A purple haze hovered over the rolling hills of Tuscany like a wave of magic dust blown into the air by some mythical genie. The light dangled between mountain peaks as if cast by an ancient spell. Cecilia was particularly taken by the vast array of wild flowers, which covered each meadow in a vivid blanket of colour. The air was thick with the fragrance of wild roses mixed with thyme, basil, rosemary and fennel, the smells suffused the many vineyards they rode past. For in the rich soil of Tuscany, a variety of grapes were grown, and no two vineyards smelt quite the same. Salai, however, was unimpressed. Never having ridden a horse until the day they fled Milan, he spent much of the time travelling through Tuscany complaining. ‘Damn animals.’ ‘My arse hurts.’ ‘Even when I s**t I get no re
