‘I haven’t told you I love you.’
‘I think you just did.’
‘Well, to be certain.’ He pulled her back to his arms. ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘And I have never said that to another. I love you so much that I will spend the rest of my life proving to you that, though you had every reason to be wary of me, you were so right to trust me.’
And Ella answered with a truth of her own. ‘You already have.’
EPILOGUE
THE REFORMED SANTO didn’t come wrapped in a bow.
But, as was the Sicilian way, there was a huge white bow on the church in her mother’s village to show that there was a wedding about to take place.
‘Even in my dreams,’ Gabriella said as they walked along the dark cobbled streets lit by flaming torches towards the church, ‘I never thought I would see this.’
‘Where your daughter marries a Corretti?’
‘I still cannot believe it!’ Gabriella smiled. ‘But no, that I would see you married in my church, with my sisters there….’
Together Santo and Paulo had worked wonders. Yes, they had wanted quick and discreet—the family was too fractured to make for a pleasing wedding and there was still a twist of pain for Ella when she thought of her father who, through his choices, would not be here for this day—but for Santo there were certain traditions that he would not cast aside.
Still, if it was her mother’s dream wedding, it was going to be a small one. Teresa would be there, and her aunts, and she had two tiny nieces as flower girls, though it didn’t matter to Ella. As the church doors opened, all she wanted to see was her groom.
‘Oh!’ The church was packed, all heads turning and smiling.
‘Your soon-to-be husband has been sweet talking the locals. They are all happy to see me back and want to welcome, too, my daughter.’
And no doubt they were all delighted to have a Corretti just a little beholden to them, Ella thought as she walked towards her ex-reprobate and soon-to-be husband. He looked at her very pale green dress, which had once been her aunt’s, and he smiled.
‘I wondered how you would get around that!’ Santo said as he greeted his bride, but in English, which the priest did not speak.
‘It’s for fertility,’ Ella said, because in old Sicilian tradition, a green dress was sometimes worn and certain traditions worked best at times. They had known for all of three days that there was no trouble in the fertility department and they were brimming with excitement at their secret news.
It was the most wonderful service. He smiled as she made her vows in Italian. Santo was actually nervous for once as he made his, Ella knew, because his fingers moved to his neck as if to loosen his collar. But she knew when he gave them that they came from the heart.
And now they were married.
‘We stay here,’ Santo explained as they waited in a small house close to the church. ‘Now they set up for the party.’ He pulled her onto his knee. ‘And we behave.’
‘Of course.’
And he told her about the house he had seen in Palermo, but first they were going to go and lie on that beach as she should have done ages ago.
‘But then I wouldn’t have met you.’
The Sicilians did know how to throw a good party. The streets were lined with tables. There was food and more food, and speeches and then more food, but there was talking and laughter too. Ella looked over to her mother, chatting with Teresa, and she could never, even in her wildest, dreamt of this moment either.
‘We dance now,’ Santo said.
And she had thought the wedding would just be a formality, but being held in his arms, maybe Ella did have a few romantic bones in her body, for it was the best night of her life and she looked up at him and never wanted to change him.
‘I love you.’ She said it so easily now. ‘Never change.’
‘Only for good,’ Santo answered in all seriousness. ‘But not too good…’ he added. ‘I have chosen three scripts to take on our honeymoon.’ Ella frowned as they danced their first dance. She really didn’t want to talk about work.
‘One, a hostage situation,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘There is a lot of dialogue, they talk a lot….’ She was starting to smile.
‘One, a romance,’ Santo whispered. She smothered that smile in his chest, so grateful for the imagination that had saved her as a child, as she made a new movie in her mind. ‘God, I love our work so much,’ Santo said to her ear. ‘We are never going to be bored.’
No, with Santo, you could never, ever be bored. ‘And the third?’ Ella asked, her stomach folding over on itself in want as she gazed up to him.
‘A western.’ Santo’s face was deadpan as he looked down to her, watched her start to laugh in his arms as to the visions that conjured up.
And happiness was infectious.
The party smiled and starting tapping spoons on their glasses for the lovely bride and groom to seal it with a kiss.
‘It’s tradition,’ Santo said. ‘You have no choice but to kiss me.’
No, no choice at all, but it was for more than tradition when her lips met his then.
It was simply for love.
* * * * *
Read on for an exclusive interview
with Carol Marinelli!
Behind the Scenes
of Sicily’s Corretti Dynasty
It’s such a huge world to create—an entire Sicilian dynasty. Did you discuss parts of it with the other writers?
There is generally a huge flurry of discussions at the start. Then we all seem to go off into our own worlds to write our own stories and come back for fine-tuning.
How does being part of the continuity differ from when you are writing your own stories?
My own stories are tiny seeds that I grow, but when I am a part of a continuity I am given flowered seedlings and lots of them. I am usually a bit of a hermit when I write—being in a continuity forces you not to be.
