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XIII. THE BLOOD IN WHICH YOU WERE BORN
THERE was a thin sheen of sweat resting on Ivy's skin— a reminder of the humid Virginia heat in the dead of summer. It desperately clung to her olive skin in droplets, falling down her flesh slowly.
Annoyed, Ivy blew out a breath of air, blowing the pieces of hair around her face up before they fell down again.
Behind her, her grandmother hummed low under her breath, pausing her meticulous braiding of Ivy's hair. "Now do not pout, Gioia."
Smiling at the Italian nickname, Ivy tilted her head back to peer up, "I'm sorry, Nonna. It's hot."
"Let me finish up your hair and it will get the hair off your back. It'll help with the heat."
Turning her head back, Ivy nodded slightly, "I wish Father would let me cut it. It is far too long in the summer. When I play with Stefan it gets tangled and Damon yanks on my braids."
Her nonna made a sound of acknowledgment, nimble fingers working through her hair with practiced ease, "If you'd like a trim, you shall have one, Gioia."
"Father will be angry."
The end of one of her finished braids brushed her back as her grandmother began combing through the other section, "I can deal with your father. You are not to let your father dictate your happiness, signorina. He is a man of limited knowledge while you, my little Inesa, are destined for great things."
Ivy leaned back slightly, the small of her back brushing against the thick fabric of her nonna's dress. The young Salvatore girl remained silent as her grandmother worked through her hair, layering and braiding the pieces— all while murmuring an Italian nursery rhyme quietly as she worked.
"Farfallina bella e bianca vola vola mai si stanca vola qua, vola là: mai nessun la fermerà. Vola, vola ore ed ore poi si posa su un bel fiore vola qua, vola la: mai nessun la fermerà."
Ivy mimicked her words— the Italian flowing off her tongue softly into the thick humid air. There was a special comfort to speaking Italian with her nonna. There was always a peaceful and serene feeling that would overcome her whenever they could converse in her grandmother's native tongue or when she would be called a nickname in Italian. It was a safe place for Ivy.
A gentle tap on her shoulder alerted Ivy that the braiding had been completed, pushing herself up, Ivy stood to face her nonna in her rocking chair.
