There is a conversation to be had, about Ilde and humanity - a conversation that she'll likely skirt repeatedly in the coming months - but it isn't going to be had now, when she's thinking of Tuscany and the last days she spent there with her father, after this holiday, a flying visit between school and Boston, packing her things while he followed her, reminding her she didn't have to do this. Picking at the glasses he didn't need, programming half a dozen different contact numbers into her cellphone so he was sure she had them; reading the emails Edmund Seward had sent over and over and over, not looking for reassurance but for something wrong, something he could use as a reason to forbid this, a better reason than because I said so when his daughter had mastered the art of out-talking him when she was nine years old.

(In Hasi's world she must have never gone; she wonders if he found something.)

“He bought it when I was about five,” she says, looking out through her memories at Mycroft with a smile that looks easier than it probably rightly is. “Tuscany; we used to go into Florence a lot.” She doesn't get to speak Italian here, often, but it is the language in which she's most comfortable, the one she associates with the place she's most comfortable thinking of as 'home'. Ilde has never been 'from' anywhere, not exactly, but when she's homesick she's thinking of Italy. So there's that.