I stiffen. ‘Err… Jacopo? Whose dad is coming back?’
‘Run now. Ask later.’ He whips the dress out of my hands, stuffs it into his coat, and flings the keys back up on to the balcony as we burst into the street and take off. Venice blurs as I try to keep up.
‘Jacopo!’ I shout, gasping for breath. ‘You said she knew about the dress.’
‘I said Alice knew. Not herpapà,’ he shouts over his shoulder.
Back at the palazzo, with the ‘borrowed’ dress stashed safely in my room, I go down to dinner.
I’ve got so used to the elaborate place settings that I notice one’s missing straight away.
‘Is Leo out?’
Veronica passes me a bowl of inky-black risotto, slicked with olive oil. ‘He’s not feeling well. He went up to lie down.’
Oh. Weird. He was perfectly fine earlier.
‘Hopefully a good night’s sleep is all he needs,’ Veronica says. ‘Martino will be back for the ball tomorrow after all. He’s keen to see the work everyone has been doing.’
I poke at the risotto.Keenas in excited, orkeenas in checking everything is up to standard?
And if I feel that pressure, what must it be like for Leo?
I’ve spent so much time keeping a mental list of what he has and I don’t – a renowned artist as a father, a family art school, doors that open before you even knock.
That’s why it hurt when I found out Rebel was Leo. Why I felt cheated.
I’d decided Rebel was someone like me. Someone who didn’t come from all that. He moved around a lot, so I told myself his family life must be unstable.
Only it wasn’t instability. It was privilege. Money, travel, chances to shine in every new place.
Just not freedom.
Rebel wasn’t a lie. He was the only space Leo had to be himself.
And I’ve been no better than Fulvio. He wants to get close to Leo because of the Ballarin name, and I want to sprint in the opposite direction because of it.
Neither of us sees the actual boy.
Only, I think I do now.
Before I get ready for bed, I grab my toothbrush and call, ‘Pope oeeee,’ at the bathroom door.
But there’s no answer. Just silence, like there’s no one in the room at all.
The same backpack that somehow managed to swallow my entire wardrobe for this trip can’t even contain a single borrowed dress. The full skirt of my costume froths out the top as I follow the tiny dot on my phone map towards Nadia’s palazzo, praying the signal holds.
She invited me and Alessandra to get ready for the ball together at her house, and I said yes straight away. Leo’s still off school and ill, and it was hard being in the palazzo without being able to talk to him, or say sorry for how badly I’ve joined up the wrong dots.
Nadia’s palazzo rises in front of me like a giant wedding cake, all peach-pink walls, frescoes, and cornices frilled like icing – so fancy I nearly turn back.
She must have been looking out for me, because the door flies open before I even lift a finger to the bell – and Nadia’s there in her fluffy socks. Her make-up’s only half done, just foundation and concealer, so when we greet each other it’s a bit like kissing thecheek of the facelessbautamask I tried on at the workshop – only this one’s beaming.
‘Ciao, entra!We’re upstairs.’
She’s as warm and lovely as ever, and I feel silly for letting a fancy house put me on edge. Guess I’m not as above this stuff as I like to think.
Upstairs, her room is part recycling centre, part plushies – all of them old and love-worn.
