MILO

7. A Force of Life

Curled up on a red velvet couch, crackling from the tamed fire under the mantel echoes through the library as I turn the page on my Kindle, envy thrumming in my veins.

If only Tolstoy could rewrite my life; there'd be suffering, naturally- it's Tolstoy - but there'd also be hope.

Leo was excellent at writing hope.

"A wound in the soul, coming from the rending of the spiritual body, strange as it may seem, gradually closes like a physical wound. And once a deep wound heals over and the edges seem to have knit, a wound in the soul, like a physical wound, can be healed only by the force of life pushing up from inside," I murmur, reading out loud as I take a sip of wine.

Sure, it's only 11 am but I'm in Italy. Who's going to judge me?

"A force of life," I repeat, shaking my head, frustration oozing through my pores.

But what if your life is the catalyst of your wounds? What then, Tolstoy? Huh? What happens then? Pierre found solace in love. Is that supposed to heal all too? So life and love? Those are the only true cures to suffering?

Absurd.

"Kiara, there you are."

I snap my head up, putting the Kindle to sleep as Luisa enters the dimly illuminated library. Out of the twenty rooms, she showed me last night, this is by far my favorite. It's more intimate than the other obnoxiously large spaces in the villa.

Really, who needs three living rooms?

But at least now I have my footing. She was quite thorough in her tour; even going as far as giving me a hand-drawn map in case I get lost. Milo's bedroom, which is situated down the hall from mine, was circled in red.

Now that I think about it, perhaps he drew the map.

"Good morning," I say, placing the glass of wine on the black glazed coffee table that's resting on top of a white fur rug.

"Indulging so early," she muses, eyeing the bottle Masseto on the table as she takes a step down into the sunken library. "I'll be sure not to tell Milo that you've opened the last of his favorite wine."

"I'm sure he can afford to buy another bottle," I say, taking a sip, the aromatic complexity and tannic structure of the blend whirling around in my mouth. "It's delicious, I can see why it's his favorite."

Luisa casts me a smile, her eyes crinkling from the force. "Yes, it's very exclusive," she says as she approaches the couch. I eye the book in her hand as she passes me the copy of The Divine Comedy. "Milo said you left this in his office last night."

"Thank you," I say, lightly wrapping my fingers around the first edition. "Was he too busy to give it to me himself?"

"He and my father left for Sicily this morning," she explains, gracefully sitting down on the armchair across from me.

"I thought they were leaving tomorrow?" I muse, placing the book next to me, mildly irked that he didn't inform me of his change in plans. Instantly, I scold myself for caring. He doesn't owe me anything.

"Something urgent came up," she says, resting her forearms on the curved edges of the chair. "It happens a lot."

"Right," I hum, unsure of how to continue this conversation.

Luisa is a stranger, someone I know nothing about, someone I doubt I have anything in common with, except for Milo.

But he's a mystery to me too.