Chapter 3
Veronica secures the boat in front of a fancy palazzo – a grand old building with beautiful stone cornices framing a frescoed facade. Plants spill from the pot-bellied window grilles and, unlike the others, this one has an arched doorway opening straight on to the canal.
‘I do hope you’ll be comfortable here with us,’ Veronica says. And it takes a minute for her words to make sense. Horrible sense.
Here? With us?
This is their home? I had assumed it was the art school.
‘Oh … I was told I’d be staying with another student,’ I manage.
Veronica laughs. ‘You are. Leonardo’s the best in the class.’
My heart sinks below the waterline. Of course. Leonardo. As in, da Vinci. Who I now have to share a house and lessons with.
He looks about as thrilled as I am.
I tell myself it’ll be fine, but I feel weirdly homesick as I follow them inside. What have I got myself into? I can’t talk to anyone without giving myself away. Not even Rebel – not without risking another ban, right when I need him most.
A short woman in an apron hurries towards us, reaching for my backpack before I can even react. I’m getting strong household-brownie vibes, like the little Scottish hearth spirits who sneak around at night scrubbing pans and stoking fires.
Leo greets her with the face-changing smile he gave his phone earlier. Not a one-off, then. He is capable of actual human warmth.
The brownie’s eyes crinkle as she says a few words in a thick accent.
‘Dinner is ready,’ Veronica translates. I already know that from the inviting smell drifting down the corridor.
Leo’s puffa stays firmly zipped. ‘I promised I’d meet my old classmates at Campo Santa Margherita.’
Veronica’s lips purse. ‘Not tonight, Leonardo. Evie’s just arrived.’
He eyes me like this is my fault, as if I wouldn’t happily wave him off if I could.
But Veronica leads the way to the dining room without giving him a chance to argue.
It’s straight out of the interior design magazines Mum gets free from the Spar when they’re too scuffed to sell. Chandeliers scatter light over walls filled with paintings, velvet drapes frame floor-to-ceiling windows, and the table looks too big and heavy to have ever fitted through the doors.
The food could have its own two-page spread. Creamy risotto, fancy salads and unfamiliar sides, all in matching dishes. There’s not a chicken nugget in sight, and way more cutlery than I’m used to.
Veronica pulls a chair out for me. ‘Evie, please sit and help yourself.’
I haven’t eaten since breakfast so I start piling food on to my plate, only to see Leo and Veronica starting with small portions of rice rather than lumping everything together like a Sunday roast. Even the moody man in the oversized oil painting behind Veronica seems to be judging me.
I’m half-convinced he’s there to enforce table manners, though maybe not Leo’s.
He’s scrolling again, on a phone that’s generations ahead of mine.
Veronica follows my gaze. ‘My husband, Martino Ballarin. A self-portrait.’
Ballarin.
The institute. The founder. Suddenly the house makes sense.
And Leo too. The son of a famous artist.
‘Oh. Right. He looks …’ I trail off. Old? Stuffy? Like a contemporary of Titian? I settle on, ‘… like he’s in the room with us.’
Leo huffs a snort of laughter into his glass. I can’t tell if it’s aimed at me, but it’s probably safe to assume it is.
‘He’s on a commission abroad,’ Veronica says.
‘But he’ll be back in time for the final showcase.
We’re so delighted to have you. This project could lead to long-term funding for our school.
I understand Silvia Rossetti hand-picked you from a large number of applicants, so I’m confident it will be a great success. ’
Er, why is Veronica talking like I have something to offer, rather than a lot to learn? I shove aside the mental image of my collage-filled Procreate files and take a mouthful of risotto so I don’t have to comment. OK, it’s totally delicious.
‘Sounds like you’ll fit right in,’ Leo mutters. ‘Mum will make sure of it.’
His tone’s off, but Veronica doesn’t seem to notice.
‘The same way you’ve fit in, Leonardo,’ she says. ‘You’re becoming as talented as your father.’
I glance at Martino Ballarin’s superior expression. ‘Yes, I bet they have a lot in common.’
