Annamarie grasped the cold brass doorknob tighter. “Signora Grimani, thank you for your hospitality. This will be the last you will see of me.” She yanked the door open and slammed it behind her, taking two stairs at a time, her suitcase—her father’s suitcase—bumping along the worn, wooden steps.
Where had they been, that old woman wanted to know! Everywhere. Nowhere. Marco had followed her to the river, sneered at her as she stood on its edge, daring her to jump. The snow had flurried about them at a dizzying speed, the wind whipping up little tornadoes of it from the cobblestones. She’d despaired, begged him to take what he’d said about Filipa back. When he’d refused to say anything, she said she’d go look for her father, that he was in the city somewhere.
Annamarie now pushed open the entryway door and stood in the small piazza outside the Grimani apartments. She sucked in a great breath, and her next attempt to take in air turned into a choked sob. She stood before the fountain where her father had stopped her just the day before, though now it seemed like years ago. The icicles hanging from the rim of the basin were bright and sharp, like the teeth of a winter beast.
At the mention of her father, Marco had deflated, his meanness dissipating.
“At least he cares enough to come after you,” he’d said.
She’d been surprised. She’d wanted to go looking for Papa, but at that moment, Marco needed her. She’d offered her arm. He’d taken it. In the first pub, they knew no one, and after one silent drink, Marco stood up, took her hand, and without paying, left the establishment, running with her through the slick cobblestone streets. She’d laughed, but not because it was funny. It had been frightening.
In the next pub, he’d brightened when he spotted a group of young men and women—pioneers, all of them. Marco had practically dashed in, leaving her to make her way through the hot, smoky crowd. But his mood had soured almost immediately, though they’d stayed for another drink. Again, afterwards, he was in a hurry, and they went from one place to the next. He was always happier when someone else he knew was there and always for only a brief moment.
It took her five drinks to realise he was looking for Filipa.
It took him five drinks to begin blaming her for everything that had happened.
When she said she would go back to her room, to the Grimani apartments, she felt sick, and not just from the alcohol. Marco joined her, sometimes nice, sometimes jeering.
Sometimes, he tried to placate her, and once—just once—he tried to kiss her, his hand up the oversized coat so fast, she couldn’t have stopped him had she tried. She’d not so much allowed him into her room as he’d stumbled in and taken root. When he had struck her, she shoved him to the floor, where he collapsed and finally stayed put.
She leaned on the edge of the shut-up fountain, her temples hot with pain, her stomach churning from the alcohol.
“It’s over…it’s over…it’s over,” she chanted quietly.
After a moment, she pushed herself away from the fountain and followed the arcade. At the end of the street, nausea overtook her, and she threw up into the gutter of an alley. Wiping her mouth, she thought of Papa again. Maybe he was still in Bolzano and just now on his way home.
She straightened, turned, and went the other way, towards the train station, turned left, then right, the sun dazzlingly sharp and mean. It was an awful light, a spitefully glorious day.
In the park square, she stood as she had the first time she’d arrived in Bolzano, disoriented and lost. This time there was no thrill of adventure and the excited anticipation of starting anew. This time she was defeated. What if she did find her father? What was she going to tell him?
Unsteady, she turned to a market stall, and her breath caught in her ribs. Angelo Grimani was standing there, watching her. She thought to run, but he held up a hand and beckoned her to him. Never!
She ran across the road to the train station. A blaring car horn scared her out of her wits, but she did not stop. Even when he hollered her name, his feet pounding behind her, she did not slow down and she did not look back.
Breathless when she arrived at the ticket counter, she pleaded with the man behind the window. “Where’s the next train going?”
“Venezia,” he replied with annoyance.
No, not Venice. She looked around, but Minister Grimani was nowhere to be seen. “The next one?”
“There’s a train leaving in two minutes, but you won’t catch it.”
“Where to?”
“The border. North.”
So this was how it would end. Fate had dealt her a truly unfair hand.
“Signora,” the man said. “Would you like the ticket to Brissano?”
Brissano. Brissano was on the Brenner Frontier. That was different. “Yes. One way.”
When she checked over her shoulder, there was Marco’s father, standing some metres away in the train station foyer. He had a folded sheet of paper in his hand, a look of desperation. The cashier pushed her ticket under the window slat and told her to hurry. She grabbed it and lifted her suitcase, and now Marco’s father was coming after her, his brow furrowed.
Annamarie spotted a policeman and hurried to him. She tried
