Enamel scraped on glass as she set the brush down on the vanity.
Carolina rose and crossed to the door, where she stood for a moment, both hands pressed flat against her rib cage, as if holding it shut after a flock of birds had already flown out.
“Thank you,” she said.
She made her way quickly down the main stairs. A few steps from the bottom, she caught the sound of voices from the conservatory, and stopped.
“Of course you could never have known,” Pietro said gently.
“No,” her father insisted, his voice wavering with tears. “God would not do this without warning. There was something I didn’t see.”
At the sound of her father’s grief, Carolina turned and rushed back up the stairs. On the first landing, she collided with Liza. Carolina caught the girl by the wrist and pushed her back into the far corner, where they were hidden from view.
“Tell them you could not wake me,” Carolina whispered fiercely.
Then, biting back her own tears, she caught her skirts together and slipped back up to her room.
In her dreams, Carolina tried to do two things: fly, and find her lake. The lake should have been easy to reach, especially from familiar terrain like Pietro’s home or her father’s lemon groves, where her dreams often began. But again and again, the lake was gone when she reached its location, replaced by a field of orange lilies, a grassy hill, a stand of ancient trees. Her house became a wind-burnt shell, or a woodsman’s hut, or, once, a shop selling lace and candy.
She tried to fly a hundred different ways: jumping down a staircase; throwing herself from roofs, windows, and trees; flapping her arms and her skirts; running and leaping from the hard-packed dirt where the servants’ children held their races. But finally she began to fly when she wasn’t trying. Deep in a forest carpeted with black violets, she discovered herself rising from the path. She was already ten feet from the ground before she believed what was happening, and another story higher before she realized she couldn’t stop rising. She caught the branches of a tree to keep from ascending helplessly into space and worked her way back down its trunk hand over hand. After a few experiments in its shelter, she learned enough of the new mechanics to sail between the sturdy trunks in fits and starts and to rise and dive as she wanted.
Those woods were real. She had visited them often as a child to gather flowers to throw into her lake so she could tell her fortune by the way they floated or sank. If her dream behaved, the lake should be only a short flight away. Trembling, Carolina let herself rise between the branches until she broke out of the canopy into the strong Italian sun. She dipped to prove to herself that she could return to earth, snatched one of the high leaves, and let it drop from her fingers as she rose higher, taking in a sweep of the fields and homes in her valley that was wider than anything she had ever seen.
Her father’s house was as it should be, red tile and white stucco, flashes of statues in the garden, groves running down the slope in even rows. Pietro’s house was there as well, with the long road leading by the pines. The Turri home shone on the next hill. She rose higher and caught sight of the river that fed her lake. The silver band cut a clear path between the trees, then disappeared just where it should have widened into the clearing.
Carolina glided lower, glancing over the countryside in case the lake had slipped in space, as things so often did in dreams. But it wasn’t lurking beyond the next hill or lost in Pietro’s back acres. She swooped down to the river and skimmed along the bright stream until the trees closed over her head.
There, just where it should have been, was her lake, hidden from the sky by a stand of massive plane trees that had taken root in the shallow water. Amid them, his face lost in the shadows, was a man. In water up to his waist, he swung a heavy axe against
Carolina rose and crossed to the door, where she stood for a moment, both hands pressed flat against her rib cage, as if holding it shut after a flock of birds had already flown out.
“Thank you,” she said.
She made her way quickly down the main stairs. A few steps from the bottom, she caught the sound of voices from the conservatory, and stopped.
“Of course you could never have known,” Pietro said gently.
“No,” her father insisted, his voice wavering with tears. “God would not do this without warning. There was something I didn’t see.”
At the sound of her father’s grief, Carolina turned and rushed back up the stairs. On the first landing, she collided with Liza. Carolina caught the girl by the wrist and pushed her back into the far corner, where they were hidden from view.
“Tell them you could not wake me,” Carolina whispered fiercely.
Then, biting back her own tears, she caught her skirts together and slipped back up to her room.
In her dreams, Carolina tried to do two things: fly, and find her lake. The lake should have been easy to reach, especially from familiar terrain like Pietro’s home or her father’s lemon groves, where her dreams often began. But again and again, the lake was gone when she reached its location, replaced by a field of orange lilies, a grassy hill, a stand of ancient trees. Her house became a wind-burnt shell, or a woodsman’s hut, or, once, a shop selling lace and candy.
She tried to fly a hundred different ways: jumping down a staircase; throwing herself from roofs, windows, and trees; flapping her arms and her skirts; running and leaping from the hard-packed dirt where the servants’ children held their races. But finally she began to fly when she wasn’t trying. Deep in a forest carpeted with black violets, she discovered herself rising from the path. She was already ten feet from the ground before she believed what was happening, and another story higher before she realized she couldn’t stop rising. She caught the branches of a tree to keep from ascending helplessly into space and worked her way back down its trunk hand over hand. After a few experiments in its shelter, she learned enough of the new mechanics to sail between the sturdy trunks in fits and starts and to rise and dive as she wanted.
Those woods were real. She had visited them often as a child to gather flowers to throw into her lake so she could tell her fortune by the way they floated or sank. If her dream behaved, the lake should be only a short flight away. Trembling, Carolina let herself rise between the branches until she broke out of the canopy into the strong Italian sun. She dipped to prove to herself that she could return to earth, snatched one of the high leaves, and let it drop from her fingers as she rose higher, taking in a sweep of the fields and homes in her valley that was wider than anything she had ever seen.
Her father’s house was as it should be, red tile and white stucco, flashes of statues in the garden, groves running down the slope in even rows. Pietro’s house was there as well, with the long road leading by the pines. The Turri home shone on the next hill. She rose higher and caught sight of the river that fed her lake. The silver band cut a clear path between the trees, then disappeared just where it should have widened into the clearing.
Carolina glided lower, glancing over the countryside in case the lake had slipped in space, as things so often did in dreams. But it wasn’t lurking beyond the next hill or lost in Pietro’s back acres. She swooped down to the river and skimmed along the bright stream until the trees closed over her head.
There, just where it should have been, was her lake, hidden from the sky by a stand of massive plane trees that had taken root in the shallow water. Amid them, his face lost in the shadows, was a man. In water up to his waist, he swung a heavy axe against
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