What was the biggest challenge? And what did you most enjoy about it?
One of my biggest challenges was writing an epilogue for a book that was first in a series with many secrets still to be revealed that I couldn’t reveal. What did I enjoy? The moment when I worked out how to do it—I had so much fun researching, which can be a major procrastination tool, but when I found out that Sicilian brides used to wear green it all started to slot into place.
As you wrote your hero and heroine, was there anything about them that surprised you?
Their love of ice! More seriously, my hero really surprised me and, in turn, my heroine too. There was a pivotal scene at the beginning of the book that I struggled with and kept trying to dilute and, after a *lot* of rewriting and trying to change him, I ended up going back to my original vision of that scene.
What was your favourite part of creating the world of Sicily’s most famous dynasty?
I love writing about complex family ties. A Sicilian dynasty was like a moth to flame for me—though I knew it would burn.
If you could have given your heroine one piece of advice before the opening pages of the book, what would it be?
I don’t think I would have—people make their own mistakes and find their own happy endings.
What was your hero’s biggest secret?
His whole life was a secret—and he was unearthing that fact.
What does your hero love most about your heroine?
He shares her imagination.
What does your heroine love most about your hero?
He shares her imagination, too.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from Beholden to the Throne by Carol Marinelli
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CHAPTER ONE
‘SHEIKH King Emir has agreed that he will speak with you.’
Amy looked up as Fatima, one of the servants, entered the nursery where Amy was feeding the young Princesses their dinner. ‘Thank you for letting me know. What time—?’
‘He is ready for you now,’ Fatima interrupted, impatience evident in her voice at Amy’s lack of haste, for Amy continued to feed the twins.
‘They’re just having their dinner…’ Amy started, but didn’t bother to continue—after all, what would the King know about his daughters’ routines? Emir barely saw the twins and, quite simply, it was breaking Amy’s heart.
What would he know about how clingy they had become lately and how fussy they were with their food? It was one of the reasons Amy had requested a meeting with him—tomorrow they were to be handed over to the Bedouins. First they would be immersed in the desert oasis and then they would be handed over to strangers for the night. It was a tradition that dated back centuries, Fatima had told her, and it was a tradition that could not be challenged.
Well, Amy would see about that!
The little girls had lost their mother when they were just two weeks old, and since his wife’s death Emir had hardly seen them. It was Amy they relied on. Amy who was with them day in and day out. Amy they trusted. She would not simply hand them over to strangers without a fight on their behalf.
‘I will look after the twins and give them dinner,’ Fatima said. ‘You need to make yourself presentable for your audience with the King.’ She ran disapproving eyes over Amy’s pale blue robe, which was the uniform of the Royal Nanny. It had been fresh on that morning, but now it wore the telltale signs that she had been finger-painting with Clemira and Nakia this afternoon. Surely Emir should not care about the neatness of her robe? He should expect that if the nanny was doing her job properly she would be less than immaculate in appearance. But, again, what would Emir know about the goings-on in the nursery? He hadn’t been in to visit his daughters for weeks.
Amy changed into a fresh robe and retied her shoulder-length blonde hair into a neat ponytail. Then she covered her hair with a length of darker blue silk, arranging the cloth around her neck and leaving the end to trail over her shoulder. She wore no make-up but, as routinely as most women might check their lipstick, Amy checked to see that the scar low on her neck was covered by the silk. She hated how, in any conversation, eyes were often drawn to it, and more than that she hated the inevitable questions that followed.
The accident and its aftermath were something she would far rather forget than discuss.
‘They are too fussy with their food,’ Fatima said as Amy walked back into the nursery.
Amy suppressed a smile as Clemira pulled a face and then grabbed at the spoon Fatima was offering and threw it to the floor.
‘They just need to be cajoled,’ Amy explained. ‘They haven’t eaten this before.’
‘They need to know how to behave!’ Fatima said. ‘There will be eyes on them when they are out in public, and tomorrow they leave to go to the desert—there they must eat only fruit, and the desert people will not be impressed by two spoiled princesses spitting out their food.’ She looked Amy up and down. ‘Remember to bow your head when you enter, and to keep it bowed until the King speaks. And you are to thank him for any suggestions that he makes.’
Thank him!
Amy bit down on a smart retort. It would be wasted on Fatima and, after all, she might do better to save her responses for Emir. As she turned to go, Clemira, only now realising that she was being left with Fatima, called out to Amy.
‘Ummi!’ her little voice wailed. ‘Ummi!’
She called again and Fatima stared in horror as Clemira used the Arabic word for mother.
‘Is this what she calls you?’
‘She doesn’t mean it,’ Amy said quickly, but Fatima was standing now, the twins’ dinner forgotten, fury evident on her face.
