She dropped her eyes to Quillan’s sleeping face. Should she tell Papa what she suspected? What if she were wrong? Anyway, it was Quillan’s choice. “He was very tired. He couldn’t speak long.”
Papa turned slightly, and she felt his doubt. As Quillan said, the whole world knew what she felt and thought. Did she have any right to blame Flavio without proof? How could she know? Quillan would not or could not say. But Flavio could.
The thought sent fire through her veins. Go to Flavio? Confront him? That would mean leaving Quillan’s side. Papa would watch him, though Quillan seemed not too happy about that. Still, the question harried her, now that worrying whether Quillan would live no longer consumed all her thoughts.
“You are wan, Carina.” Papa hung the towel and straightened his vest. “Take some air.”
She looked up. Had he guessed even these last thoughts? Did he suggest she should go? Impossible. But nonetheless, he had given her the opportunity. She stood. “Yes, Papa. Do you need anything?”
He shook his head and went to his bookshelf. While he searched the spines, she went out the door. She could take a horse, but it wasn’t so far. It was two miles and more through the vineyard and the Lanzas’ pasture to their house, a little shorter to Flavio’s studio. That’s where she would find him, painting or brooding.
She took the path from the house to the near vineyard. The vines had been gathered into heaps, ready for burning. The ground looked pocked and lanced. Her heart broke. Ah, the weeping vines. She passed between the rows, cursing the ground that harbored the parasite, which destroyed the roots like sin the soul.
Hill after decimated hill she passed. Her brothers and their workers had been busy while Papa tended Quillan, busy ripping out the grapes and tossing them to be burned. Such desolation, such waste.
Then she came to a field of vines and stopped short at the wonder. A green mist softened the black gnarly branches. She stared all along the rows of grapes. How had they been spared? Rapt, she passed among them. Had this field been overlooked? Was this a weak attempt that would be ignored when the workers came to yank them out?
Deeper into the vineyard she went. She could sense its vitality. These vines were alive, thriving even. Papa had found a viable rootstock. They were small, yes, in their first year of planting, but they were strong. Oh, Signore! She felt such hope. She crossed through the pastures of the Lanzas’ cattle and saw the small wooden house that was Flavio’s retreat.
She stopped walking, wondering for a moment what she was doing.
Did she want to know? Could she bear to know? If Flavio had injured Quillan so brutally . . . But knowing could be no worse than wondering. She moved forward to the door between two flowering quince. Flavio loved them because they bore vibrant, orange-red blooms.
His stallion, Juno, grazed nearby. Carina passed between the plants and stopped at the door. She knocked, then opened the door herself and walked in.
Flavio sat on a tall stool before an easel with a brush in his hand. But the brush was dry. It had not been dipped in paint. He turned slowly and looked at her, his face showing too much. He lowered his eyes. “He told you, then?”
Carina stood silent, not wanting to understand what he said, but God help her, she did. Her suspicions were right, what she had known in her heart, in spite of Quillan’s evasion. How could she ever look at Flavio again with anything but hatred? She shook with it. “He told me the nitro was unstable. That it was a risk he took.”
Flavio looked up, searched her face. “He said that? That was all?”
“Perhaps his memory is not as keen as yours, since even now he fights for his life.” Her voice broke.
Flavio dropped the brush, caught his face in his hands, and groaned. “He will live, though?”
“You want to know so you can finish the job?”
He slid his fingers into his hair, pressing his palms to his eyes. “I know you despise me. But it’s nothing to what I feel for myself. Look there.” He pulled one hand free and pointed to the corner of the floor where a rope lay.
She looked closely, saw the hangman’s noose atop the coils.
“I don’t even have the courage to use it.”
She stared at him. “Why would you use it, Flavio?”
His hands dropped to his lap. “Because of what I am.”
Yes, she thought. He deserved to die, to hang from a rope by his own hand. His cruelty, infidelity, violence . . . Her throat tightened painfully. She took a step toward him. She could help, kick the stool out if he hadn’t the courage to jump. The thought horrified her. She recalled Quillan’s terse answers, telling her nothing, protecting this . . . this man she had once loved.
Yes, she could hurt him. But instead, she put a hand to his shoulder. From somewhere deep inside her came the words, “If Quillan doesn’t condemn you, who will?”
Flavio started to weep. “My own soul.”
“Your soul has been forfeit from birth. What difference is there now?”
“Oh, God . . .” It was more a moan than words.
She didn’t want to say it, to offer him the peace she knew he could have. She wanted to walk away, to run, to leave him to his rope. Why should she stop his suffering when Quillan’s was so much worse, when Quillan might never be the same? None of them would be the same!
Again she spoke resolutely. “God will forgive you if you let him. We have all gone astray, but He draws us to himself just as you gather the cows before a storm, Flavio. Surrender to Him. Know His peace.”
“How can God forgive when you hate me so deeply?”
Yes, he had seen it in her face; how could he not? She showed it to the world. She wanted him to see, to know, to suffer in that knowledge. Her hands tightened at her sides. “What I feel is at war with what I know. God will forgive you, and so will I.” She would have to, or this new bitterness would destroy all she had won.
Flavio shook with sobs. “I got him out, Carina. I freed him or he would have burned.”
Dio! Was it true? She shuddered, pictured Quillan charred black like his wagon. Had Flavio prevented that?
“He asked only to let his horses free, but I lifted it, his wagon, with more strength than my own. I lifted it and got him out. Then I ran.”
She suddenly clutched his head, overcome with gratitude that he had not let Quillan die. “Grazie, Flavio.”
He wrenched his head up. “Grazie? After what I did?”
“He would not be alive.”
Flavio shook his head. “God help me, Carina, I wish I had died in his place.”
She let him go. “You don’t have to.” But she could go no further. It was up to Flavio now to accept the grace and forgiveness God offered.
“I have to go back. Quillan will want me there when he wakes.”