Legacy

1

September 12th 1797

It was a big fly, fat and disgusting, its body a dark shimmering green, wings disproportionally small to this immense bulk. Emily Bradley had heard it ever since she'd entered the room, at first full of vigour and anger, bouncing hard against the window. An hour later, the sound had changed into a tired humming, the bouncing mere meaty bangs, followed by moments of silence as the insect fell onto the sash bar and stayed there, too exhausted to move and slowed down by the autumn chill that penetrated the window from the outside.

Emily raised her head and peered at the man. He had dressed and stood dapper and flawless, owning the room with his presence, proud profile turned toward the window; he seemed to have taken notice of the fly as well.

I hate bugs, he said. The soft glow from the Argand lamp played with his fair hair when he walked over to the window, colouring it in shades of orange, gold and silver. Don’t you, sweetheart?

Loud, aggravated buzzing, then complete silence… She closed her eyes, breathed in, breathed out. Her windpipes hurt as if she’d been screaming, which she might have done, though she couldn’t quite remember. When she opened her eyes again, the man was brushing his hands against each other to rid them of the remains of the insect, while he viewed her with detached interest, as if she too was an insect.

You do look a mess, you know, he said. Maybe freshen up a bit, hm?

As she nodded, the bruised skin on her cheek chafed against the mattress.

He sighed a little. Oh for goodness sake…Stop looking like a frightened hare, will you? One might think it was your first time with a man. But ah… He trailed off, placed his palm lightly against his forehead and shook his head in mock surprise. "Forgive me, it was. He gave a short, snorting laughter. Imagine that—a virgin at a brothel… What a lovely paradox. I had to pay handsomely for you, of course, but it was worth every penny. I quite enjoyed the show you put up, fighting me like that. Shame I have to leave tonight, don’t you think, or we could have some more fun, you and I. I’m going with my regiment to Ireland, if you wonder. With that French bastard Bonaparte raging about, one would have thought they’d send us to France instead, but I don’t really mind—vermin are vermin, whichever country they happen to be in. Things should be calm in France anyway now—they have enough to worry about over there. I heard he just declared the whole state bankrupt. The entire bloody state... Can you believe that?"

She shook her head, cautiously. She didn’t know anyone named Bonaparte, and France... Was that a place in England? She didn’t know the word bankrupt, either, but it sounded like it was a bad thing, which, strangely enough, seemed to amuse the man. He’d had enough of talking, however, turned on his heel and set off toward the door, his movements decisive and powerful, full of confidence. Emily burrowed her head into the pillow. Go, she thought. Leave.

Be right back, darling, he threw over his shoulder, and was gone.

She turned over on her back and thought about what he’d said, her body stiff, her heart pounding. Back? Had he said he’d be back? As in, he’d put her through all this again? Oh no, no way. Never ever. She pressed her lips together, drew a shaky breath. I can’t let it happen. It wouldn’t happen—she wouldn’t allow it. For a minute, she remained in the bed, staring up at the ceiling, her mind abuzz with her options, of which in the end, turned out to be only one. I have to get away from here.

Swiftly, she shoved the duvet to the side and slid over the mattress, momentarily closing her eyes at the sight of the blotches of blood on the crumpled sheet. It felt as if he’d ripped her apart with his body, and as sticky and sore as she was, she hadn’t yet had the courage to examine her injuries, but at least, they weren’t so bad that she couldn’t move.

There was her chemise, sadly clinging to the side of the chair where he’d thrown it. The cream-coloured fabric had a tear from the neckline almost all the way down to the sleeve, but it held together: with her dress over it, the damage was barely detectable. She scurried across the room to the window, tried not to look at the crushed fly while she unhooked the clasps. It took some time: her fingers trembled, and she winced when she wouldn’t manage right away. When the window finally swung outward and the blustery autumn wind slapped her face, she gulped in surprise. What am I doing? Tears pricked her eyes, blurred her vision. The outline of the backyard far beneath her appeared as a dark, undefined square, like a hole that was about to swallow anyone entering it. Is this really happening?

