It was a narrow road paved with white gravel, thin and dusty that crunched pleasantly under the weight of Velluta that led me forward. Overgrown bushes were at my sides, with brown grass and thick shrubs further back. The sun was setting behind me, behind the Apperini mountains—it was close to the solstice now—and the sky was a fiery orange, as if the blazing Hadrus himself had poured molten copper over the firmament.
A soft wind blew from where I was riding and I smelled salt and seaweeds, but also something sweet and homely. The estate I was nearing had been built on the very coast itself, barely two hundred yards away from the Casliera Bay, and, as Patricia de-Braccarte said, was supposed to have a wonderful view of the waves and the sunrise. Apparently, her uncle’s great-great-grandparents, who had built it, had made it so the windows would open towards the sunrise any day of the year, and I thought it was a fascinating idea.
I couldn’t wait to see for myself.
But as I rode down the narrow path, the bottom of my coat now covered with white dust, I saw the land that was mine—an idea that still felt undeserved—was wild and unkempt. Trees had grown wild and massive, and a thick cover of spiny bushes was like a carpet. And yet, the dimming sunlight pierced even the boughs of the trees and the needle-like leaves of the bushes and the rhythm of the waves in the distance was hypnotic.
Far off shoregliders screeched as they always do, and impossibly far above the ocean there was a massive black bird that glided effortlessly across the bay.
I was barely a hundred yards from the main road, which was somewhat busy, yet it seemed miles away here in this new place. The estate, Villa Occo, seemed like a tucked-away place, far from the worries of the world, and I thought this was exactly what I needed. Exactly what Florencia and the others needed. Maybe except for Jace, he was so far off in his own path of discovery that I sensed the weight of our troubles bothered him the least out of every one of us. I was glad.
Then came a sharp turn leftward and I saw a corner of a yellow plastered wall, and immediately I sensed Florencia’s presence—weightless and fiery and most familiar.
She ran to greet me, her hair disheveled and a streak of dirt was on her cheek and a smile wide on her lips. She had in haste wrapped an orange and teal scarf around her that had one end frayed and dirtied with soot. As Velluta came to a stop at the corner of the villa, all came to greet me, standing on the white gravel not much unlike Pitties had greeted us in Loran. Even Patricia de-Braccarte was there, standing beside Iskander in all her reserved allure.
“Finally!” breathed Florencia softly as she embraced me, and then placed a few gentle kisses against my neck. “Welcome home.”
I stepped back and acutely felt the oddity of what she had just said. I never had a home to call mine, and now I had. She smiled, and I was sure she knew what I was mumbling.
“I missed you,” I said after regathering myself.
“I missed you more. But I could distract myself with work. There’s so much to do here.”
Then the others came closer and we greeted warmly. They seemed relaxed and an air of calm was around them. Standing between Jace and Iskander, even Jaxine had a faint smile when our eyes met and as we exchanged greetings. I did catch the scornful look she gave to Patricia for the shortest time.
“How was the ceremony?” asked Iskander.
“Did you talk with Viola?” asked Jace.
“The ceremony was nice,” I replied. “There were thousands of people at Pia de Mere, a hundred commanders and nobles, and seemed like most of the city had come to see Ames. But… I didn’t want to talk with the corisseri.”
“I can understand that,” said Iskander. “Come on, take your stuff inside. I’ll put Velluta away into the stables.”
“We have stables?” I asked as I took my saddlebags from Velluta and hung them over my shoulder. “And Jace, I asked Viola to visit us in spring.”
“Did your offer to join your Order surprise her?” asked Jace nonchalantly.
“It did. Very much so, but her thirst for answers is stronger than her allegiance to Lottie. She will be here before long. I think she would’ve come with me that day if I had asked. But it’s not the right time yet.”
“No, not yet. Not yet…” mumbled Jace.
We made some light-hearted conversation about the weather and Lottie as we walked around the corner of the estate and into the courtyard, where a small fountain made with red and white stones lay before the modest entrance.
I finally could see Villa Occo in its full glory. Or lack thereof.
“What… a mess!” I blurt out before catching myself, and Patricia let out an involuntary laugh.
“It’s been abandoned for almost twenty years, Jonas,” she said heartily.
I gazed upward and traced the weathered details of this villa that loomed before me. The yellow-plastered walls, now dulled and discolored over the years, arches that had once been brilliant white were now a boring grey and terracotta tiles of orange now had countless vines growing on them and the drains were clogged up from leaves from uncounted seasons. And upon the walls and around windows the vines grew too, but too wild and too messy to be visually pleasing. New growths upon old ones, over and over, for years. The heavy front door—only a single door, which was rare these days—had countless nail marks over it and a deep scratch on the bottom.
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The foundation, once probably brilliant white, was now beige and green and moldy. And to my left, in the fountain, water dripped endlessly down into the pool from where it rose again, only to drop again. With what magic this was done, I could not fathom. Or whether this was magic and not some clever architecture.
“Jonas, it’s actually much nicer than it looks at first!” said Florencia. “Come in, I’ll show you around. The others can continue their work!”
She all but drove the others away and we were by ourselves again. I didn’t mind. I liked their company but needed Florencia’s more.
“It’s much nicer inside, Jonas. It’s warm and there’s a very nice kitchen and dining room, and your room—”
“Our room!”
She made an irritated noise and continued: “Is on the third floor under the roof, and it’s really nice. You can see the sunrise and its windows open into such a nice balcony. Oh, and you have a dock over there—” she pointed to the left, towards the rich-blue coast where waves foamed, “but it’s broken now. I haven’t dared to step on it. The wood is all rotten and broken. And there’s a pond there—” she pointed to some place behind her, obscured by a thick spurge bush, “Oh! And there’s even a greenhouse on the other side with a watering mechanism! I love it here.”