‘What have you been teaching her?’ Fatima accused.
‘I have not been teaching her to say it,’ Amy said in panic. ‘I’ve been trying to stop her.’
She had been. Over and over she had repeated her name these past few days, but the twins had discovered a new version. Clemira must have picked it up from the stories she had heard Amy tell, and from the small gatherings they attended with other children who naturally called out to their mothers. No matter how often she was corrected, Clemira persisted with her new word.
‘It’s a similar sound,’ Amy explained. But just as she thought she had perhaps rectified the situation, Nakia, as always, copied her sister.
‘Ummi,’ Nakia joined in with the tearful protest.
‘Amy!’ Amy corrected, but she could feel the disgust emanating from Fatima.
‘If the King ever hears of this there will be trouble!’ Fatima warned. ‘Serious trouble.’
‘I know!’ Amy bit back on tears as she left the nursery. She tried to block out the cries that followed her down the long corridor as she made her way deep into the palace.
This meeting with the King was necessary, Amy told herself, as nerves started to catch up with her. Something had to be said.
Still, even if she had requested this audience, she was not relishing the prospect. Sheikh King Emir of Alzan was not exactly open to conversation—at least not since the death of Hannah. The walls were lined with paintings of previous rulers, all dark and imposing men, but since the death of Emir’s wife, none was more imposing than Emir—and in a moment she must face him.
Must face him, Amy told herself as she saw the guards standing outside his door. As difficult as this conversation might be, there were things that needed to be said and she wanted to say them before she headed into the desert with the King and his daughters—for this was a discussion that must take place well away from tender ears.
Amy halted at the heavy, intricately carved doors and waited until finally the guards nodded and the doors were opened. She saw an office that reminded her of a courtroom. Emir sat at a large desk, dressed in black robes and wearing a kafeya. He took centre stage and the aides and elders sat around him. Somehow she must find the courage to state her case.
‘Head down!’ she was brusquely reminded by a guard.
Amy did as she was told and stepped in. She was not allowed to look at the King yet, but could feel his dark eyes drift over her as a rapid introduction was made in Arabic by his senior aide, Patel. Amy stood with her head bowed, as instructed, until finally Emir spoke.
‘You have been requesting to see me for some days now, yet I am told the twins are not unwell.’
His voice was deep and rich with accent. Amy had not heard him speak in English for so very long—his visits to the nursery were always brief, and when there he spoke just a few words in Arabic to his daughters before leaving. Standing there, hearing him speak again, Amy realised with a nervous jolt how much she had missed hearing his voice.
She remembered those precious days after the twins had been born and how approachable he’d been then. Emir had been a harried king, if there was such a thing, and like any new father to twins—especially with a sick wife. He had been grateful for any suggestion she’d made to help with the tiny babies—so much so that Amy had often forgotten that he was King and they had been on first-name terms. It was hard to imagine that he had ever been so approachable now, but she held on to that image as she lifted her head and faced him, determined to reach the father he was rather than the King.
‘Clemira and Nakia are fine,’ Amy started. ‘Well, physically they are fin
e…’ She watched as his haughty face moved to a frown. ‘I wanted to speak to you about their progress, and also about the tradition that they—’
‘Tomorrow we fly out to the desert,’ Emir interrupted. ‘We will be there for twenty-four hours. I am sure there will be ample time then to discuss their progress.’
‘But I want to speak about this well away from the twins. It might upset them to hear what I have to say.’
‘They are turning one,’ Emir stated. ‘It’s hardly as if they can understand what we are discussing.’
‘They might be able to…’
Amy felt as if she were choking—could feel the scar beneath the silk around her neck inflame. For she knew how it felt to lie silent, knew how it felt to hear and not be able to respond. She knew exactly what it was like to have your life discussed around you and not be able to partake in the conversation. She simply would not let this happen to the twins. Even if there was only a slight chance that they might understand what was being said, Amy would not take that risk. Anyway, she was here for more than simply to discuss their progress.
‘Fatima told me that the twins are to spend the night with the Bedouins…’
He nodded.
‘I don’t think that is such a good idea,’ Amy went on. ‘They are very clingy at the moment. They get upset if I even leave the room.’
‘Which is the whole point of the separation.’ Emir was unmoved. ‘All royals must spend time each year with the desert people.’
‘But they are so young!’
‘It is the way things have long been done. It is a rule in both Alzan and Alzirz and it is not open for discussion.’
It hurt, but she had no choice but to accept that, Amy realised, for this was a land where rules and traditions were strictly followed. All she could do was make the separation as easy as possible on the twins.
‘There are other things I need to speak with you about.’ Amy glanced around the room—although she was unsure how many of the guards and aides spoke English, she knew that Patel did. ‘It might be better if we speak in private?’ Amy suggested.
A Legacy of Secrets Page 15