There was still time to reverse the decision. She could close the window, return to the bed and wait for the man—the fine gentleman, as Paul called him—to set about his grisly business with her body again. Only, she knew she’d rather die than have him touch her again. The worst thing was that she couldn’t go to Paul and complain or seek help, for not only was he her caretaker, but also the proprietor of the whole establishment: she’d heard him say a hundred times that the customer was always right, and so he’d hardly take her side in the matter. She’d heard his word before sending her up to this room, or rather, the instruction: be a good girl and do exactly as he tells you, Emily, or you will be dealing with me later on. She’d already disappointed him by not being bad, and couldn’t expect any sympathy from him. He’d add to her bruises, more like it.

The cold air stung her airways, but she braved it and leaned forward to stare down at the ground. Some feet from her window was the roof of a small shed, where Paul stored things of lesser value, like wood for the fireplace, some old tools and the rickety handcart for trips to the market. A high wooden fence surrounded the backyard and behind it was Queen Street, which led to Hay Market Square, where they bought vegetables and meat for the alehouse downstairs. She’d been allowed to follow Paul there once, but it was a long time ago, and all she remembered was that the noise and crowd had scared her. People had stared at them and some had pointed at her and whispered, looking both scandalized and amused—most likely because they knew Paul and had speculated in whether she was one of his girls. She hadn’t been, at that time, and had lived in the comfortable and perfectly distorted illusion of thinking she never would be: how could she, when she had none of the looks of the others, with her scrawny body and flat chest?

If I walk along the outside to where the shed is, I’ll be able to jump down on its roof and climb to safely. The idea filled her with dread, because she’d never seen herself as very daring, but also with a sense of determination: there was a way, and she was going to take it. Decisively, she moved the lamp to the side and climbed up on the table, nearly losing her balance when it wobbled on its uneven legs. To steady herself, she took a step out on the small ledge of the window, for a moment swaying toward the dark depth below it. She closed her eyes in panic, fingers clawing the frame, and for a breathless second, she stood there, muscles hard, cold sweat trickling down her spine, and heard moss and dirt topple from the ledge to the ground far beneath her feet. When all was still, she slid her foot further out. The stone was rough and cold under her bare skin, and her feet quickly fell numb. One hand still on the frame of the window, the other clinging to the façade, she stepped outside. A gust swept past the corner, grabbed her skirt and sent it up over her waist, almost as if it was furious over her daring venture. Don’t slip, Emily, don’t slip. She pressed herself against the outer wall. The chill seeped through her thin clothes and went straight into her body, making her shiver—but the worst thing was that she could barely feel her hands or feet anymore. Still, she’d come quite far already: she spotted the roof of the shed a mere foot away and felt a pang of hope.

Almost there now. Almost there.

There was a crash behind her. With a jerk, she glanced back and saw that the window had flown open completely and smashed into the outer wall. For a swift, confusing moment, she was overcome by huge relief that at least it didn’t break—Paul wouldn’t like it if anyone broke his windows—but then the moment was over and panic took hold of her, pressing the air from her lungs. There he was, the man, leaning out of the window and glaring at her.

What the hell are you doing? he hissed. "Are you trying to run from me? Is that what you’re doing, hm? Well, not if I can help it."

He flung out his hand and caught hold of her arm, tugged her toward him. Her feet slipped, and though she desperately tried to maintain contact with the house, she soon felt it only by the tip of her toes.

Let go! she cried out.

And have you fall? Are you mad? The jackdaw eyes met hers, full of disbelief. Come back here immediately.

He bettered his grip, had her by both her arms now, and as he pulled her closer, her feet completely lost the tiny contact with the ledge, dangled free over the chasm.

Stop bloody… He yanked her closer. "… struggling and come in here."

