Chapter 2
Ithought flying would be way more exciting, but it was mostly clouds and noisy recycled air.
I trail the selkie woman to Arrivals, my legs still waking up after being wedged into the middle seat.
Someone from the programme’s supposed to be meeting me – meaning I’m about to speak actual Italian.
I hover just outside the sliding doors, pretending to check my phone while waiting for someone to spot me.
It shouldn’t be hard. I wore half my wardrobe to dodge baggage fees, but I’ve shed a few layers, and my multicoloured cardigan screams for attention in the muted sea of cashmere coats and leather weekender bags.
I scan for anyone holding a sign, and my eyes snag on a boy my age.
He’s standing by a potted tree, lit by the skylight above like he’s on a stage.
I itch to grab my stylus and capture him in a collage – the warm, textured bark for his slightly long brown curls, the golden light filtering down for his skin.
I’d add touches of a faerie prince straight out of an enchanted forest – and he’d be arguing with a dragon.
Until it does. Only it’s not Italian. It’s my name on the boy’s lips, in a clipped, angry snarl. ‘Evie Douglas.’ Like I’m the reason for their spat.
I shrink back into my phone, not wanting them to know I’ve overheard. My fingers automatically find the Art Exchange app.
@TotallySketchy: Help! I’m already seeing fairy-tale people everywhere.
As I pocket my mobile, the dragon herself approaches.
‘Hello, are you the InterSTEAM exchange student from Scotland?’
At my nod, she holds out her hand, jewelled rings from her hoard catching the light. Even her voice is expensive – flawless English like a Radio 4 presenter.
It’s not my Italian I’m worried about now.
It’s my Scottish accent. Mum’s fault – she switches to her phone voice around rich people, or her phoney voice, as I call it.
She acts like people with money are somehow better, like she has to impress them.
She must have drummed it into me too, because my voice shifts the minute I introduce myself.
‘Nice to meet you. I’m Evie.’
Her magnified eyes zigzag down the long fishtail plaits I did on the plane, pausing on my cardigan-over-jumper-over-shirt combo just long enough to make me wish I’d paid for that carry-on. ‘Welcome to Venezia. I’m Veronica, director of the Ballarin Institute. And this is—’
She frowns at the empty space beside her, then twists to check over her shoulder.
The boy she’d been arguing with is still in the rectangle of light, but now he’s looking at his phone.
A smile breaks through his scowl – one that would make me start his portrait over from scratch because it changes his whole face.
Then I remember the annoyed way he said my name, and watch his smile collapse when Veronica hisses something in Italian and he reluctantly hauls himself over.
‘My son, Leonardo,’ Veronica says smoothly.
‘Leo,’ he mutters, still not meeting my eye.
‘Leonardo,’ she corrects, like they’ve been arguing about this since birth.
And now I have no idea what to call him. Picking one feels like choosing sides. With any luck, I won’t need to call him anything and he’s just a spare body for pick-up duty. Because yes, fine, he’s stupidly good-looking, but clearly rude, which pretty much cancels it out.
Veronica gestures vaguely between us. ‘You know how you remind me of Filippino Lippi’s Portrait of a Youth, Leonardo? Well, guess who’s hanging right beside you now.’
Leo’s full lips – I mean, just lips, totally normal lips – press together as if he knows the answer but doesn’t want to say it.
‘Do you know La Bella by Tiziano?’ Veronica asks me.
‘Tiziano?’ I test the word out loud, then shake my head.
Veronica’s eyebrows pop up over the frames of her glasses. ‘The artist! Ah.’ She presses a hand to her chest. ‘You probably know him as Titian.’
‘Oh. Right. Yeah.’ I fidget with the paintbrush tip of one of my plaits. ‘I’ve heard of him.’ I mean, I’ve definitely heard of him, but I don’t actually know his work. I swallow the flare of embarrassment. This is what I’m here for, I remind myself. To learn this stuff.
Veronica ushers us towards the exit. ‘You see the resemblance, don’t you, Leonardo? A proper Renaissance beauty.’
Oh God. Did she have to ask him? I speed up to fall in beside her, leaving Leo a few steps behind.
His bored voice still reaches me, though. His English as polished as his mum’s.
‘If you mean complicated hair, pale skin and bright red cheeks …’
Redder now, thank you, Leo-Leonardo.
Veronica smiles at me. ‘You know the painting, Evie?’
This … this is what bugs me about rich people. They’re always asking questions that are more like tests. Have you visited this place? Seen that show? What did you think of blah blah blah?
It leaves me feeling small. Inadequate.
