“It’s just going to be a matter of time.”

“You spoke to me in French, didn’t you?”

“I tried a number of languages. You responded in Italian, so I’ve stuck with Italian. Est-ce que tu parles français?”

“Oui.”

“And English?” she asked, switching languages again. “Do you understand me?”

He nodded. “I do.”

“How fluent are you?” she asked, continuing in English, testing him. “Is it difficult to follow me?”

“No. It doesn’t seem any different from Italian.”

He had almost no accent, his English was easy, his diction relaxed, making him sound American, not British. She suspected he’d been educated at one point in the United States. “Would you mind speaking English then?”

“No.”

“But should it give you a headache, or if it creates any stress—”

“No need to fuss over me. I’m fine.”

She opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it. He was a man used to having the final word. So who was he? And why did he, even now, ooze power?

“Tell me again about the people I was with on the yacht,” he said. “Tell me everything you know.”

“I will after you eat something.”

“I’m not hungry anymore.”

“That’s strange, because my memory seems to be fading, as well.”

He gave her a hard look. “I’m not amused.”

“Neither am I. You’ve been through a great deal, and we need to get you strong. And as I am your primary caregiver here—”

“I don’t like being coddled.”

“And I’m not known to coddle, so eat, and I’ll tell you everything. Don’t eat, and you can fret by yourself because I have things to do besides argue with you.”

His eyes narrowed and his jaw hardened, making a small muscle in his jaw pop. For a long moment he just looked at her, clearly not happy with the situation, but then he reached for the plate of chicken and took a bite, and then another, and did a pretty impressive job of devouring the rest. He lifted his head at one point and met her gaze. “This is good, by the way. Very good.”

“Thank you.”

“You made this?”

“Yes.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I have a freezer, and I use the kiln outside for roasting the potatoes and baking. The rest I prepare on the stove.”

“A kiln?”

“It makes excellent flatbreads, and pizzas, too. I learned how to cook in a kiln when we lived in Peru. That was before here. I loved Peru. My father loved the stratovolcano.” She smiled faintly, remembering his excitement and obsession as Sabancaya roared to life, spewing ash and rumbling the mountain. If it weren’t for the village women, Josephine would have been forgotten. Instead they took her and her father in and helped teach Josephine to cook, and as a thank-you, Josephine would look after the children, giving the hardworking mothers a break.

“Where else have you lived?”

“Washington State, Hawaii, Peru, and Italy, but that was brief, before here. We’ve been here the longest.”

“Was every place this isolated?”

“No, this is definitely the most remote, but I’m truly happy here.”

“Is that why you just watched us on the beach and didn’t come introduce yourself?”

She laughed as she reached for his plate. “I think we come from different worlds.