His face was so near that the fumes of sweet brandy and cigars from his warm breath washed over her face. The closeness sparked feverish images through her mind, of him holding the back of her head and pressing his mouth against his. After the taste of freedom, it felt as though she’d rather die than let him do that again. The nether edge of the window cut into her ribs when he hauled her upper body inside, and her knees banged against the outer wall, so hard she screamed out in pain—but it was good too, because it allowed her to push back, giving her leverage to tear her arm free from his grip and strike out against his face. It was a blind blow, a panicked, random attempt to get away, but a very effective one: her nails raked along his cheek, tearing the skin all the way down to his throat. During a breathless, strangely still moment, as if the world had suddenly stopped, they fell still and stared at each other. Then, she heard him utter a baffled:

Well, fine then, you wicked little wench. If that’s what you want…

With a jerk, he let go of her arms, and let Emily plunge to the ground.

She landed hard on her feet on the trampled soil. The hollow thump was immediately followed by a disgusting, snapping sound, like a twig breaking in two, before she crumpled to the ground. Red, scorching pain seared through her, and she screamed out, but there was no air left in her lungs to produce any sounds, and what came out was a meek sound, like a kitten meowing.

In the stillness that followed, she heard the man’s voice again. The crisp air carried it far, and it was strangely clear, almost as if he was standing next to her.

The girl jumped, he said, frostily. She’s down there now. Injured something when she landed—I heard the snap myself—so she won’t go anywhere. He cursed. Christ, I'm bleeding.

I am dreadfully sorry, my lord. It was Paul’s voice. Either the man must have fetched him, or he’d heard the commotion and had come to check. I don’t understand this. She’s usually very obedient...

Is that so? The man’s snort, tinged with dismay, wafted to the ground like a black, tarnished feather. I’d say your idea of obedience differs significantly from mine. Never mind… Get her for me.

The silence that followed held a great deal of surprise, and when Paul spoke again, that surprise coloured his voice:

My lord, if the girl is indeed injured, it’s probably not wise to use her again. I have other girls available for your enjoyment. You may choose whoever you want and enjoy her company for the rest of the evening. On the house, of course.

"I don’t want another girl. I paid for this one. Besides, I don’t take it very lightly to be humiliated in this manner: she must learn not to do it again, and I must be the one to teach her. I will pay even more for her than I already have, if need be, but you shall do what I tell you."

Emily held her breath. Say it, she pleaded to Paul. Say that he shouldn’t have done what he did, and that you will protect me. Show me I’m worth something, show me you honour my mother’s wish to always care for me, to be my guardian.

But he didn’t. She heard him sigh, heavily, and then:

As you wish, my lord. I will bring her to you.

The pain so far had been dull, a distant hum in her foot, giving her the impression that it wasn’t that bad—but that changed when she sat up and tryingly put her weight on it: the immediate pain that shot through her foot, along her spine and exploded in her head, forced her to shift over and throw up violently on the ground. Panting and sweaty, her head lowered she remained on all four until the throbbing pain had subsided. This is never going to work. She’d be stuck there, and Paul would come and collect her and carry her back…

No, she murmured. No, no, no.

She managed to crawl, on all four, toward the fence. There, she slowly got up on her good foot, careful not to stand on the injured one. I’m standing, she thought and wiped the sweat from her brow, at least I’m standing. Now she only had to—

The backdoor to the house opened, jostling her from her thoughts. She stared at the silhouette that had appeared against the rectangle of light that was the opening. If she hadn’t known it already, she’d have seen it on the round shape: this was Paul. She pulled back into the shadows, pressed herself against the fence and closed her eyes; a silly thing to do, for he could still see her from where he was.

Emily, darling, he called out, his voice as soft as she’d ever heard it. You have been a bad girl, haven’t you? Whatever got into you, jumping out of a window like that? Come back here and we’ll talk about it. Get you some warm clothes and a cup of tea. How about it, hm?

Lies. She wanted to scream to him that they were lies, just like everything up until now had all been lies—for how could he promise her mother, on her deathbed of all things, to always protect her, if he let this happen to her? How could he value a stranger’s money more than this promise? More than Emily’s life?

