schedule, which started the moment her eyes flew open and which she faced, undaunted, with determined enthusiasm. She liked it that way. She organised it that way. The devil finds work for idlehands, the nuns had always said, and Lily found it to also be true of the mind. The devil finds work for an idle mind.
She sat up in her synthetic bed, the static electricity snatching at her silk pyjamas. She needed to get out and work up a sweat, but as she stood to seek out her running shoes she caught a glimpse of the view waiting quietly out the picture-postcard window.
Tuscany, a place she had never been the slightest bit anxious to see despite the many opportunities, a place sheâd not even thought to imagine and which on first impression had sadly underwhelmed her. Yet here it was and here she was and again it took her breath away.
She moved closer to the window and gazed out at the rolling patchwork sea of greens; so many different shades and each one deeper or brighter or more dazzling than the one right next to it. She realised that if she had imagined Tuscany, she would have seen it as burnt orange and golden; vibrant colours but harsh and arid compared to the moist and thriving sprawl of grasses, grapes, olives, forests, and fields that stretched below her.
It was so beautiful it was impossible to concentrate on what had brought her there.
Instead, she leaned against the window frame and watched daylight crawl across the landscape, the offensive shade of apricot on the electric sheets and her wretched heart forgotten as she just let the worldâs natural shades unfurl in front of her.
She kept thinking she should go, do something, get on with itâwhatever it wasâbut watching the sun creep higher in the sky, spreading its fingers slowly across the rolling hills and valleys, was completely mesmerising.
It wasnât till she heard the sound of something being dropped with a clatter below her that she registered how ravenous she was. She couldnât think what time it would be in New York or how many meals she must have missed. Sheâd had nothing since the flight the day before. She was starving.
She crossed the room and looked out the other window up and down the Corso. The Hotel Adesso looked remarkably unscathed by its plumbing disaster of the day before; it looked to be sleeping, just like the rest of the street, shuttered and silent. The sun was yet to wake the town with its golden touch the way it had woken Lily and the valley.
She wondered if Daniel was asleep somewhere nearby, his face relaxed, his blond hair sticking up on one side like it did before he washed it in the morning, the dark, dangerous woman tossing restlessly beside him.
Another pang knocked at her insides, and it wasnât hunger. It was Daniel. She turned away from the beautiful view.
She should be angry, she thought as she washed her hair in the tiny shower. She should not be marvelling at the ridiculous view or calmly wondering about her cheating husbandâs hair, she should be enraged. But she wasnât. She knew rage only too well, thanks to her mother. Rage involved spankings and slaps; shouting and screaming; sharp objects thrown at small heads; terrifying threats; foul language; utter, uncontrollable, high-decibel fury.
Lily felt something, and it was bigâshe was there in Montevedova after allâbut it wasnât loud and explosive in her motherâs vein. It was more complicated than that, like the sort of itch that could drive a person mad, or an ache so deep its source was unfathomable.
She searched her face in the mirror for any outward signs of crisis but found no fury there either, a little tightness around the eyes, perhaps, a slightly haunted expression.
Once upon a time sheâd seen herself as maybe not beautifulâwho admitted to thatâbut as agreeable. She still conceded to the positive overall package: the blonde hair, the good cheekbones, the clear skin for someone of
She sat up in her synthetic bed, the static electricity snatching at her silk pyjamas. She needed to get out and work up a sweat, but as she stood to seek out her running shoes she caught a glimpse of the view waiting quietly out the picture-postcard window.
Tuscany, a place she had never been the slightest bit anxious to see despite the many opportunities, a place sheâd not even thought to imagine and which on first impression had sadly underwhelmed her. Yet here it was and here she was and again it took her breath away.
She moved closer to the window and gazed out at the rolling patchwork sea of greens; so many different shades and each one deeper or brighter or more dazzling than the one right next to it. She realised that if she had imagined Tuscany, she would have seen it as burnt orange and golden; vibrant colours but harsh and arid compared to the moist and thriving sprawl of grasses, grapes, olives, forests, and fields that stretched below her.
It was so beautiful it was impossible to concentrate on what had brought her there.
Instead, she leaned against the window frame and watched daylight crawl across the landscape, the offensive shade of apricot on the electric sheets and her wretched heart forgotten as she just let the worldâs natural shades unfurl in front of her.
She kept thinking she should go, do something, get on with itâwhatever it wasâbut watching the sun creep higher in the sky, spreading its fingers slowly across the rolling hills and valleys, was completely mesmerising.
It wasnât till she heard the sound of something being dropped with a clatter below her that she registered how ravenous she was. She couldnât think what time it would be in New York or how many meals she must have missed. Sheâd had nothing since the flight the day before. She was starving.
She crossed the room and looked out the other window up and down the Corso. The Hotel Adesso looked remarkably unscathed by its plumbing disaster of the day before; it looked to be sleeping, just like the rest of the street, shuttered and silent. The sun was yet to wake the town with its golden touch the way it had woken Lily and the valley.
She wondered if Daniel was asleep somewhere nearby, his face relaxed, his blond hair sticking up on one side like it did before he washed it in the morning, the dark, dangerous woman tossing restlessly beside him.
Another pang knocked at her insides, and it wasnât hunger. It was Daniel. She turned away from the beautiful view.
She should be angry, she thought as she washed her hair in the tiny shower. She should not be marvelling at the ridiculous view or calmly wondering about her cheating husbandâs hair, she should be enraged. But she wasnât. She knew rage only too well, thanks to her mother. Rage involved spankings and slaps; shouting and screaming; sharp objects thrown at small heads; terrifying threats; foul language; utter, uncontrollable, high-decibel fury.
Lily felt something, and it was bigâshe was there in Montevedova after allâbut it wasnât loud and explosive in her motherâs vein. It was more complicated than that, like the sort of itch that could drive a person mad, or an ache so deep its source was unfathomable.
She searched her face in the mirror for any outward signs of crisis but found no fury there either, a little tightness around the eyes, perhaps, a slightly haunted expression.
Once upon a time sheâd seen herself as maybe not beautifulâwho admitted to thatâbut as agreeable. She still conceded to the positive overall package: the blonde hair, the good cheekbones, the clear skin for someone of
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