Someone must have been talking. One of the other prisoners, perhaps, or a guard. He and Dorotea still try to hide their visits to the concealed cave, but everyone knows of their relationship, or so Cesare had thought. Gino teases him about her all the time, and even Stuart the guard refers to her, with a wink, as ‘your lady friend’. But somehow, it seems, everyone has kept it from MacLeod until now.
The man is sweating more heavily. A droplet forms above his lip and he wipes his face with his sleeve.
‘How?’ he demands again.
Cesare decides he must be honest. There is no point in feigning ignorance or lying – he still remembers the thud of MacLeod’s baton on his back as he dug in the quarry. He has no doubt that this is a man who, even in his right mind, would be capable of murder. And MacLeod does not seem in his right mind now. There is a wildness in his bloodshot eyes; a muscle near his mouth twitches, as if he might laugh or weep.
‘She loves me,’ Cesare says, and for a moment, he can feel Dorotea’s breath against his cheek, whispering the words in his ear.
MacLeod’s lip curls. ‘Loves you? She can’t. Look at your face, your skin – you don’t even speak the same language.’ He gestures at the chapel. ‘Wrong bloody religion too. She can’t love you. You’ve tricked her, somehow.’
Cesare swallows. How many paces to the chapel door? How much time and distance to outrun a bullet?
Quietly, he says, ‘I love her too.’
He waits, muscles tensed, for MacLeod to raise his baton, or reach for his gun. Cesare could shove him backwards into the metal rood screen, perhaps. Or he could try to reach for the gun himself, try to grab it.
But then he sees MacLeod’s eyes fill with tears. He steps closer, staggering a little, as if drunk. ‘You think I don’t love her sister? I’ve loved her for –’
‘They are not the same,’ Cesare says, half smiling.
This is a mistake, because MacLeod lunges for him then, wraps his hands around Cesare’s head and pulls him in close, so that their foreheads clash painfully. MacLeod seems not to notice. His breath is sour with drink.
‘I know that, you fucking Eyetie. I know they’re not the same. But I’ve tried with Con. I took her out, after their parents disappeared. I was there to support her. I listened to her go on about how guilty she felt. And I still loved her. I gave her a necklace. And I’ve been watching her, making sure she’s safe. God!’ He pushes Cesare away. ‘Perhaps she’s trying to taunt me. Leading me on, still. I’ve heard of girls doing that – pretending not to care. Perhaps Dot will do that to you, eh? Ever think of that? Perhaps she won’t talk to you next month . . .’ He scrubs his hands across his face, sniffs. ‘Oh! I’ve just remembered.’ He laughs suddenly, the sound high-pitched as he stumbles, then fixes Cesare with his red-rimmed eyes. ‘You won’t be here next month. The barriers are nearly done. By the end of September, they’ll be finished, and you’ll be sent off to some camp. Major Bates said they’re thinking of Wales. Never mind. I’m sure Dot will find a way of keeping herself warm until the war’s over.’
He leers and Cesare has to remind himself of the baton, of the gun, of the Punishment Hut. He breathes out, slowly. He grips the paintbrush until it snaps. He imagines stabbing it into MacLeod’s eye socket. He breathes in.
MacLeod watches him, smiling, waiting. Cesare stands very still.
‘I’ll look after her for you,’ MacLeod says.
Then he turns and walks from the chapel, a slight stagger in his step. Cesare forces himself to remain still; he fights down the white-hot fury that surges through his veins. He reminds himself that MacLeod won’t be able to touch Dorotea – she’d never go anywhere near him.
But, still, Cesare will be leaving. He has not much more than a month left with her.
Five days later, lying in the cave, he is distracted and restless. He has walked the usual path in silence – he could walk it in his sleep – and, now, with Dorotea’s head resting on his bare chest, he still says nothing. Twice, she has asked him what is wrong – the first time, she’d poked him teasingly in the ribs; he’d glared at her, then felt guilty at the hurt in her face. But he still can’t tell her about MacLeod’s threats. He can’t tell her that he will be leaving so soon – even if she has her suspicions.
Today, she had looked out towards the barriers – at the few shrinking gaps, where the tide still surged – and she’d said, ‘It won’t be long.’
He’d said nothing. He knows his mood is ruining the little time they have left, but he can’t shake himself out of it.
Will she wait for him? Will she follow him to Moena, one day, as she’s promised? Or will she stay here with Con, who seems so much brighter and happier these days? She has talked about working in the Kirkwall infirmary after the prisoners have left. Cesare can imagine Dorotea staying with her sister – or, at least, he can’t imagine her leaving.
‘I should go.’ She sighs, standing up. Her face is tense and he wants to hold her, to kiss her. He wants to apologize, but then he would have to explain, would have to talk about leaving.
He watches her pulling on her dress, watches the elegance of her movements, her long pale limbs. Why would she wait for him? MacLeod is right – she deserves something more than an Eyetie.
Her hand, he notices, is curled around something.
‘What is that?’ he asks.
She opens her hand. In her palm is the metal heart he’d made for her. He’d pulled it hot from the forge and
