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Summary
“I was thinking,” Yusuf says, “Of taking a journey southwards.”
Nicolò raises his eyes from the cutting board. His fingers are stained with sugar from the figs he’s been peeling; Yusuf is eyeing his hands knowingly. Something twists, low in Nicolò’s gut.
“They say Sevilla is lovely in the summer,” he nods.
“Further south,” Yusuf says cautiously. “Then east.”