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sound.
    Now, as he turned down the heat on the oven and pulled the rump steaks off the plate, Felix untied his apron and plucked a central remote off the wall of the kitchen. From there, he could operate everything in the house, from the television and stereo to the garden lights and central heating. Being a fan of the twentieth century (Felix still sent mail using a postage stamp rather than the click of a mouse), it had taken him some time to conquer the tiny remote. But he had eventually done it and was rather proud of himself.
    With a single selection and a click with his thumb, he now opened the garage door from where he stood in the kitchen.
    A moment later, he heard the dreadful sound of the Ducati, coming down the winding roads to the beach house and pulling into the garage.
    Seconds later, young Master Will appeared, pulling off his black motorcycle helmet and revealing a tumultuous tangle of blond hair that, in Felix's opinion, was long overdue for a haircut.
    "Hey, Felix! How's it goin'? I can't stop long. Gotta pack. Gotta go, first thing in the morning. Do you know where my passport is? And my cargo pants, you know the ones with the zillions of pockets? Say, what's for dinner? Smells good."
    And with that, Will vanished into his room, shouting more questions as he dumped his motorcycle and football gear and proceeded to get changed.
    Felix couldn't help but roll his eyes and smile. At least his life was never dull. Not whenever young Master Will was around.

III
    Tuscany, Italy
    The young Italian scaled the empty, ancient, cobble-stoned street. The road—in fact, the entire village of Vita Sola—had been built before cars. It was so steep and so narrow he could almost stretch both arms out and touch the walls of the cottages on either side. He arrived at the crest of a hill and heard the clip-clop of a horse's hooves. An old man with a horse and a slim cart stacked with vegetables emerged from the other side of the hill.
    The young Italian stopped. " Buon giorno ," he said. The old man nodded, huffing and puffing after his trek up the desolate street. The young man said in Italian, "I'm looking for the house of Signor Brancaso, the artist. Do you know him?"
    The old man managed a grin. "Yes, I know him, but not as an artist, at least not a good one." He pointed to a laneway veering off to the left of the street. "He lives down there, the fourth cottage on the right."
    The young Italian's eyes followed the old man's finger. " Grazie ."
    "You can knock on the door," the old man said, "but don't expect an answer."
    The young man smiled again. An answer was the one thing he was hoping for. And knowing Marco Brancaso as well as he did—or at least once had—he knew exactly how to get an answer out of him.
    The sound of a bottle of Bulgarian vodka—no label, no brand, nothing but the potent forces of a peasant family's labor inside—makes a much different sound clanging against an eighteenth-century-old door than the knuckles of a man's hand. The young Italian heard footsteps inside somewhere, clambering down a set of stairs. The door opened. The face of a man in his late forties, unshaven, unkempt, but still—as always—in his own way handsome, looked up in sweet surprise.
    "Luca? Luca da Roma?" Marco had dark brown eyes that seemed to deepen as he smiled at the sight of Luca. Gentle lines creased his forehead and the skin around his eyes. "I must be drunk!"
    Luca, the young Italian, smiled back at his old friend and lover. "No, Marco." He raised the bottle of vodka. "But you will be soon."
    For a moment, the two men stood looking at each other, smiling. "You've cut your hair." Marco reached out and ruffled Luca's medium-length brown hair. "It's been such a long time. Three years?"
    "Five."
    "You look good. You always did. Come! Come inside!"
    Marco led Luca up an old set of creaking, cracked stairs, into a dusty old loft attic with large arched windows that overlooked the village of Vita Sola and the pale