“Yes, but I think it’s stopped bleeding. A bird flew into my face. It gave me a fright, that’s all.” She laughed a little, brushing herself down.

“My only fear was that you would not come,” he said. “But now you are here! I am the happiest man alive!”

He yanked her hand enthusiastically on, and she felt a glow of joy surge through her.

Light appeared in the distance, and as they approached the clearing in front of the old hut, Paolo slowed to show her into his “dining space.”

Her breath momentarily stopped.

The clearing in the wood let in sunshine, dappled flecks of gold that danced through the shifting leaves. A small round table was made from a tree stump, a small log on either side. The sound of a campfire crackled, as bright, shifting flames danced blue and gold, sending out a scent of burning firewood in the warmth of the glow.

Paolo bowed as if he were a waiter showing a patron to her table. “This way, my lady.”

Mesmerized, she stood gazing. “It’s magical,” she gasped, feeling delight explode inside her like a universe of the brightest stars. Carefully, like a ballerina testing the floor of a new stage, she trod into the sun-speckled circle. “You did this for me?” she whispered.

He stepped forward to join her in the ring, taking her hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss. “Of course I do this for you. You are my special friend. You deserve far more than this, but this is all I have.”

“Am I your friend?” She liked the sound of it, wanted him to say it again.

“Yes, I hope we are friends, good friends,” he replied. His eyes met hers, and for a moment she thought he was going to kiss her, but then he pulled away, keeping hold of one hand and leading her to the fire.

“The first thing I do is to show you how to cook real Italian food. See, here I have made a fire, and wait here.” He darted into the shed, coming out with two platters of raw ingredients. “Here we have the food to cook. I show you how to cook for your contest, and then you taste my Italian food.” He grinned. “And then you will come to meet my grandmother, when this war is over.”

    He brought out a large cooking pot and laid a gray blanket on the ground to use as a rug, beckoning her to kneel beside him.

“Where did you get all these things?”

“The old barn where we sleep has blankets. The guards, they let us cook our own food, so it was easy to take the pot and some bowls.”

He took a small bottle and poured in some oil, setting the pot on a grill propped over the fire. The flames began to lick the bottom on the pan.

“There is no olive oil here, so I use just a little vegetable oil.”

A platter with portions of meat sat beside him.

“Chicken?” Nell asked.

“Shh.” He put his finger to his lips. “I took one from the hut for you. It is for Barlow’s black market, and they have so many they won’t notice one missing.”

Gently he placed them into the oil, watching them sizzle. “Beneath the bird’s skin, there is fat, so we crisp up the skin and melt it to add more oil.”

Beneath the flickering sunlight, she could see the portions browning, the meaty, homey scent of the frying chicken legs and breasts filling the warm summer air.

“I add bacon, too, for the fat and for the full flavor.” The crackling bacon added a new, smoky smell that made her mouth water.

After turning the meat and bacon, he spooned it out, leaving the fats and juices.

Next came the onions, chopped into slim crescents, the sharp tang changing quickly to sweetness as it fried. Then he added chopped celery and carrots.

“In Italy we use capsicums, but here we have none, so celery and carrots it will be.”

He turned away to get something else. “Now the piece that makes the cacciatore into the best dish in the world.” He leaned over and collected two handfuls of ripe, red, plump tomatoes. “Feel how good they are.”

    He handed one to her, and when she pressed it, it gave softly under her fingertips, so utterly tender it was almost falling apart. Swiftly, he chopped then added them.

“Doesn’t your mouth long to taste it?” Paolo looked at her with his wide smile, then he put up a hand to wait. “But not yet! We have more to come.”

He vanished into the hut once more, this time returning with a small jar in one hand, which he said was stock that he had made. In his other hand was a jar with a small amount of liquid. “Cider vinegar. In Italy, I use red wine, a beautiful Chianti, but here we are”—he lifted his hands to the trees—“in the middle of a wood, in the middle of a war, and this is the best I can do.”

“We get wine at the hall,” she said. “I suppose that’s black market, too.”

He laughed. “Barlow always has the black market food—he makes a lot of money, him and Sir Strickland.” He continued to stir the pot.

Nell’s forehead creased with doubt. “Really? I thought the extra production was only going to us, for Fenley Hall. He’s selling food from the farm on the black market, too?”

Paolo put on a stern face, pretending to be Barlow making two piles. “Half the farm produce goes to the Ministry of Agriculture, and half goes to the black market truck that comes over every day. They have a big business. I saw the account book. He hides it under the floor below his desk. They get a lot of money.”

She laughed. “Maybe Sir Strickland’s factory business isn’t going as well as he says.”

The next bottle to go in was between them, so she opened it and took a deep breath of the brown liquid. “Mmm, stock! How did you make it?”

“It is just made with vegetables. As prisoners we don’t have meat often.” He poured it in, then scooped the browned meat and bacon back into the pot, coating them in the thick, bubbling mixture.

    “And now,” he said with aplomb, “for the herbs.”

First, he gave her a few sprigs, their leaves fragrant with sharp flowery scents.

“Thyme.” She breathed. “Sorrel and a bay leaf. Perfect!”

“And finally, the herb that made me want to cook for you. Oregano—or in our case, mar-jo-ram.”

She took the proffered leaves, tore them apart, and put them into the pot. Paolo added more. “They are not as strong as my usual oregano, so we must use a lot. And then, we only have to cook, stir, taste, and finally”—he took her hand in his—“we will eat.”

They stayed for a moment, beside each other on the blanket, surrounded by the rich, tomatoey smell of the cacciatore while it quietly bubbled above the crackling fire, the shifting amber and bronze lighting their faces.

Humming at first, he began to softly sing to her. It was a lilting melody, this time slower, the music richer with cadences and minor keys.

It must be a love song, she thought, as he took her fingers, his eyes on hers.

And it was suddenly as if the world had come together for that one magical moment: the song, the smell of the cooking in the woodland air, the sunlight dappling around them, as if they were stars on their own private stage.

At the end, she urged him on. “Please, another song.”

“Now it’s your turn again. Do you have something to sing for me?”

She looked at her hands. “Well, I did learn another song,” she said timidly, for a moment worried that it was foolish, childish.

But his face lit up immediately.

“You are magnificent!” he exclaimed. “Please, will you try?”

She laughed nervously. “My voice still isn’t good, but since you said…”

    He put his hands forward encouragingly, his warmth and spirit goading her on, and she began.

Are you going to Scarborough Fair?

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme

Remember me to one who lives there

He once was a true love of mine

Her voice was stronger this time, spurred by confidence and practice. She even held her head up, singing out, smiling, enjoying it for the first time. A woman in the village had taught her all the verses, and she knew them off by heart, singing them out, a lone female voice echoing through the wood.

After she finished, she made a mock bow.

“You are wonderful!” He brought his arms around her.

She blushed. “I’ve been practicing around the kitchen.”

“You must learn more for me. Your voice, it is like you are an angel.”

And as they knelt, gazing at each other, it was as if two magical threads, as fine and invisible as spider’s silk, had connected them, drawing them together like they were magnetized by the sun and moon above. Slowly, gently, he bent his head toward her, his eyes closing, his breath warm and sweet, and before she knew what was happening, his lips touched hers, briefly, softly.

“You are the most beautiful girl, Nell, not only on the outside, but also in your heart.”

She smiled, not her usual placating smile, but a new, warm, and natural smile, as if the sunshine had lit her up on the inside. It radiated from her.

There they remained, entwined in each other’s arms before the golden red of the fire, and eventually the smell of the food drew them back to their cooking. Together they took a spoon, dipped it inside, and brought it out brimming with the robust tomato sauce.