Naomi was used by now to the pity in other people's eyes, their sympathies if she dared explain her husband had fallen in war. How people supposed that exalting his duty and heroism would make her feel better when, in fact, it had been almost a relief. There were no more degrading words spoken, or rather shouted, her way around the clock or feeling miserable having to put up a front, both to her neighbors and her own family, that she was living in a happy, practically perfect marriage. Her husband's death, however, had left her with guilt, too, and she swallowed it with a polite shrug, shaking her thoughts away and listening to his almost poetic way of speaking about knowledge and education. "My father always said that a good education was a human right, not a privilege, and that even when we're stripped of everything else in life, knowledge cannot be taken away from us." It was easy, talking to this stranger, intriguing, considering his accent and mannerisms. Naomi wondered if he was some sort of royal heir hiding away in this forgotten town. Then again, Italy had no monarchy. It would be the perfect hideaway, anyways. "To Wicker Park or the meadows?" The blonde asked, suddenly confused. Wicker Park was safer, public. Certainly a more difficult scenario for a murder to take place, though not entirely impossible. The meadows by the fall, though breathtaking, meant going into the woods, with a complete stranger. As if the woods weren't scary enough already. "Do you have a name, signore? I'm Naomi. Naomi Price."
janainaart
ellievsbear
tangentwithtanner
baratheonpilled
yousharknotpass
2087
kaledo-art
dailybridgerton