She wiped her eyes, angry at herself for not being able to keep from crying.

Emily? Paul said again. I know you are there, I can see you. I shouldn’t have to come over there to get you, should I, darling? Be a good girl and come over here instead.

She held her breath, spotting the shimmer of hope in what he’d just said: Paul didn’t want to move if he didn’t have to. Corpulent and heavy, his knees bad, he was unable to walk long distances, and he moved slower than a snail. Swiftly, she turned her head and spied along the fence. The opening was near her, and outside it, the street leading to Hay Market Square. Whatever was out there, it had to be better than what she knew here.

Em? Paul’s voice was still friendly, but she could detect a sliver of annoyance there now. Are you coming or not?

No, she breathed.

Steadying herself against the fence, she limped, as fast as she could, toward freedom. She heard Paul call out—he’d seen her—and felt the panic burn through her body, almost making her forget the pain. She paced up, and out on the street, she went.

Queen Street stretched before her, its long row of apartment houses and pubs huddling on each side. The street was scarcely lit at this hour, but the stars above and the occasional light from the windows provided enough guidance. She heard voices in the stillness, undoubtedly from one of the alehouses in the area, and spotted the occasional late wanderer further ahead—her voice pounded at the sight and her racing mind tried to think of ways to avoid bumping into anyone. It wasn’t only Paul or the gentleman, she realised: the world was full of men who wanted to harm her. Had she not experienced that herself, working as a maid in Paul’s alehouse all these years? They’d forced her to sit on their laps, their hands groping her, and they’d whispered things in her ears, things she hadn’t understood but that still had made her blush. Paul had always been there to scold them, telling them she was too young. Now, apparently, she wasn’t anymore; she was, it seemed, open prey for men to do what they wanted. I’m not going to let them.

Still, even with her best intentions, it was a fact that there were men ahead of her, and Paul was behind her, and she needed to hide. On a whim, she reached out and pulled at the door next to her. It was open, and she quickly slid into the dark foyer, closed the heavy door and backed away into the darkness, bumped against the pillar of a staircase leading to the apartments on the next floor. She rounded it and sank down on the floor, leant her head against the cool slates and closed her eyes. Safe, for now—she could stay here and catch her breath, wait for the daylight before she continued.

As she sat there, everything she’d been to seemed to attack her, as if the images and pain had been waiting in the shadows, ready to attack. Her world grew and shrunk, grew and shrunk, keeping perfect pace with her frantic heartbeats.

Whimpering quietly, she curled up into a ball and slipped into blissful unconsciousness.

2

I think it’s about time you woke up, don’t you, my dear?

At first, the words, cooed by a female, appeared to be part of Emily’s dreams, which had started out as nightmare but later had turned into something much softer, where she’d been washed with gentle hands and dressed in the finest gown, and then placed in a bed made of feathers and clouds, tucked between sheets that smelled like flowers.

So, little one, shall we open our eyes, then?

Since it was a demand and she was made to obey, she did as she was told. Stared at the unfamiliar woman leaning over her. Behind this woman, Emily spotted a room that was equally unfamiliar. With a gasp, she ran her hands over her body. Touched sheets, soft sheets, that smelled of lavender and roses. She stiffened and opened her mouth to scream. Out came only a faint wheeze, but it was enough for the woman to withdraw, her dresses rustling from the swift motion.

There, there, sweetheart, she said, holding up her hands. You have nothing to fear.

She looked sincere, but Emily still pulled up the sheet to her nose and made herself as small as possible, her heart thundering inside her chest, while she tried to discern where she was. She had never been in this room, that much was clear—in honesty, she’d never been in a room this beautiful, with its pale-yellow walls adorned with small paintings of flowers, the bottle green curtains over the large windows. She raised her head a little to look out but saw only the red and black rooftops of houses and a glimpse of a dark blue sky.

