‘Why. Are. You. Being. Nice?’ I clap out each word.
Leo laughs softly, and it’s hatefully delicious – somehow deep and light at the same time. I’m mentally adding musical notes to his faerie prince collage. But he doesn’t answer.
Leo’s eyes slide towards me. ‘Seems I’ll be taking you to the parade after all.’
I fold my arms across my chest. ‘Umm … aren’tyou the boy who, when asked, said – and I quote – “no way”?’
He lifts a shoulder. ‘That was before …’
‘Before what exactly?’
He hesitates … and I lean in, genuinely curious about his sudden change of heart. But all he says is, ‘Before I came round to the idea.’
That’s all I get? Twenty minutes ago, he couldn’t even look at me without giving me frostbite. Then I pop out for a packet of biscuits and he’s acting like we’ve been mates all along.
And that smile … it’s doing something to my brain. He’s definitely one of the faerie folk. I can actually feel myself being charmed in real time. I’m even starting to make excuses for him, wondering if he was just having a bad day yesterday. And … erm … most of this morning.
But still – how does someone go from ‘no way’ to ‘I’ll take you’ in the time it took me to nip to the shop?
At least there were no half-naked boys in the bathroom when I woke up this morning. I could already hear Leo downstairs – not like Dad through paper-thin walls, but echoing up from the marbled depths of a palace. I still check the lock three times and dress in a hurry, though. As I head down, the noise grows louder and the smell of something sweet drifts up to meet me. It hits me then: this is my third day in Venice and I haven’t even seen the kitchen. At home, you walk straight into ours from the front door.
I bet Veronica and Leo have no idea how most of us live. If I mentioned my estate, they’d probably picture landscaped grounds and family crests – not long rows of identical council houses chopped into flats. Some are pretty decent, especially if people have bought them and done up the front gardens. Mum stresses about our patch at the back. It’s scruffy and overgrown, with a broken trampoline that was there when we moved in. Nobody has time to sort it,though. Or to enjoy it. We all work weekends – although I get a lie-in because my shift at the cinema a few towns over doesn’t start until after lunch.
So I’m not exactly used to finding a kitchen full of people on a Saturday morning, pan bubbling away with golden shapes bobbing in oil.
‘Evie!Vieni, vieni.’ Jacopo’s mum waves me over to the kitchen island, where Leo and Jacopo have their sleeves rolled up, flour smudged across their noses, and hands white with dough.
My eyebrows shoot up. Check out Prince Leo getting his hands dirty with something other than paint. ‘You? Cooking?’ I don’t bother to hide my disbelief.
‘Jacopo’s mum is … persuasive.’
‘He means bossy,’ Jacopo says, flashing his mum an innocent smile.
She returns a look that says she might not know exactly what he said, but she’s definitely on to him. And then, somehow, I’ve got an apron around my waist and she’s pointing me towards a huge lump of dough studded with raisins. It reminds me of the scone mixture we made in food tech at school. She shows me how to roll it into bite-sized balls.
Leo’s are perfect, obviously – but he’s not gloating. Just focused. Relaxed in a way I haven’t seen before.
My hands are soon covered in flour, and when I brush them on my jeans without thinking, Leo winces.
‘Um, you’ve got …’
I twist to see what he’s staring at and spot two perfect floury handprints across my backside.
‘Oh my God,’ I groan.
Leo’s ears go pink. ‘I didn’t mean … I just—’
‘Need a hand dusting off ?’ Jacopo offers.
Ugh. I’d frisk him for that corny handbook of his, only he’d probably enjoy it too much.
‘So what are we making?’ I hold up a doughy ball, desperate to change the subject.
‘Fritoe,’ Jacopo’s mum answers. ‘Per Carnevale.’
She gives me a cooked one to try, and it’s soft and warm in the centre, like a fried doughnut with bursts of sweet raisins and pine nuts. They’re a world away from the dry biscuits stashed in my room or the usual toast and butter I have at home.
Veronica comes into the kitchen, formal and monochrome even on the weekend, and hands Leo her phone. ‘Your father.’
