Page 41 of The Prince's Green Card Scheme

“They bowed for you.”

He shrugs again. “You get used to it eventually.”

I don’t want to get used to it, I think, but the last thing I want to do right now is have a fight. Being here means too much to me to ruin it by being petty.

“It’s just a normal house,” I say, changing the subject as we stand outside number nineteen, Via Bella.

“What were you expecting?” he asks, glancing at me, his hand tight on mine.

“I don’t know. I guess I wanted it to be something special. But it’s just completely normal.”

“It’s not a bad thing to be normal.”

“No, I guess not.” I take a shaky breath, and Paolo squeezes my hand again.

“We can leave any anytime you want,” he says. “We don’t have to stay if it’s making you uncomfortable.”

“No,” I say quickly. I can’t let him take me away. “It’s just a lot, that’s all.”

We stand there for a long while, just staring at the house. I try to memorize every brick, every chip in the stone, every piece of straw in the roof. I trace the window frames with my eyes, the lace curtains inside, the wreath on the door. In my imagination, the young boy who would be Antonio Fontana runs past, grinning.

“We can see if the owners are home, if you want. We could ask if we can go in.”

“No!” I snap, too harshly. More gently, I add, “No. No, it’s okay. Seeing it is enough.”

Paolo says nothing. He just holds my hand and lets me have this moment.

But it can’t last forever, even if I want it to. My father is gone. And this house belongs to someone else now.

“Let’s go back to the village,” I say, turning to Paolo.

“You sure?”

I nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

As we head back, a bunch more people recognize him and bow deferentially. Bowing to him is one thing, but then they notice our hands entwined and they bow to me too. I really wish they wouldn’t do that, but I don’t say anything. It’s not like there’s anything I can do to stop it. Plus, if I’m planning to stick around in Paolo’s life, this is probably something I’ve got to get used to.

Am I planning to do that?

We wander along the main street, or what counts as such here, and I look in all the shop windows. They’re all tiny, family-run businesses with no set opening hours. I’m pretty sure if I went inside and started haggling, someone would go along with it.

“Do you think they sell postcards here?” I ask.

“Maybe not in this village,” says Paolo, his face crumpling thoughtfully. “But I can take you to the capital, Bellé. They’ll definitely have some touristy stuff there.”

“I’d like to get a postcard for Mom.”

“So, then, a postcard you shall have.” He smiles at me, that big, warm smile, the one that reaches his eyes and lights up his entire face.

It’s only then that I realize exactly how long we’ve been holding hands for.

And I don’t let go.

The way they’re swinging like a pendulum between us feels like a comfortable weight, an anchoring force that’s stopping me from floating away. I should let go. I know I should. I don’t want him to get any ideas about what this means.

But I really don’t want to.

“Wait, I’ve got an idea,” Paolo says, his eyes brightening in the very definition of a lightbulb moment.

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