Free Don't Be Afraid by Daniela Sacerdoti

beautiful as ever, carved in grey sandstone, with a square central building and two wings at its sides. Mighty oak trees, hundreds of years old, surrounded the house like a crown, and deer roamed in fields of grass. From the outbuildings came the low, gentle neighing of a horse.
    I walked along the back wall until I reached a small wooden door painted black. It was garlanded by a stunning fuchsia plant, still laden with flowers before winter stripped it with its freezing temperatures. Lined up against the wall were pots of heather – Margherita’s touch. In spring and summer, Margherita’s pots overflowed with brightly coloured flowers. I remembered how unkempt the gardens looked before she came along. In a way, they looked like Torcuil felt – lonely. But not any more.
    â€œAngus,” my brother greeted me as I knocked softly and let myself in. He still had blue shadows under his eyes. The last few days had taken a lot out of both of us.
    â€œCup of tea? I made some torta di mele . . . apple cake,” said Margherita with a smile. She always had a reason to smile. I didn’t think I’d ever seen her grumpy in all the time I’d known her – since that evening when she came to hear me playing and I guessed Torcuil’s feelings for her with just one look.
    â€œThanks. Sorry, I’m a bit early,” I said, taking a seat at their kitchen table, full of Torcuil’s papers and books. He must have been working.
    â€œNo problem. Clara is due here in ten—”
    â€œHello?” A pleasant alto voice, coming from outside, interrupted me.
    â€œHello, come on in!” Margherita got up to open the kitchen door and welcome Clara. She stepped in with a smile that made her eyes crinkle up, her brown hair piled softly on top of her head in an old-fashioned hairdo. I had thought she probably was around my and Torcuil’s age, mid-thirties, but that day she seemed ageless. Very old or very young, depending on how you looked at her.
    â€œSorry, I’m early,” she said, echoing my words.
    â€œDon’t worry, we were all ready. Can I get you some mint tea and apple cake?” Margherita offered.
    â€œOh, you remembered I like mint tea! Thank you, Margherita.”
    â€œTake a seat,” Torcuil said. “Sorry, I’ll move some of my stuff . . .”
    â€œHe can’t help it,” Margherita laughed. “He is naturally messy!”
    â€œAll these books . . . What do you do, Torcuil?” asked Clara.
    â€œI’m a lecturer. I teach history in Edinburgh. And Angus is a musician.”
    â€œWhat do you play?”
    â€œI play the fiddle . . . but tell us about your job. So you were a nurse for years, both in Canada and here?”
    â€œA midwife, actually. Here, I have all the paperwork . . . Thankfully I kept all the important stuff in my hand luggage! The rest of my things are probably in Brazil or something. They lost my luggage,” she explained, handing me a blue folder. We went through her certificates and references while Margherita placed a steaming cup of mint tea in front of her.
    â€œWhat exactly are you looking for?” Clara asked, wrapping her fingers around the warm cup. I had to say what was in all our minds: Someone who will watch my wife so she doesn’t try anything stupid again .
    â€œSomeone to keep Isabel company when I’m not around, which, sadly, is often. Someone to see she takes her medicines, who distracts her a little . . .”
    Clara was calm. “I find it difficult to accept you would trust me with your wife when you know me so little,” she said, her moss-green eyes clear, open.
    Torcuil pushed his glasses up his nose. “Call it skin-deep. We have the feeling you might be the right person.”
    â€œAnd anyway, the first obstacle is to see if Isabel will let you in the house at all,” I intervened.
    â€œAnd would you need me to stay over, sometimes? I mean, if