I shift the bucket of paste just enough to sneak a peek at Leo’s. Disappointing. Like Fulvio, he’s gone for the classical portrait imitation his mum wanted.
‘Did you make a mask of your own face? It’s exactly like you. Very punchable.’
He grins. ‘I know you mean handsome. Let me see yours then.’
He reaches for it, then jerks his hand back as if he’s touched something hot – knocking over a pot of blue paint that splatters across half his mask.
I gasp and grab for a paper towel, my plait swinging forward – straight towards the spill.
‘Careful!’ Leo’s hand darts out, catching the end right before it dips in. He runs his fingers up the length, tucking it neatly behind my ear. ‘Don’t worry. I prefer it like this.’
My nerves go full fire-alarm. Does he mean his mask or my hair?
This buzzy, fizzy, can’t-focus feeling is how I always imagined it would be with Rebel. So why am Igetting it from the wrong boy?
And why haven’t I thought of Rebel the whole time we’ve been here?
On Friday morning, Veronica paces the studio as if we trashed the place overnight.
‘It’s lucky I was only gone for one day,’ she says, lifting Nadia’s sketchpad. ‘Or I might have come back to find Nadia’s beautiful portrait covered in …’ She peers closer. ‘Bits of rubbish.’
‘It’s symbolic,’ Alessandra explains. ‘Like the mask she made. Silvia encouraged us to think about what we learnt in the workshop and apply it here.’
Veronica presses her lips together. ‘I sincerely doubt Silvia meant for you to run off in a completely new direction from the one we agreed upon.’
The thing is, I’m not so sure about that.
Yesterday with Silvia was actually been fun. She stepped in for Veronica, who’d gone to Milan to curate an exhibition for Leo’s dad, and the studio didn’t feel as strict as it usually does. She got us all talking about our first sketches, and why we’d made certain choices. By the end of the day, I learnt not everyone here is as wild about classical art as I’d assumed.
Alessandra, who spent most of yesterday cheerfully stress-testing a paper structure that kept collapsing, doesn’t back down. ‘We weren’t going to scrap the portraits.’
Veronica folds her arms. ‘No. You were just going to add scraptothem.’
Fulvio laughs, then thinks better of it when she fixes him with a look.
‘Silvia said we could adapt the brief if we felt inspired,’ Alessandra insists, holding her ground.
Alessandra is way braver than I am. Nadia must catch whatever flashes across my face, because she leans in and whispers, ‘No panic. Alessandra likes a fight. She wants to be an artist and a lawyer.’
Veronica surveys the room again, smiling when her gaze settles on me, Leo and Fulvio, as if we’re the sensible ones for keeping our work exactly the same.
She has no idea I imported my portrait into Procreate and worked on it in secret. Slipping back into my way of doing things felt good. I didn’t dare show my ideas in class, but I might have posted a few to the Art Exchange if I weren’t still suspended. Turns out I’m blocked for five days this time – the bans stretch longer every round.
So now I’m lumped in with Leo, who goes on to spend all day frowning at his phone. And Fulvio, whowon’t do a thing unless Veronica’s pre-approved it.
The afternoon drags on like that, dull and joyless, until we’re finally dismissed.
At least I get the palazzo to myself again in the evening.
Veronica and Leo have gone to a family dinner on Lido with Veronica’s sister and her family. I was invited, but it would have been too weird, so after a hard sell convincing Jacopo’s mum she doesn’t need to stay and feed me, I raid the fridge for snacks and take the spoils to my room.
Today might have been tense, but doing the mask-making workshop on Wednesday and getting back to a bit of digital drawing yesterday felt like reclaiming a piece of myself.
I open my iPad, deciding to accept Rebel’s challenge and draw his mural in my style. I need a distraction from the whole Jacopo-could-be-Rebel drama too. He hasn’t been around in the mornings since I realized he might be Rebel. According to his mum, he’s been working with the Carnevale crews, ferrying equipment on his boat before and after school to earn extra money. At least, I think that’s what she said. I’m definitely picking up more Italian, along with bits of Venetian, but it’s like a shoppinglist. I catch the main words, stick the rest together, and hope I’m not miles off.
I pull up the screenshot of the mural and drop it into Procreate, tracing a few rough lines before realizing what I’m actually looking at. It’s San Marco – Saint Mark. The clues have been there all along: the lion’s shadow thrown by the ring-light halo, the cloak, the wings, the iPad standing in for the book he’s always shown with.
I laugh under my breath. Maybe it’s a self-portrait. Jacopo would make an excellent guardian of his precious city. A flicker of mischief lights in me – what if I turn the figure into Jacopo?
