Chapter 8 - The Winter Court
By mid-November, the frost had settled into the valley for good.
The grapes were off the vines, leaving the black stalks looking like crooked iron fingers against the white snow that covered the terraces. The main house had turned inward, its high oak shutters closed against the north wind that blew down from the Swiss pass, six chimney flues pouring thick white smoke into the cold grey sky day and night.
Mara’s belly had reached its full, heavy curve.
She was thirty-two weeks now. Her ankles swelled if she stood too long by the stove, and her sleep was broken every three hours by the baby kicking against her liver with the strength of a small mule.
She didn't stay in the cottage.
Every morning at eight, wearing a heavy sheepskin coat Cristiano had sent up from the main house, she walked down the stone path to the east stable.
The stallion—whom she had named El Rey, though the grooms still called him Il Duca—was no longer in isolation.
His jaw had healed to a long, thin grey line beneath his ear that was almost completely covered by his white winter coat. His right eye had cleared entirely, returning to that deep, dark liquid intelligence that made him look like an old king waiting for his throne to be returned.
He didn't wear a halter in his box.
When Mara opened the upper door, he would lift his white head from the manger, walk to the rail, and rest his chin on her shoulder while she checked his hooves and rubbed his ears with a piece of dry flannel.
"He's too soft with you," Giacomo muttered one morning, standing four meters away with a leather curry comb. "He won't let Tomas enter the stall without laying his ears back, but you can sit on his feed tub and he acts like a sheep."
"He doesn't like Tomas because Tomas smells of bad gin and impatience," Mara said without turning around.
"Giacomo," a voice called from the stable doorway.
Cristiano walked in. He was wearing his long black wool coat, his leather gloves held in his right hand, his boots dusted with white snow from the courtyard.
He walked up to the box, resting his hand on the top rail next to Mara’s arm.
During the last six weeks, they had spoken perhaps ten times—short, quiet conversations about the horse’s feed, the progress of the cottage repairs, or the weather that was coming over the pass. He had never touched her. He had never asked about Marco Villani. He had never mentioned the Stelea brothers.
He looked at her stomach under the open sheepskin coat.
"Dr. Rossi says the child is low," Cristiano said.
"Dr. Rossi talks too much," Mara replied, her fingers working through the stallion’s white forelock. "The child is fine. He’s just heavy."
"He?" Cristiano raised one eyebrow.
"A girl would be quieter," Mara said with a small, rare flicker of a smile that made the corners of her dark eyes crinkle. "This one kicks like a mule every time the church bell rings at six."
Cristiano looked at her face for three seconds—the clear, brown skin that had regained its color, the small dark mole near her right collarbone, the way her thick hair was pinned up with two horn combs he had seen on his mother’s dressing table twenty years ago.
"The Stelea brothers were arrested in Genoa last night," he said quietly.
Mara’s hand froze on the horse’s neck.
She looked up at him, her eyes wide, her breath caught in her chest like a cold blade.
"Arrested?"
"The state prosecutor in Milan received an anonymous delivery yesterday morning," Cristiano said, his voice as flat and unhurried as ever. "Three financial ledgers belonging to the Stelea shipping companies in Spezia. The police raided six of their warehouses before midnight."
Mara stared at him. "You gave them the ledgers?"
"I don't keep trash in my safe," Cristiano said. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, heavy piece of blue paper—a certified bank draft from the Banco di Napoli made out to Mara Soto.
"This is thirty thousand euros," he said, holding it toward her. "It is the value of the truck Marco stole from my yard three years ago, minus his debts. It belongs to the child."
Mara didn't reach for the paper.
Her hand remained pressed against the stallion’s warm neck, her heart hammering behind her ribs so hard she felt as if the baby must feel it too.
"Why are you giving me this?" she whispered. "The papers... the house... the money... I scrubbed your floors for five weeks, Don Cristiano. That doesn't buy thirty thousand euros and a house in the vineyard."
Cristiano looked down at the draft in his hand.
Then he reached out—very slowly, as if he were approaching an animal that might bolt at the slightest movement—and laid his hand against her cheek.
His fingers were cold from the snow outside, but his palm was firm, warm, and entirely steady.
"You saved three million euros of horse," he said softly. "And you reminded me that there are still people in this world who don't run when I walk into a room."
May you like
Mara didn't pull away.
She closed her eyes, leaning her weight three inches forward until her forehead touched the lapel of his black wool coat, smelling the pine resin, the cold shale, and the deep, unyielding strength of the man who held her.
