‘I have?’ Martino manages. Then, more forcefully,‘Yes, I have. It’s important for artists to bring their own vision.’ A hint of colour seeps back into his face. He extends an arm to Veronica, who’s been listening with a quiet smile. ‘My wife, Veronica, deserves much of the credit. She was very much at the helm of the project and’ – he clears his throat – ‘ultimately approved the plans.’
Veronica lifts an eyebrow at that but says nothing.
Signor Santi turns to Leo. ‘I’ve been thinking about commissioning a mural for one of my warehouses in the Castello district. Perhaps we could chat next week?’
I have to elbow Leo in the ribs to nudge a ‘Sì, of course!’ out of him.
I’m pretty sure that he, like me, fully expects to wake up and find this is all just a dream.
Our classmates are busy too. Alessandra’s explaining how she achieved a 3D lace effect to a woman in a tailored trench and leather gloves. Nadia’s convincing a committee member to adopt a more sustainable approach to art. And further along, Fulvio’s telling anyone who’ll listen that his float would have been ‘spectacular’ if only his tech had fired.
Again, I’d laugh. But knowing I still have to face my family … and the Ballarins … and probably Silvia … snuffs out the impulse.
Another sponsor, a woman this time, joins our group and, to my surprise, reaches for my hand. ‘I’m told you are our international artist.’
I fight the urge to look over my shoulder to check she means me. ‘I’m the exchange student from Scotland,’ I say, aiming for neutral.
Her face lights. ‘Such a beautiful country. I could see it in your performance, and Venice too. Very clever. You know, all through history this city has thrived by embracing other cultures, from its naval trade to its cuisine.’ She smiles warmly, reaching out to Silvia as she rejoins us. ‘We should increase our foreign intake next year.’
‘That’s an excellent idea,’ Silvia says. ‘One I’ve heard echoed by the rest of the committee. But if you’ll excuse Evie, her family are waiting for her. It appears their journey here took’ – she pauses, eyes lingering on me – ‘longer than expected.’
I drop my gaze. I still can’t believe they spent all that money to go to Florence only to find I wasn’t even there. And worse, that I’ve been lying about everything. Not just where I was, but what I’ve been doing too.
Leo rests a hand low on my back, silently asking if I need him. I give my head a tiny shake. ‘I think you’ve probably got some explaining to do too,’ I say.
Our hands meet for a brief, fierce squeeze, then slip apart.
‘I’ll find you after,’ I promise.
His eyes catch mine, holding me there, like he won’t let me wriggle out of it.
And in the back of my mind, the thought I don’t want to touch flares – I have to leave tomorrow.
I take a deep breath, hoping if I fill my lungs enough, I’ll find the words I need to say to my parents. Apologies I don’t feel. Because the truth is, I don’t regret coming here. I don’t regret taking a risk on art and my certificate, or twisting the showcase into something new. And I can’t regret a single step that led me to Rebel. To Leo.
The air’s damp from an earlier shower, the kind that leaves the streets smelling of stone and salt, as Silvia and I cross the bridge to theosteriawhere my family are waiting. Veronica catches up with us as we head inside.
I spot them instantly. The vibe at their table is all wrong compared to the chatty buzz in the rest of the room. They’re sitting stiffly around a sharing platter of cured meats and cheeses, a small carafe of red wine and a bottle of sparkling water off to one side, the three glasses untouched.
Silvia must have got them settled with food and drink, but the backpacks stacked at their feet make the whole thing look more like a waiting room than a meal out. Which, I suppose, is exactly what this is. They’re waiting for me to tell them why they found me on a boat in Venice instead of in a lab in Florence.
It hurts to see them like this. I’ve missed them more than I’d let myself admit, and I want one of Dad’s bear hugs so badly … but there’s a wall of liesstacked high between us – the phone camera that ‘wouldn’t work’, the calls I cut short, claiming bad signal, the boarding pass I faked, the emails I sent pretending to be Mum.
Where do I even start?
Griselda stays silent until we’re all seated, but the moment we are, she goes off like a firework. ‘You are unbelievable, Evie. Poor Paola, making all that effort—’
Dad cuts across her. ‘We’ll take it from here, Grace.’
She bristles, but backs down. And I feel the tiniest flicker of hope.
Then Dad turns to me. ‘Evie, love, I think you’ve got some explaining to do.’
Griselda jumps in again, sharper now. ‘Explaining! She’ll have to do more than that—’
Mum’s hand lands on her arm. ‘Let her speak.’
I almost throw out a sarcasticwow, you’re actually going to let me talk. But I bite my tongue. What I say now matters.
