The Savage Garden

empty, neatly made, the white cotton counterpane smoothed flat as ice.

    'Out here,' came her voice from the loggia.

    She was seated in a rattan chair, and she was wearing a navy blue skirt and a white cotton blouse. Her feet were bare and resting on a footstool. Her hair, which she had always worn loose, was drawn back in a ponytail; and in the sunlight flooding the loggia, her face had lost some of its pallor. She looked like a passenger lounging on the deck of an ocean liner—the first-class deck.

    'I thought we'd have tea al fresco today,' she said matter-of- factly. Unable to keep up the pretense, a slow smile broke across her face. 'You should see your expression.'

    'I'm surprised.'

    'It's hardly the raising of Lazarus. Anyway, it's your fault.' 'My fault?'

    'Well, not directly. It's the shame of talking to you every day from my bed. It's not dignified.'

    'You don't have to feel dignified on my account.'

    'Oh, I don't—it's entirely on my own account.' She turned her face into the sun. 'It is a long time since I felt the sun on my face.' She gestured toward the tea service laid out on the low table. 'Do you mind?'

    Adam poured the tea, as he always did. She was very particular— milk first, then the tea, then half a spoon of sugar.

    'You were running,' she said.

    'Running?'

    'Well, trying to. I saw you from there.' She pointed toward the low wall of the loggia.

    Instinct told him to keep the discovery to himself. If indeed that's what it was. Maybe he had imposed Dante on the garden, or the garden on Dante. He needed to be sure. And that would take time.

    'I thought I was on to something. I was wrong.'

    She wasn't going to let him get away with it that easily. 'What?'

    'Zephyr,' he replied, still formulating his response.

    'Zephyr?'

    'The west wind.'

    'Yes, I know.'

    'Well, in the myth he's Flora's husband; in life Federico was her husband. I suddenly thought, I don't know, that maybe the statue of Zephyr had been modeled on Federico. I wanted to see if there was a resemblance with the portrait in the study.'

    'Interesting.'

    'Except there's no likeness.' He shrugged.

    If she sensed his evasion, she didn't say anything. What she did say surprised him.

    'There's a bedroom in the north wing, big, with its own bathroom. It's yours if you want it.'

    He wasn't sure if he'd heard right.

    'It's an invitation.'

    'To stay?'

    'Not forever,' she said with a small smile. 'Think on it. You don't have to decide now. And I won't be offended if you say no.'

    'Thank you.'

    'It will save you money.'

    'It's not my money, it's the faculty's.'

    'That doesn't mean you can't spend it on something else. Crispin doesn't need to know. And if he did, he'd hardly ask for it back. Am I wrong?' 'No.'

    'So?'

    It wasn't the money. Something else altogether accounted for his hesitation.

    'My brother's coming to stay.'

    'You never mentioned you had a brother.'

    'I try not to think about it too much.'

    Signora Docci smiled. 'When is he arriving?'

    'That's not the kind of question you ask Harry.'

    'And what does Harry do?'

    'He's a sculptor.'

    'A sculptor?' She sounded intrigued.

    'Of sorts. He's very modern—lots of welded steel dragged off scrap heaps.'