I make a non-committal noise. Then all thought leaves my head as we step outside and a gust of cold February air rushes at us straight off the water. The airport practically spills into the lagoon. Like, here’s your bag, signorina … and here’s the sea.
Water taxis and smaller boats bob along a dock, and there’s one with polished wood and plush leather seats that’s giving total movie star vibes.
I’m still admiring it when Veronica and Leo climb aboard as casually as if they’re gliding into a hotel lobby.
It takes me a sec to realize I’m meant to get on too …
and it kills me that I can’t post this on my socials.
They made it look so easy, I underestimate the wobble factor, and my sideways lurch sends me barrelling straight into Leo’s arms – strong arms with surprisingly good reflexes, I’m annoyed to notice.
For half a breath we’re frozen in the world’s most awkward hug, so close I can see his irises are the same bluey-green as the water around us. I go hot all over, and not because I nearly face-planted on to the deck.
‘Stai attenta,’ he mutters, basically prising me off him.
Now this I understand. My Italian teacher’s always telling me to pay attention, especially when he catches me doodling. What exactly is Leo’s problem? Is he so full of himself he thinks I’m going to throw myself at him?
OK. Technically, I just did. But still.
We sit at opposite ends of the bench seat as Veronica guides us into open water. The air smells sharp, like the loch back home when the wind stirs it up, only saltier.
‘Have you been to Venice before?’ Veronica asks, pitching her voice over the engine.
‘First time in Italy,’ I admit. ‘Actually … first time abroad.’
Her eyes go round, but she recovers fast. ‘How charming. Then it will be your first love.’
We pick up speed and I grip my stomach as we scud over the choppy waves.
‘Seasick?’ Leo asks, smirking.
I shake my head, not about to confess I’ve never been on a speedboat either.
‘It’s a short ride, only fifteen or twenty minutes,’ Veronica reassures me. ‘I’m really looking forward to seeing your work,’ she adds. ‘Silvia Rossetti had wonderful things to say about your portfolio, but she hasn’t sent it to me yet.’
Silvia Rossetti, the course supervisor. She’s the contact my mum – well, me pretending to be my mum – has been emailing about the placement.
The praise is nice, but what I really need is that Inter-STEAM certificate if I’m going to have any chance of getting into art college without a Higher in the subject.
‘Probably too bad to share,’ I mumble.
Leo scoffs and rolls his eyes. Veronica laughs like it’s a joke.
It isn’t. Being out of the art room, with no materials or classmates, really knocked my confidence. Rebel has helped loads. He’s the most supportive user on the Art Exchange. Honest, but never mean. It was the first thing I noticed about him.
Even so, I still wobble. My portfolio was only part of the application. What if I was the only student on free school meals, and they had to give it to me? I hate that my brain goes there. I make myself think about all the new art I’ll be able to show Rebel instead.
A chill settles into my bones as the boat hums along. My jacket’s bunched in my lap, but I can’t put it on – I’m too embarrassed by how cheap and horrible it would look next to Leo’s puffa, the kind that probably has real down feathers.
Ten minutes later, I’m about to give in and wear the jacket when Venice emerges from the mist like a magical land.
Ancient, ornate buildings rise straight up beside us, close enough to touch.
As we move through a city with roads made of water, I want to capture all the wonderful details for a million collages.
The green shutters, the crumbling red brickwork, the iron balconies, the crooked wooden poles poking out of the depths like gnarled witchy fingers.
Veronica slows when a barge with a crane on top blocks our way, forcing us to wait while it unloads a sling of planks on to a half-built outdoor stage. ‘Carnevale,’ she mutters. ‘Every year it’s the same. February is the worst time to visit, I’m afraid.’
I nod politely, not wanting to admit I’d been looking forward to the festival.
I watched a few videos online and the masks and costumes fit perfectly with my myths and folklore obsession.
Airfares for the weekend skyrocketed because of it, so it’s lucky they asked me to come earlier.
It’s meant skipping a couple more days of school, but it’s February break in Scotland next week, so most teachers are already winding things down.
Leo disappears into his phone as Veronica navigates the floating traffic jam, but I don’t mind the delay.
I could glide around this city forever, even with Leo-Leonardo beside me.
Especially now that the winter light is already fading and beautiful Narnia-style lamps reflect on the water’s surface, dancing like will-o’-the-wisps.
It’s easy to imagine magical creatures lurking just out of sight.
It’s ridiculously beautiful. More beautiful, even, than the boy sitting next to me.
What a stupid comparison, I think to myself, instantly embarrassed. And I kind of get why Griselda’s always on at me to make a good first impression when I meet new people. They stick. Because even though he’s a grumpy goblin right now, my first impression of Leo was of a handsome faerie prince.