That gets Leo’s attention. He actually stops scrolling long enough to scowl at me.
As soon as I finish eating, I make a big show of yawning. I need a second – OK, several – to lie down, stare at the ceiling, and figure out what I’ve just walked into. Veronica takes the bait and suggests an early night ahead of tomorrow’s orientation.
She leads the way up a grand staircase that goes on and on until we reach the top-floor landing, where a gallery wall of family photos replaces works of art.
It’s mostly Leo looking bored in different countries, like a rich kid who has no idea how lucky he is.
Which, let’s face it, is probably accurate. He’s painting in half of them.
I’d be smiling my head off no matter where I was if my parents were that behind my art. And if I didn’t have an older sibling trying to hijack my life.
My bedroom is a massive upgrade from the draughty bunk I slept in on my last school trip to the Highlands.
It’s all cool tiles and high-beamed ceilings that would have Dad panicking about the heating bill.
There’s even an en suite with wall-to-wall mirrors.
When I brush my teeth, it’s like being in a funhouse.
I have to run my hands along the panels to find the door again when my phone starts buzzing insistently from the bedroom.
A video call from Mum.
‘Evie, love! Everything OK?’ She’s holding the lapels of her fleecy robe closed at her neck. I struggle to picture Veronica walking around the palazzo like that. ‘I was supposed to wait for your dad getting home before ringing, but he’s taking ages.’
I wince. He only swapped to the late shift so he could take me to the airport.
Mum’s left eyeball fills the screen. ‘Have you got the same view as Grace? She could see a bit of that church thing. The big fancy one … the Duomo, right?’
I give my phone a little shake and tilt the screen. ‘Uh, hang on. If I move, I lose signal.’
Except now the camera catches the gold brocade bedspread and the matching lampshades.
Mum gasps. ‘Oh! Your room’s gorgeous. Is that a king-size bed? Just wait till Grace finds out. She had a bunk!’
I straighten the phone. ‘No, just a weird angle. Anyway, I can’t see any domes from here. Must be facing the other way.’
In a different city.
‘Ah well, never mind. Listen, before I forget – remember Paola? The girl Grace was friendly with in Florence? She’s offered to show you around. Grace has given her your mobile, so you’re to expect a call.’
Classic Griselda, arranging my life for me even from afar. Safe to say I won’t be answering any Italian numbers.
‘OK, Mum, I’ll keep an eye out. Switching off now, battery’s about to go. Love you. Bye!’
I collapse on to the definitely-king-size bed. It’s quiet. Almost too quiet: no TV blaring from the flat downstairs, no dog barking across the road. The noise usually drives me mad, but I kind of miss it tonight.
Rolling on to my side, I open the Art Exchange, only for my phone to buzz in my hand.
Rebel – messaging me as I was about to message him. Our weird telepathy. It’s happened more times than I can count.
@RenaissanceRebel: Please tell me you have Wi-Fi?
@TotallySketchy: Signal’s dodgy but alive.
@RenaissanceRebel: Thank blank. I thought the SWAT team had finally shut you down.
@TotallySketchy: Shhh! Don’t even joke about it.
@RenaissanceRebel: So … how’s it going?
@TotallySketchy: Weird. New. Not sure I like it.
@RenaissanceRebel: First night blues? I have a cure … hang on …
I sink deeper into the mattress. If anyone gets it, it’s him.
The typing bubbles appear, vanish, then pop up again.
@RenaissanceRebel:
@TotallySketchy: Is that … a handshake?
@RenaissanceRebel: More of a hold than a shake … So you’re not floating around on your own.
I brace for the mods to react. This is the sort of thing they’re all over – I swear half of them are former headteachers, ex-police officers, or bots trained by them. But, miraculously, nothing happens. Probably because the words hand and holding don’t appear next to each other.
I trace the tiny emoji with my thumb. The ache that’s been sitting in my chest since I arrived at the palazzo eases a little. I’m not doing this alone.