They were jostled by hordes of people moving through the enormous gates of the walled city of Pavina. No vehicular traffic was allowed in, and the narrow cobbled streets were crowded with pedestrians. Tory pressed up against Marc as they allowed the momentum of the crowd to push them toward the piazza, where the weekly market was in full swing.

The scent of oranges, garlic, hot sweaty bodies and wine filled the air, and she breathed it all in. The day had become blisteringly hot and the press of people almost claustrophobic as they entered the large square. This, Tory realized with surprise, was life—a far cry from the dull, safe existence she’d always led.

Vendors had set up their wares in stalls that displayed the brilliant colors of the Mediterranean. The sunshine bright yellow of lemons, the translucent green of the grapes and the glossy black of olives. Some of the stalls were piled high with fruits and vegetables, others groaned under the weight of fresh fish. Local women had set up their crafts
between the produce booths and the small sidewalk cafés. She wanted to absorb and touch and feel it all.