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Anya’s Point of View
“The snow is getting worse, Anya.”
I lifted my head from the pillows and watched Emily pace the length of the enormous windows at Hotel Principe di Savoia, her reflection doubling and tripling in the glass as Milan blurred beyond it.
Snow pressed itself against the city in thick, relentless sheets, softening the hard geometry of rooftops and tramlines, turning everything quieter, slower, more fragile than it had been yesterday.
“It’s not really about the snow, darling.”