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His sister chose these . The perfectly lovely and bland Maria picked the demure watercolors. Bella preferred vibrant art, with bright, fanciful colors such as the Renaissance masters with their jewel tones. Bella flashed to the rich oil paintings in the tiny village church. Even now, centuries after they’d been painted, the colors were still vibrant, life-like, alive. She sighed and pasted on a smile. Tommaso meant well and he tried but, like the impressionists, he only saw the blurred outline of her, instead of the essence.
    After a few moments of polite and dull chitchat with her parents and a few kind words to a still-petulant and surly Ava, Tommaso extended a hand to her and said, “Bella, would you care for a walk on this lovely day?”
    Mamma ushered them to the door, eagerly nudging a reluctant Bella outside. They walked together, wending their way among the familiar vineyards; their vines still winter brown, not yet coated with the leafy promise of spring or heavy with the grapes to be harvested in the fall.
    Tommaso chatted amiably about the sights of Rome. Though Bella wanted to hear about the artwork he’d seen, Tommaso cooed over the lingering meals he’d enjoyed. Tommaso loved to eat. As a young man, still active and hearty, he hadn’t paid the price for his indulgences yet. Bella didn’t doubt that in twenty years, Tommaso would be as round as his father.
    The bright sunlight danced over the early spring landscape, dazzling them. Bumblebees and birds flittered from blossom to blossom, drunk on the heady nectar of such immense possibility as the world in springtime. A light breeze flirted with Bella’s skirt, forcing her to hold it down with her free hand. Her other hand rested on the crook of Tommaso’ elbow, feeling his strong muscles move under the tweedy fabric. The breeze carried the scent of freshness, the earth renewing itself after a long winter. Light green new leaves fuzzed the trees, cradling still furled buds, on the verge of blooming. Tommaso led her to a blossoming cherry tree, its boughs dancing in the spring breeze. He pressed her back against it, crowding her against the tree trunk. She looked up at his handsome face, silhouetted against the cerulean spring sky, as cherry blossoms cascaded down to cover them like floral confetti.
    He bent his head and brushed his warm lips over hers. Bella shut her eyes and clutched at his strong shoulders, sliding her fingers up to twine in the silky softness of his dark hair. Gently, he pulled her closer but not too close. Tommaso insisted they both remain chaste for their wedding night, in accordance with the dictates of the church. After a few short moments, Tommaso broke the kiss, stepping back. Bella licked at her lower lip, tasting the cinnamon gum he habitually chewed.
    “Bella, I missed you terribly, amore mia .”
    When he said it, Bella realized she hadn’t missed him. Not at all. She ducked her head, so he wouldn’t see the panic churning through her reflected in her eyes. She shifted over to sit on a nearby boulder, a prime spot for overlooking the village.
    “In Rome, all the talk is of the war that is coming.”
    “I know. Babbo and Mamma talk of little else. They are worried.” Bella agreed, still reeling from her realization she had not missed him.
    “Perhaps it can yet be avoided. Perhaps we won’t be tested this way. I had many hours to think on our long train ride. And I know this, Bella, war or no war. It is you I want. I love you, Bella.”
    Bella’s throat felt closed and tight. She managed a nervous smile before glancing away. She should love him. She did care for him, a pale imitation of what she should feel, like the washed out watercolors he brought her. Still, he knelt in front of her, the grass crinkling under his knee, clasping her cold hands between his own. He smiled up at her and she saw her future. The Queen of Ali d’Angelo.
    Her chest tightened as her heart thrummed in her throat like the frantic beat of a