Page 16 of Prince of Masks
All in all, she puts Amelia in her place.
I love that about her.
I love that she can stand up to even Grandmother Ethel. I love how she tells off Mother, and even my father sometimes. I love that she prefers me over Oliver.
Yes, that’s it.
Most of all, I love how she loves me.
So the veil to Naples, then another taxi out past the mountains and scorched earth for over an hour, it doesn’t bother me.
It’s worth the suffering of travel—
Because this is where I end up:
At the villa wrapped in vines.
Not such a large home, something of a small manor, but certainly charming and rustic in its restored beauty. The fadedpink façade is enough to tug a smile onto my face as I clammer out of the taxi and into the strange heat of Italy’s desert lands.
But that smile splits into a grin as I look up the stairs where an older woman wearing floral overalls and rubber boots waves a dirt-streaked hand.
Mother’s only just getting out of the taxi, but I abandon her and run up the steps. The short heels of my vintage 1920’s shoes clack on the stone.
Nonna spreads her arms—and I run right into her open embrace. The hit of perfumed flowers and rich soil is instant.
Must have been in her greenhouse.
Her arms, wrapped firmly around me, are thick, but not flabby. Not sagged or too soft. They are thick as branches, sturdy,strong.
Nonna is strong.
I smile into her embrace.
My cheekbone is pressed against the hard line of her collarbone. I don’t pull away.
Nonna murmurs into my hair, “Now why are you not in school?” There’s no judgement in the way she asks, her voice is soft, and she adds, “Not that I’m unhappy to see my favourite grandchild.”
I tug away with a smile. “You’re not supposed to say that.”
“Say what?” She shoots me a fleeting wink.
Mother lags behind, not in the same hurry that propelled me into a run up the stairs in the afternoon’s sun. Her voice carries, “Olivia is home early for her preparations. We come from her dress fitting in Milan.”
“Oh.” Nonna’s small smile is mischief.
Whatever Mother is selling, Nonna is not buying. She just rests her hand, sprinkled with dirt granules, on my shoulder and steers us around to face the weathered doors to the villa.
It’s not hot, exactly, not like the south of Spain in the middle of the year, but it is warm and dry enough that, as she leads the way through the peeling-wallpapered hall to the sitting room, the ceiling-fans circling above is an instant reprieve.
Mother follows, peeling off her slender, white leather gloves finger by finger. “Are you still determined to live without air-conditioning? It is an easy upgrade, and of course Hamish and I will pay for it.”
Nonna sinks into the patterned couch, dated but well kept. The sort of sofa one could nap on in the dead of summer, and it would be better than a rest in bed. I know from experience.
She shoots her daughter a sharp look. “Why do I need that when I have fans?”
I don’t need to look at Mother to know she clacks her fingernails; I hear the familiar, annoyed sound as I side-step the shabby coffee table.
Nonna lifts her hand, slender and gentle, to beckon me. “Oh, the whispers I hear about you.”
