather than take her a
safe distance. Just in case. “There’s bread left, if you wish.”
Paul looked to where a half-loaf sat from earlier but shook his head.
“Not just yet.”
Kaya ran her fingers through his hair, nails scraping his scalp. Paul sighed into her touch and the lines around his mouth eased. He might not feel nauseous anymore, but he was still in pain. A pain she did not understand and had no idea how to ease.
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