Faint noises found their way inside, of the rumble of carriage wheels, the clopping of hooves and loud, rowdy voices… It wasn’t unlike the ruckus she’d experienced at the market, and not at all like the street outside Paul’s pleasure house, which probably meant she wasn’t near. Besides, if she’d been taken back to him, she wouldn’t be in a comfortable bed, eyed by a little quick-eyed sparrow of a lady by now—she would have been suffering under the hard body of the gentleman. She shuddered, then tried her best to rack her mind as to what had happened after she’d fallen asleep under the stairs. Had someone collected her? She had a faint memory of someone leaning over her, someone with gentle eyes and a gentle voice—was it the dark man from her dreams, perhaps? But who was he? The memory was elusive, hard to grasp like an eel, slipping away easily from her every effort.

You will be wondering where you are, of course, the lady said, as if reading Emily’s mind. "I can tell you that you’re in Dr Bedford’s house. In Old Woking—but I’m sure you know that, seeing we found you here and all. I’m his housekeeper, Mrs Wright. It was Master Giatelli who found you. Brought you here this morning, he did. And you poor darling, you were so exhausted that you slept through the day. It’s almost evening now. She drew her hands on her white, starched apron, as though flattening the already immaculate garment, and smiled. Let me get Dr Bedford, dear, so he can have a look at you."

No, Emily mouthed, but too late—the woman, quick in her movements and energetic in her ways, was already gone. Slowly, Emily sank back against the pillow, pondering the new information. Once, one of the girls at the brothel had fallen down the stairs—that’s what she’d said, but later, Emily had heard the others whisper that Paul had pushed her because she was with child and he’d wanted her to lose it—and had hurt herself so bad that they’d had to summon a doctor. Emily remembered how she’d admired the man with his strict ways and piercing, intelligent gaze. He’d been a little scary, but at least had done no harm, and he’d looked at Paul in a way that had made her quite flabbergasted, since one simply didn’t look at Paul that way, ever, but Paul had seemed oddly flat, and hadn’t gotten the slightest bit angry. She figured doctors stood above ordinary men, like priests, and that this was why Paul hadn’t dared to talk back.

If doctors had this power, maybe she could beg for Dr Bedford not to send her to the pleasure house? She didn’t belong there, she could tell him, and she didn’t want to go back—especially not seeing that Paul would kill her for what she’d done.

Maybe she could do that. Maybe it would work. Whoever these strangers in this strange house were, they at least seemed to wish her well already, and hadn’t further harmed her; far from it. She lifted the duvet to glance down on her body. Her torn and dirty clothes had been replaced by a beautiful, white nightgown, and someone had wrapped her foot in dressings. A faint whiff of Opodeldoc liniment wafted to her nose, mingling with the clean scent of flowers. It was all so nice, so clean, so… exquisite, that she almost wanted to cry. I’m not worth all this. The question was, would these people realise that? Perhaps it was better not to tell them anything about who she was.

The sound of footsteps jostled her from her thoughts. She heard a male, rumbling voice, and a softer male voice that answered—two men, at least—and grabbed the sheet with her both hands, prepared to pull it over her head. Mrs Wright entered first, her head proudly raised and a look of content efficiency on her face.

Here’s our little patient, she chirped, and gestured toward Emily. All awake.

The two men joined Mrs Wright. All three towered over Emily, eyeing her with intense curiosity, the two men with their hands on their backs, looking as though they were seeing something incredibly interesting for the first time. And one of them… Her mouth fell open.

She’d heard about Mephostophilis, the man who sold his soul to the Devil and had been cursed for all eternity. This was how he must have looked like, with his face seemingly modelled from a chunk of clay and a slightly crooked nose, really too big for his face, but strangely proportionate, still. His hair fell dark and unruly over the large forehead, like tall grass over the edge of a cliff, and his eyes, black like coal, held all the secrets in the world, and all the knowledge of it, too. Emily shrunk under his gaze, afraid even to breathe.

