I stared at the dark stretch of land beyond the gates for a long time. I said nothing. It was true that this grove had once been our sanctuary. The three of us had played here as children, hiding from our families' wars, pretending we were ordinary. Those memories were real. They were the last pure things I owned.
But I had never liked tulips.
I was allergic to pollen. All pollen. They would have known this if they had ever truly looked at me.
Before the thought could settle, the sky above us shattered into light. Fireworks erupted in great cascading arcs, painting the darkness in golds and silvers and deep Genovese crimson. The bursts arranged themselves into letters, spelling my name across the heavens like a declaration of war dressed as a love song.
In the glow of that manufactured dream, Giancarlo reached into his jacket and produced a small velvet box. He opened it. Inside, nestled against black silk, sat a ring. Old gold. A blood-red ruby flanked by two smaller diamonds. The kind of piece that carried generations inside its setting.