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He smiled and she felt herself melt into that warmth. Oh how she wished she could be with Peter all the time… forever. He knew her better than her own parents after such a short time. And she knew him too, she was certain.

‘Well, I told you I was a lecturer in the history of art before I was a pilot. That was for a university, but I hope to work one day for an organisation that conserves, curates and studies art.’ As he began walking slowly around the ornate space and she followed him, their footsteps echoed. She could hear distant singing by a single voice. He lowered his voice. ‘My specialty was oil paintings, and I think I would love to be in restoration.’

‘Painting over the painting?’ She knew she sounded horrified.

‘No, no, no.’ He raised his palms. ‘Never. It’s all about repair, giving the painting its former lustre and richness of colour. I have to tell you, Valentina, that most of the work is slow, careful cleaning of hundreds of years of dust and dirt.’

‘Ah,’ she said, nodding seriously. ‘This is important work.’

He smiled at her again. ‘I think so. But I was always drawn to the history of art, and I loved watching others become interested in a painter or a particular artwork, or a whole movement… I loved seeing my lectures perhaps inspire them to take that interest further.’

‘Will you return to this work?’

‘I hope so. But for now I’m a broken pilot, unable to do what I’m supposed to do.’

‘But you’re helping make sure the other pilots can protect us.’

‘This is true. And being injured and unable to fly allows me to come here and indulge in something else I love.’

Valentina wanted to believe he meant her… that he could indulge in her company, though she knew that wasn’t true. But there was so little to look forward to in her life, she had already decided she must take whatever small pleasures she could, before all were removed.

Peter turned to look at her. ‘There’s something in this cathedral that sets my heart on fire in a way I can barely explain.’

She regarded him, almost breathless. ‘What do you mean?’ Maybe he did mean her.

‘You’re the only person in the world I wish to share this with.’

Her mouth opened but she didn’t know what to say for once. She heard herself utter, ‘Why?’ and her world stilled. Whatever he said now, she felt it would shape whatever came next for her.

‘Well, because there’s no one else in my life that I would rather share this with than you, Valentina. You may be a child in the eyes of the world, but to me you’re a wise old mind with so much intelligence and potential to offer the world. And I know how much you love history and art. I think…’ He hesitated, looking awkward again. ‘I think perhaps to answer a question that troubles you, the reason we have become such good friends is that we are both lovers of art and…’

He didn’t finish his sentence but as he looked deeply into her eyes, she heard what he found too difficult to say. So she repeated it in her mind and finished his sentence for him. Let us be art lovers only.

There it was. The death knell to her silly, childish dream. It hurt but, curiously, only made her love him more to know that he thought so highly of her and did not consider her just a silly child. In fact, she reassured herself, he considered her important enough to share something he would share with no other.

It would have to be enough, she told herself. It could be enough. Their souls could join over the treasures of Valletta that, yes, she would try to find a way to protect.

‘How do I become an art restorer or involved in the history of art some other way?’ she asked now to break the tension.

His shoulders dropped and his serious expression changed as though the sun had broken out from behind clouds, bathing all before it in its warmth and light. ‘One day you shall have to come to London and study,’ he said.

They both knew there would be no London; there would just be Lawrenz and whatever he wanted her to do. He would rule her life.

In spite of that understanding, she smiled. There was nothing more she could do now other than accept and enjoy the time she had with Peter. Maybe they could write to each other. Stay in touch when he returned home. She could learn more about his wife, and he could learn about her children when they arrived. It was cold comfort, but a form of comfort nonetheless.

‘So show me,’ she said. ‘What is it that’s so special?’

He smiled again and led her towards an equally grand but far smaller space that led off the main cathedral. ‘Here we walk on the tombstones of the Knights,’ he said, pointing to the extravagantly decorated marble floor.

She halted in shock, her mouth open, and she immediately began reading the Latin inscriptions on the tombstones.

‘You seem to be standing on Giovanni Lanfranco, if I’m not mistaken,’ Peter said softly.

‘And you on…’ She squinted. ‘Dioniso Ceba.’

They shared a smile and he encouraged her to walk on.

‘It’s not well lit, so let’s tread carefully.’