Well, said the man beside him. He looked soothingly normal. The grey, neatly cropped hair, the goatee and the kind, blue eyes gave an impression of distinguished intelligence. That’s good. When someone is unconscious for too long, that’s normally a bad thing. He gave a slight bow. I am Dr Bedford.

And I am Vincente Giatelli, said the dark stranger. His voice was a dark rumble, as if it had its source from somewhere very deep inside the barrel chest of his, and it had a strange, thick accent that she’d never heard before. Master Giatelli. I am a painter, an artist. It was I who found you under the stairs. I had been visiting someone in the same house, and was on my way home when I saw you there. It looked like you were not doing too well, so I decided to bring you to my good friend Dr Bedford. He is the best physician in the country and a good man.

"As are you, Signore, the doctor said, amicably. A good man, I mean. You are a great many things, but not a physician."

Ah, but my dear doctor friend, but I am a physician of the mind.

There was an amused snort. That is an oxymoron, and you know it: the mind does not have a physique, and so you cannot be its physician.

The soul is as important as the body. The dark stranger straightened his back, proudly. My art makes people feel well. Not even you can disagree, doctor—why else would you commission me to do your paintings?

Because you are the best painter in the country? the Doctor said, dryly. His smile, however, was friendly enough, and it remained friendly as he turned to her. How are you doing, little one? I took the liberty of examining you while you were unconscious—much more humane that way—and luckily, it seems your foot isn’t broken. A bad sprain or at worst, a torn tendon, but just give it time and be careful, and you shall see that it will heal nicely.

So she will be able to dance again? the man named Giatelli said, his eyes twinkling.

Perhaps. If she cares to. The Doctor suddenly turned serious. May I to talk to her in private, please?

"Naturalmente, Dr Bedford. I will go to the kitchen and ask your cook if she has something to eat. He turned to Emily and bowed, deeply. A presto, Signorina! With that, he shoved his arm under Mrs Wright’s, disregarding her amused little yelp, and smiled broadly at her. Come with me, bella donna. You have a way with the cook that I don’t, so you can ask her to slip me some of her precious cheese, no?"

The doctor shook his head, amused. A painter, he says, he said, gently, as the door closed. A jester, more like it. His gaze fell on Emily. How are you feeling, child? She didn’t answer. He frowned. "You do speak, do you not?"

Since it would be rude not to reply, she nodded obediently. Yes.

The simple word was hoarse and cracked, barely audible. The doctor picked up a glass from the bedside table and filled it to the brim with water from a decanter. Carefully, he placed the glass in her hands before withdrawing to the beautiful chair in white and gold beside her bed. She could see now, how this was truly his home; the neutral colours and slender-looking furniture seemed to fit his personality very well.

What’s your name? he asked.

E-Emily.

Emily. That’s a lovely name. What else?

She shook her head, suddenly scared. If he knew her full name, he would be able to trace her to Paul. It seemed as if the doctor understood, for he didn’t persist.

Emily… You've certainly been through your fair share, haven't you? he said. How old are you?

She wasn’t sure, hadn’t been counting lately. Old enough, Paul had said when the gentleman at the pleasure house had asked the same thing, but it seemed a strange thing to answer, so she answered with what she thought:

Fourteen.

The doctor sighed. I see, he said, curtly. Do you know who he was? She stiffened, hadn’t counted on such a direct question. Obviously, he did something to you that you weren’t… um… in consent of, and it says in the law one isn’t allowed to do that. We must find him and make him answer to his actions.

Oh no, please... She closed her eyes, pressed them together. As if they’d been waiting around the corner, ready to attack, the memories, dark and raw, pushed into her mind, filling her with a sense of dread. She felt him, weighing her down against the mattress, his bulk making it hard for her to breathe, his mouth over hers suffocating her further—she’d fought for her life, and he had merely laughed, while holding her down without any effort at all. He’d found her panic amusing and arousing.

With a gasp, she forced herself to open her eyes again. He’s not here, she repeated to herself. Not here, not here. Slowly, the images faded, leaving only her thumping heart and a crawling sense of unease.

