As I bent down, I noticed her top had torn, exposing small white scars crisscrossing her stomach underneath her breasts. They looked like incisions made with a small blade. More of Mancini’s torment or an act of self-harm? Dina murmured something in Italian. “You’ve had a bad fall,” I said. “Do you think you can get up?” “Hit a branch when the mare ran into the wood.” With my arm securely around her, I helped her stand. She winced in pain. “Try to walk. We’ll take it slowly.” Her hair hung in wet drapes around her face and she grimaced with every step. I listened for the sound of the hounds. They must have finished with Alessio by now. The man hadn’t even cried out, so fast had the animals attacked him. We had to find shelter quickly. I decided we could do no worse than to follow the horses. To our immense relief, within a short time the wood thinned, ending at a stone barrier. We entered through a hole in a crumbling wall and found ourselves in a garden. It was a strange garden, tangled and wild, but also a place of rare beauty.
