Late June, 1925
The rain had been falling for three days without pause, a steady drumming against the windows and roof of the farmhouse that created a constant backdrop of sound. It was the kind of rain that turned the roads to mud, that made the fields sodden and grey, that seemed to settle into one's bones with a chill that no fire could quite chase away.
Inside Angelina's farmhouse, the atmosphere was one of quiet waiting—the kind that wore on the nerves precisely because there was nothing to do but wait and hope and try to maintain some semblance of normal routine in the face of uncertainty.
In the kitchen, Diana moved between the large iron stove and the wooden preparation table with the practiced efficiency of someone who had been managing households for decades.
She was a tall woman, her dark hair streaked with grey and pulled back in a practical bun. Despite the worry that lined her face, her hands remained steady as she worked.
