The Tuscan Child

by Rhys Bowen

It was still not quite light, but from what he could make out, the sky above him was leaden grey, heavy with the promise of rain.

The air was perfumed with newly mown grass and the scent of roses.

“This war has robbed us all of what we loved,”

“You are a milord?” She was looking at him with wonder now. “My father is. I shall be when he dies. Not a lord, exactly. A baronet. A sir.”

And the way he smiled at me—I felt as if I was melting like candle wax.

I had always been the good child, trying to please, to succeed, to do the right thing, and look where it had got me.

A flagstone path led down the hill through a garden that was a riot of flowers and vegetables.

Dinky Toys