She corrected herself. Florian was worried about his rights to Annamarie. He had taken Katharina as his wife when no other man might have, and he had raised Annamarie as his own. They had duped the whole valley. Their reputation, their standing in the community, which was still always tentative—the daughter of an Innsbrucker, now wife of a Nuremberger, the tolerant Steinhausers, the Italian sympathisers—oh! If the more extreme Italian haters found out that Annamarie was half-Italian herself! Katharina shuddered.
Before she’d gone in search of Angelo, before Angelo had provoked her to play with fire and tell all, she’d asked her husband, “What if Angelo Grimani already knows?”
“How would he know, Katharina?”
Because the truth was louder than silence.
She had not needed to say a damned thing to Angelo Grimani. She had seen it in his eyes. He knew she had been referring to Annamarie as their daughter—hers and his. He’d proven it by what he had not asked.
***
A ngelo walked along the western shore of Reschen Lake, made up mostly of fields radiating from the few scattered hamlets. His discussion with Katharina still nagged him, that she had raised the subject of their children. Damn it.
When the bell towers of St. Katharina in Graun and the church in Reschen began tolling noon, Angelo cursed softly. He’d dawdled too long at the inn after speaking with Katharina and would arrive too late to meet Stefano at Dr Hanny’s house. His men would be taking their midday meals, and he’d have to either eat his in Reschen or walk back to Graun and join the rest at the Il Dante in the Italian quarter. He stood for a moment, then continued north to Reschen. Ahead, a few men stood fishing, and a farmer was spreading manure in his field, the pungent stink drifting in on the breeze. Angelo reached Puni Creek and spotted the pond Stefano and he had discussed the other day. He turned from the bridge where the creek emptied into Reschen Lake, knowing another one was farther upstream.
The area was mostly flat, save for one large tree in the middle of a field. A tree on a small island of its own. The pond resting next to it sprang from Puni Creek. There was a movement beneath the crook of a branch, and Angelo checked himself when a slender figure appeared, a tall boy or a man. He looked away, but as he drew nearer, Angelo recognised the back of Marco’s hat. The blue Fascist scarf around the neck no longer lay flat between the shoulders.
“Marco?” The name died on the second syllable as Angelo puzzled at what he saw. Marco looked as if he had wrapped his arms around himself. But then Angelo saw two sets of arms and legs and the unmistakable shape of a dark-haired girl in a light-blue gingham dress, the hem hiked up to the waist.
Angelo rushed in before his son could react. He grabbed the back of the boy’s head and jerked him away from the girl. Marco yelped and swore. The girl scrambled towards the protection of the tree trunk. Gripping Marco firmly, Angelo shook his son and raised a hand. Marco flinched just before Angelo slapped his face. The sting vibrated through Angelo’s arm. The girl screamed and lunged at Marco. Angelo admired her pluck as she grabbed Marco’s shoulders and yanked him out of Angelo’s reach but tripped backwards, freeing Marco from her grasp.
“Get on,” he shouted at her. He snatched Marco by the collar. “Get out of here, you hussy!”
“Annamarie,” Marco cried.
Angelo’s fingers slipped from Marco’s grasp, and he stared at the girl running across the field. She sprang over the creek, stumbled, stood up again, and raced in the direction of Graun, a sky-blue gingham dot in the muddy field.
Marco growled and cried out.
Too late. Angelo felt the impact of his son’s body on his and collapsed to the ground, the boy on top. Marco raised a fist. No doubt the boy would find his mark. Angelo twisted and threw his son off him, sending him sprawling to the ground.
Marco started to get up, but Angelo was on him. He grabbed the hair on the boy’s head and jerked him onto his feet, ignoring Marco’s shouts. He marched his son towards the bridge and back to the inn, the boy occasionally twisting under his hold. The words would not come, no commands, no explanation, nothing Angelo could say without revealing his own panic. When they were a good distance away from the scene, Angelo let go of him. His son glared at him for a split second before he broke into a run, presumably back to the inn.
For a moment, Angelo watched him. Then he turned to face the hill above Graun, where Arlund was hidden. He was afraid to see a girl in a blue gingham dress on the road. His pulse raced. His brow was slick with sweat.
Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!
He rubbed his hands over his face and froze when he heard someone whistling. Angelo spun around to see Rioba walking down the alleyway, patting his stomach. The prefect had just the slightest paunch, his whole middle solid as an oak barrel.
“Minister Grimani,” the prefect called. “Enjoy your meal?”
“Haven’t had time yet.” He tried to be nonchalant. “Just on my way now.”
“You had better hurry. Lasagne is on the menu at the Il Dante, but it’s running out with those men of yours.” He grinned and continued on his way.
“Prefect?”
Rioba stopped and turned.
Angelo took in a deep breath. Steady. “Something’s come up. A family matter. I’m afraid I must return to Bolzano
