The morning air in the Loire Valley was crisp, smelling of wet slate and the dying embers of the hearth. Alessandro had spent the night in the armchair, refusing the guest room, refusing the bed, refusing any comfort that felt like a permanent residence. He sat like a gargoyle carved from grief, watching the sun rise over a land he didn’t own.

I had watched him from the doorway, my own sleep a fragmented mess of memories. Seeing him in the light of day was jarring. The sharp, predatory Don ...