“I can sense your joy. It’s infectious,” I said. “I’m glad that you’re happy. I haven’t seen you like this in… forever.”
“I think I haven’t been this happy in forever, Jonas. It’s been such a long time. So many years. And… I know this is only an illusion, a moment of calm before what will come, but…”
“It’s not an illusion, Flo. Let’s enjoy it while we have this gift.”
Florencia smiled and took my hand to give me a tour of the estate.
*
Villa Occo, built close to two hundred and thirty years ago by the sister of Patricia de-Braccarte’s great-great-grandparents, had a charm. But it was utterly impossible to notice from under the mountain of work that had to be done.
It had three floors, four bedrooms, and a back veranda with a wide door that had ridiculously thick glass windows that had a marvelous view of Casliera Bay. Inside ceilings were dark hardwood and thick beams and wide red-bricked arches that divided the rooms. The main fireplace was a raised, knee-high platform upon which a large fire could be done, which was also used to make food. It had no cast-iron stove to cook—
“Yet!” said Florencia when she pointed at a suitable place in the corner. “I would have the stove there. It’s the perfect spot for it—close to the fireplace, so we have only a single stack of firewood, but close to the dining table that when I have a fire going it, we would be warm.”
The walls of the inside were eggshell yellow and humble and without embellishments, and I rather liked it that way. Floors were also dark hardwood, with a few ancient carpets thrown here and there and a thin smell of smoke lingered in the rooms.
“Iskander still hasn’t cleaned the chimney, that’s why it stinks of smoke,” said Florencia and made a gesture at the thick chimney going up.
“He doesn’t actually have to clean that,” I said, putting my hand on the still-warm bricks. They felt sturdy. Immovable. “I can try to do it myself.”
“Yeah, but he has done it before back when he had his home—”
“Don’t tell me you mentioned his old home!”
“I’m not stupid!” said Florencia and gently slapped my shoulder. “But I did hint that he should fix it soon.”
“And how did that go?”
“It… went better than I thought it would. Anyway…”
We continued with the tour outside, where we heard Iskander mumble with Velluta and his own horse, Per. He liked a more simple name for a horse, one that would be quick and easy to call, and he had over the months trained his horse to answer to Per.
Leftward from the main estate was the stables and between the two was a deep well that gave good water. It was fresh and had no strange taste that would take time to get used. We were all grateful for that. Further back were the workshop and granary, joined as a single low building with a tall orange roof, some tiles broken, under which was a dented gutter that gathered rainwater into a cracked clay tank.
Here also, a dense growth of vines covered the entire left side of the building and would, in the better seasons, color the building in vibrant green and maroon.
Florencia took me to the coast, where waves of salty water crashed against sheer cliffs of red and white stone. Stairs went down into a small pier, upon which neither of us dared to set foot, and thirty yards into the ocean were the remains of an old rowboat. There we stood for some time, amidst the echoes of the waves and the wind.
Wind, waves, wind, waves, on and on, slowly but endlessly. And when the wind came from the sea, it smelled of salt and seaweeds, and when it came from the land, it smelled of pine needles.
Looking again at the sunken rowboat, Florencia shrugged, grabbed my hand, and all but ran to probably her favorite part of the estate, the greenhouse.
It was narrow, perhaps ten long steps, but long and tall, made from thick glass panes and brass framing, and inside it seemed to have developed an ecosystem of its own. Plants and bushes and flowers that had been planted decades back had now grown too wild to contain. The watering system continuously sprayed a thin mist into the air, and all plant life thrived. Insects buzzed around, and I even heard a lone frog croak in some corner. Quickly I began sweating through my cotton undershirt and I wanted to go outside again.
“Can you imagine all the wonderful pottery I can do here?” sang Florencia and touched a flower petal. It was warm here, warm enough to have things bloom even during winter.
“I’m afraid to guess,” I joked and ran my fingers across the sturdy brass framing. The window panes were thick here as well, but impossibly old and warped and wavy. Sunlight, the precious little that was left, came in broken and in prismatic light here and there, and our reflections in the glass were warped and odd, but in a funny way.
“Look!” said Florencia and pointed at our reflections, where she stood a full head taller than me. “I’m finally taller than you!” It warmed my heart to see her take pleasure in the simple things.
We went inside again and passed Iskander and Jace with a nod. They were making the fire ready, and cutting some bread and meat to fry for dinner, along with a bottle of cider that they had bought from a local travel merchant. We ascended the staircase, burdened with my saddlebags and everything that I owned, and ended up finally on the third floor in the master bedroom—my room.
My very own room. I had none in Darnel, living with Florencia’s parents, nor did I have one in Cappesand. I merely used that single dormitory room for my entire stay there, but I never felt like I belonged there. But here, in Villa Occo, in this spacious bedroom where Florencia had only thrown blankets and old coats and pillows on the floor before the front windows, this felt like home.
I put away my things beside the so-called bed. It smelled of her sweet vanilla and cinnamon perfume. It smelled like home, too.
“This place is wonderful,” sang Florencia, her voice soft and melodious. “This morning I had breakfast on the balcony, looking at the sunrise. It’s just… magical. Come on!” She all but dragged me outside and we stood there looking into the wide and open ocean, and listening to the endless melody of the waves crashing upon the red coast.
“You know, Flo? I think this might just be it.”
She smiled and nodded.