Mapping the Edge by Sarah Dunant

thank you.”
    â€œGood.”
    She refused the coffee in favor of plain water, but ate the bread and jams. He watched her, smiling, enjoying her appetite, but saying nothing, as if waiting for her to guide the conversation.
    â€œThis is an amazing room,” she said at last as the silence started to draw attention to itself.
    â€œYes. It was a part of a . . . ah, I have forgotten the word—a religious house, for women—how do you call it?”
    â€œA nunnery?”
    â€œYes, yes, a nunnery. But in modern Italy, of course, there are not enough such women.”
    â€œWhere is it, exactly?”
    â€œAs I told you—near Pisa, but more up. In the hills. That’s why it is more cool.” Pisa was near the coast. She couldn’t remember any hills nearby, but Tuscany was full of them and after so many years her geography was decidedly shaky. “My wife and I came here seven years ago.” He gestured around the room. “It is she who make these changes.”
    His wife. Once again it was not what she expected. “Is that her in the photos?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI’d like to meet her.”
    He shook his head, putting his cup down carefully on the saucer. Oh God, she thought suddenly. She’s dead, and that’s what this is all about. His wife’s dead and he’s still in trouble about it.
    â€œShe . . . she is not here. She died one year ago.”
    Of course. It explained it all, the pictures, the exaggerated gallantry, the weird intensity . . . “I’m sorry, I—”
    He frowned. “You didn’t know. She had a—what do you call it?—a lump. On her brain.” He paused, as if waiting for her to supply the word. She didn’t say anything. “It was very sudden. She was in the garden one afternoon and she fell over. They said she does not suffer. It is like she has gone to sleep.”
    Just as she had done in the car last night; one moment there, the next slipping into a crack as deep as death. The familiarity of it must have chilled him. Had he been thinking of his wife as he carried her into the house? Was he still thinking about her now, and did that explain the tension in his posture, the strain around his eyes? Repressed grief can be its own kind of poison, a thick vein of rage running underneath silence. Could that explain all this? Maybe, maybe not . . .
    â€œWhy didn’t you take me to a hospital?” she said suddenly.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œLast night, when I was ill in the car, why didn’t you take me to a hospital? Why did you bring me here instead?”
    He shrugged. “The hospital of Pisa, she is on the other side of the city. Also, I don’t know if you have insurance. It is expensive. I thought it would be better to bring you here. My own doctor is very good.” She frowned. He poured some water into her glass. “You must have been worried, no? Last night—waking up in a locked room. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
    â€œIt’s fine,” she said quickly. Then, as if aware of her bad manners: “I’m sorry about your wife.”
    There was an uncomfortable silence. She glanced down at her watch, remembering too late its shattered face. “What time is my fli—”
    â€œFive o’clock. There is plenty of time. Have something more to eat, please.”
    But the food was doing nothing for her nerves. She sipped at her water. The house was so quiet. It was hard to believe a major airport was only a few miles away.
    â€œNo more? Okay. Shall we go and sit in the garden? It is not so looked after now, but there is a place in the shade where it is very pleasant. Or would you prefer to rest some more?”
    She had a sudden picture of a seat under a tree, and a woman falling backward into death. She pushed her own chair back and stood up from the table, the two images clashing fiercely in her mind. “Actually, if you