The Tuscan Child

by Rhys Bowen

Olive paste

then tossed a few rocks on to them for good measure. When he was done he looked around in satisfaction. Nobody would ever know that he had been here. All he had to do now was wait. He didn’t think it was likely that Sofia would be able to bring the cart to him that very day. He also didn’t think she’d risk being out at night. It would be too suspicious, and how could she see to drive the wagon in the dark without lanterns? But tomorrow, at first light—that would be logical if she was going to market with a load of turnips. He ate the last crumbs of bread, drank some water, and fantasised about reaching a town to the south, an Allied camp, hot food, a real bed, safety for him and for Sofia and her son. When darkness

father? That would definitely explain why Cosimo had smeared her reputation and why he wanted me to go so quickly. I was still trying to make sense of these thoughts when I went over to the farmhouse to take a bath and then joined Paola and Angelina for breakfast. The meal was a solemn one. Paola looked as if she might burst into tears at any moment. “And I haven’t taught you anything about mushrooms yet,” she said. “The little wood mushrooms,