Where do you live? the doctor asked. She shook her head. The doctor did the same, bewildered. You don’t want to tell me? Or, perhaps you don’t have a home? She pressed her lips together. No? That's a shame. I think you’ll be needing someone now. Especially since— He coughed in his hand, and the colour of his cheeks deepened some. Strange: she had thought doctors were above blushing. I’m sorry to have to ask, but are you having your monthly cycles?

Now it was her time to blush. Yes.

Well then... The Doctor scratched the bridge of his nose. I think you must know that, in that case, it’s possible that this encounter has left you with... with child.

A short, strangled noise escaped her throat. With impressive foresight, he snatched the chamber pot from the floor and put it in front of her. She emptied her stomach, then fell back against the pillow, clammy and shaking. The doctor sighed.

It’s not very nice, but we have to count on the eventuality. It’s too soon to tell, however, and there need not be any reason to worry at all. He rose, brushed off his grey-clad knees and smiled briefly at her. I will leave you to rest for a bit, and after that, we shall return and talk about your future.

Future? She shook her head, confused. What future? She slipped her hands under the duvet, put them carefully on her belly. It was flat and hard, yet she knew. She knew.

Like I said, no need to worry just yet, the doctor decided and walked toward the door. I will be back soon, hm?

At last, the door closed behind him. Emily dug her face into the soft pillow and finally gave in to the tears.

The walls had shifted from pale yellow to a rich, dusky gold when the doctor, Mrs Wright and the foreigner called Master Giatelli finally returned to her room. Almost ceremoniously they placed themselves around her bed, and their faces beamed with delight, as if they were waiting to tell her a nice secret. She looked bleakly at them, exhausted from hours of crying, disinclined to share their strange enthusiasm.

Child, began Mrs Wright, clasping her hands. We have now spent some time discussing your situation. We all agree that it is our Godly duty to help you in your time of need. Therefore, we have decided—

Not decided, Master Giatelli corrected her. "It is a suggestion. She must decide."

Mrs Wright nodded. A suggestion, with your best interest at heart. She stepped aside, and Giatelli moved forward, bringing along a whiff of cheese and bread, and something else, more ethereal. The scent, acrid but not unpleasant, reminded Emily of the time when Paul had ordered the brothel’s sign painted, and some stranger had arrived with a bucket of paint and some brushes. Hadn’t Giatelli presented himself as a painter? Maybe he painted signs.

"I keep a farm some distance from this town, Piccolina. It is not big. Not because I couldn’t afford it, he added, flippantly, but because I do not care for castles and mansions. I am a simple man who enjoys the simple life. I have my staff, some animals and big fields to yield good harvests, and that is enough for me. Tomorrow, I will be going back there. You will join me, no?"

She stared at him. The doctor nudged him, elbow at his side.

Dear friend, didn’t you say she should be allowed to decide? You’re not exactly doing that, right now.

Master Giatelli frowned. His dark eyes searched Emily’s. "Why would she say no? I cannot see the reason. With me, she will be safe, she will have a roof over her head and my protection. You will work for me, Piccolina, so you can feel valuable. You will clean my brushes and the floors; keep my studio neat and tidy and prepare the paints when I need them. But most importantly, you will be part of my famiglia."

This is a very rare offer, Emily, the doctor said. Also because Giatelli’s studio is sacred ground. Few are the people, besides his clients, who have been allowed to enter. He must think you’re very special.

"He is correct. You are special. Besides, it is a matter of trust. I trust you, Piccolina."

But you don’t know me, she whispered; her first words to him, she realised.

"I do know you. I have seen enough of your soul to know who you are, inside your heart. It is harder for you to know me, because I am a man, and I do not think you trust men right now. But look at me and ask your heart to tell you what you need to know. Do you trust me? Will you accompany me to my farm?"

Emily gazed into the dark eyes for a longer time than she’d ever looked into anyone’s eyes—she’d never been allowed to look into a man’s eyes before; it wasn’t the correct thing to do—until she knew the answer.