Chapter 22
We only have a week left to finish the floats, and Veronica’s in full micromanagement mode.
She hovers at every table, adjusting a measurement here, correcting a brushstroke there, as if each slip will be held against her personally.
Every few minutes she drops the same reminder: the Inter-STEAM board and some very influential sponsors will be visiting Venice to judge our progress – and Martino Ballarin will be one of them.
The name settles over the room like an extra supervisor, and everyone works faster. I’m surprised the stern portrait from the Ballarins’ dining room hasn’t been moved here to intimidate us while we paint.
Leo and I haven’t been this close to each other since kiss-gate. Not an accident. At the palazzo, I’ve been sticking to Veronica like a shadow, keeping a buffer between us.
But that won’t work here.
‘You haven’t told your mum yet, have you?’ I sift through the brushes, trying to act casual.
‘Why would I?’ Leo says quietly. ‘We’ve got more important things to discuss.’
‘More important than me lying my way in here?’ My laugh comes out flat. ‘The whole project could be at risk if that gets out … maybe even the school itself. You’ve heard your mum say how important the funding is.’
He steadies his brush against the frame. ‘Evie, if you really knew me, you’d know that’s not what I’m worried about.’
‘Oh yeah, sorry. I keep forgetting your dad could just …’ I snap my fingers. ‘Open another one.’
‘Is everything all right here?’ Veronica removes her glasses to study my background detailing up close. I brace for the sigh, the inevitable correction. But instead she tilts her head, tracing the texture with her finger. ‘I really like this. The colour, the balance. It has something.’
I almost forget the mess I’m in. Did Veronica just compliment my work?
Then she straightens, smoothing the moment away. ‘Martino and the committee will be looking for something more Baroque – more of that dark–light contrast. Here, let me show you.’
She takes the brush, demonstrating how the layers build, step by step.
Her strokes are precise, her explanations easy to follow.
It makes me itch to try it for myself. We hear so much about Martino Ballarin, about his standards and opinions – but watching Veronica, I wonder whether what I’ve heard is only half the picture.
Who is she when she isn’t standing in her husband’s shadow? I realize I’d like to know.
By the end of the day, my hands ache from painting, and my head aches from trying to block out Leo.
Nadia links an arm through mine as we leave the studio. ‘Bacaro? You look like you need some … relax?’ She tests the word, as if she’s not sure it’s right.
I nod. It’ll be my first time going for snacks with her. I’ve always skipped it to save money, and only agree today to avoid walking back with Leo, because he never goes either.
Except Nadia and Alessandra gang up on him. ‘You too, Leo. Want to come?’
I bite back a groan when he agrees. Great.
I was expecting something fancy, but the bacaro is the opposite, dim and narrow with mismatched furniture. Students and workers are packed into every corner and, five minutes in, I understand why Leo avoids this place.
Fulvio’s cornered him by the door and is quizzing him about his dad.
I’ve spent almost two weeks with Leo now, and his little micro-expressions are as familiar to me as Griselda’s. He wants out.
‘Hey, Leo,’ I call over. ‘You said you’d explain the food to me.’
Fulvio scowls, but Leo’s already pushing his way to the counter and the tapas-style bites displayed in the cabinet.
He names each cicchetto, correcting my mangled pronunciation, then orders bread topped with whipped salt cod, tiny meatballs glistening in tomato sauce, and fried mozzarella that oozes at the edges.
Nadia and Alessandra budge up to make room around a wobbly table, and we get a round of fizzy orange in squat little tumblers.
I take a sip, savouring the bubbles on my tongue. It feels good to do something normal – eat, drink, listen to people argue about which cicchetto is best – and to forget about certificates and qualifications and the future.
I don’t even regret saving the faerie prince … until he brings up my hasty exit from the kitchen yesterday morning.
‘So … the drawing Jacopo showed me,’ he says, sounding cautious.
I squirm on my seat, glancing over at Alessandra and Nadia to see if they’re listening in, but they’re deep in their own conversation about a gig on the mainland.
So Leo did get a proper look. I’d been hoping he’d just forget about it.
‘Yeah,’ I say quickly. ‘Just a silly drawing.’
He shakes his head. ‘Not silly. But … I recognized it. It’s a take on the mural outside the school.’
Oh no. Surely he can’t think—
‘Wait,’ I blurt. ‘You don’t think I did that?’
‘I know it wasn’t you,’ Leo says calmly.
I relax back in my chair.
‘Because it was me,’ he adds.
I snort, half-laughing. ‘Right. You, sneaking out to spray-paint your mum and dad’s school. Very believable. As believable as the real Leonardo da Vinci coming back from the dead and doing it himself.’
Leo picks up his phone. ‘Fine. Let’s do this the hard way.’
A notification bar flashes up on my own screen: Art Exchange – New Message.
My breath catches. I’m back in! I can contact Rebel.
‘Sorry,’ I mumble, already swiping. ‘I need to check this. It’s important.’
I open the app to find a system notification: Your posting privileges have been reinstated.
And right beneath it: @RenaissanceRebel: Still believe I didn’t do the street art?