The cemetery sat on a quiet hill above the sea, behind a low white wall covered in climbing roses.
Silveria had not known it was there. Damien never talked about it. He had only come to her door that Sunday morning, a week after the opera, in a plain dark coat with no tie, and said, "Would you come somewhere with me? It's not a business thing."
She had said yes before he finished the sentence.
Now they walked up a gravel path between ancient cypress trees, and the sky overhead was a hard, clean blue. The air smelled of salt and cut grass. Far below, the sea shone like hammered tin. He carried a small bouquet of white anemones. He hadn't said a word since they'd left the car.
"Is it far?" she asked gently.
"Nearly there."
"You don't have to tell me where we're going."
