is slightly different than modern-day Italian.”

“It is?” I asked, staring at the lines of words that all seemed foreign to me.

“Oh, yes.” She glanced at me with sincerity. “Having one language for the whole country is fairly new. Each region had its own dialect that has, for the most part, been lost or changed over time. It took me almost a year, but I wrote down my best translation.”

Fia handed me the letter while she picked up her notebook. Something about holding the actual thoughts and feelings of Isabella struck me. A deep well of sadness rose up inside of me, and I twisted the ring on my left hand to stop the slight tingling I felt from it.

“Of course, I wrote my own translation into Italian, so I will do my best to interpret into English,” she said with a little grimace. “Many of the letters sound more romantic, very typical of young love. It is not until we reach the later letters where it gets intriguing.”

“That would probably be when the two of them started facing complications,” I said.

“Sì. Listen.” Fia followed the lines in her notebook with her finger as she read. “Mm, here it is. She says she thinks someone has found out about them and she is afraid her family will find out. And in another one she admits to telling her brother and his best friend about Paolo because of how much she trusts both of them. But she expresses great sadness because neither support her relationship like she thought they would.”

My stomach clenched in worry. Why would Luke oppose his sister being with a witch if he chose me? Then I remembered his own words, and that he didn’t understand her love until he met me. Still, I didn’t like this version of Luke from the past.

Fiametta turned the page in her notebook. “Another letter states how worried she is for the two of them and encourages Paolo that if they want to marry, they must do so soon.”

“Do you only have her letters and not his?” I asked.

Fia nodded. “She must have kept his somewhere. You are going to wish we had them when I read you this next part.” She returned to her own translation. “This comes from one of the last letters. Isabella writes that someone has threatened her to break things off.”

“Does she say who?” I pressed, trying to look over her shoulder despite not being able to read the language.

“No, she does not use any name. But he must have in his letter back to her, because in her next letter, she tells him that to threaten the life of the person will bring about Paolo’s demise.” Fia dropped the notebook into her lap. “Whoever it was must have had a lot of connections within the family for her to be that scared. See here, she writes that this person is very dear to her. She thinks she can speak reason to whomever it is.”

My breath caught in my throat. “You don’t suppose she meant her brother?” From everything my fiancé had told me, he loved his sister with everything he had.

Fia pursed her lips, but her refusal to answer the question said enough. She opened her notebook again. “This was her final letter. Isabella writes to Paolo and says she will escape her life and start a new one with him. She is willing to give up everything she has to be his wife and live a simpler life. Her last words are for him to be ready.”

A flash of lightning lit up the room from outside of the window, and thunder crackled, shaking the house. I jumped a little, my nerves jangled and on edge from the contents of the letters. And the new questions they inspired.

Fiametta replaced the actual letters inside the box and fixed the false bottom back into place. “We should drive back to the castle. If the rain becomes too bad, it will make the journey difficult.”

I wanted to keep the letters but thought better of it. Even the translated words in her notebook wouldn’t be helpful since I didn’t know the language. Better for her to keep them all here than to bring them back to the castle.

The rain pounded down in steady streams, and the windshield wipers on Fia’s car worked as hard as possible. She drove with great care as we made our way back.

“That is strange,” she said, glancing in her rearview mirror.

“What?” I asked, wanting her to keep her eyes on the road.

She kept looking in her mirror. “The headlights of the car behind us. They are getting closer at a rapid speed.”

I turned my head to the lights glowing through the back window but couldn’t see the actual car. “They are approaching fast.”

“Whoever it is needs to slow down in this weather,” Fia scolded.

The beams flashed on and off several times. “I think they’re trying to signal for you to get out of their way,” I said.

Fia gripped her steering wheel. “There is nowhere for me to go. They must go around if they want to pass.” She watched them in her rearview mirror. “They are not slowing at all.”

Our car sped up a little to keep whoever was behind us from hitting the bumper. They backed off a little, and then sped up again.

“I think they’re trying to hit us,” I exclaimed, bracing my arms against the top of the small car.

Fiametta muttered something under her breath. “Hold on. There’s a place I can pull off up the road. We just have to make it.”

She pressed the gas pedal harder to get her vehicle moving, but it couldn’t outrun the one trying to come after us. The bumper on that car nudged ours, and we swerved a little, fishtailing on the wet road.

“Fia,” I warned as the lights of the car approached again.

“A little farther,” she insisted.

We both jolted in our seats as we got hit again. Instead of backing off, the car behind us

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