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As to Mr. ” When he brought home papers from Florence verifying that she had been declared dead having committed suicide the fateful day at the manor, she could barely believe Gianfrancesco’s signature at the bottom of the page. “Mr. . ‘You have no need to be afraid of us. The boy would never know just how lucky he was. Sebastian physically restrained her as she hit and scratched at him, trying to touch her mother who went swiftly into her death throes. Her shoulders began to ache. Her husband quickly joined the fray, making her giggle and laugh. She drew a breath, and sighed it out. Let us be friends—as near and close as friends can be. Only how had they missed him? Were they imbecile? Or perhaps the mists had concealed him from them. He stood by her side, and he suffered her hands to rest in his. Burn your palette and your easel. Those are all nice things, but it’s not what I want.
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