Six Months Later

Marco did what he was supposed to. After finishing high school, he told all his friends that his father was sending him to a Swiss boarding school. They took it badly, worse than he'd expected.

He was afraid he'd miss them. But a fabulous summer that included an intensive English course at Eton, evenings in Forte dei Marmi and boat excursions off the coast of Capri was enough to make him see that he wouldn't. He wouldn't miss anyone. Missing people was ridiculous.

On the day of his departure, he mastered his emotions once again. Parting from his old friends left him totally indifferent. Parting from his father was somewhat of a relief.

When the time came to say goodbye, Marco stood next to the limo door in the cobblestone courtyard of Palazzo Cinquedraghi. Sophia was nowhere to be seen and his father was still busy with a seemingly endless phone call.

When Tommaso finally joined him, he looked at his son and gestured upwards with his chin. "Give it your all."

"Of course."

"Remember who you are," he went on, "and hold our name high."

Marco nodded.

"Now go."

The dismissal was so abrupt after having waited so long that Marco was completely taken aback. He had expected a hug or at least a manly slap on the shoulder, something that might seem like encouragement.

As he closed the car door, he felt foolish for even thinking of it.

He nearly missed his flight to Geneva because of heavy traffic in the centre of Rome and an exceedingly meticulous, sweaty airline employee.

Luckily, when he landed in Switzerland everything went smoothly. The taxi got him to the train station two hours early.

He spent the time listening to music and looking over his text messages. They came in a constant flow. Everybody wanted to say goodbye, good luck, and to swear that they'd keep in touch. He read them all but answered none.

The train arrived on time and Marco took a seat in an empty carriage. He had no idea how long the trip would be. He'd been told to get off in Saint Michel de la Croix, a small town forgotten by all the maps. From there, a driver would take him to Albion College.

Albion College.

He'd heard about that school since he was a boy but knew next to nothing about it.

It was an ancient institution from which all the firstborn of his family had graduated. The same school his brother had been attending the day of his tragic accident.

It was the thought of Riccardo that made him nervous, though not because he had died at Albion. He'd fallen off his horse; it could've happened anywhere. What bothered Marco was how he had changed during his time at that school.

Marco and his brother had never been close. It wasn't in their nature. But Riccardo, after only a few months in school, had gone beyond that. He become haughty, even hostile towards him, as though he considered Marco inferior. Two years had gone by since they had last seen each other, but Marco still remembered how his brother had begun to pierce him with his gaze; as if it were a spear and Marco the target.

Since Riccardo, the firstborn, had died before getting his diploma, the right to enrol had passed on to Marco. His grandfather had been against the idea and that had been enough, as long as he was still alive.

While the train carried him along, creaking monotonously, Marco made an effort to keep calm. He tried to concentrate on the positive aspects. Being at Albion was an honour, if nothing else.

He figured that the tuition must be exorbitant and this implied a certain social selection. But what really made the school exclusive was its peculiar admission policy. You couldn't buy your way into the school; you had to be born into it. You could enter Albion only by hereditary right.

He also knew that the students came from all over Europe and spoke English. And here his information ended. That something so familiar could also be such a secret was a contradiction he had long grown accustomed to. Nobody talked about it at home and he didn't ask questions.

Now that the time had come, though, the questions had turned up all at once, overlapping, piling up, crushing him under the weight of uncertainty.

He tried to distract himself by listening to some music, but he was short of breath and his legs were restless. He kept stretching them and pulling them back up, unable to find a comfortable position. He ended up blaming the seat that was as hard as a slab of marble.

He stretched with a sigh and ran his hands through his hair. He pulled up his jeans, which were always dropping down, and noticed once again, that he had gotten thinner.

It had begun in February. It was as if everything had accelerated; as if his body were more needy. Perhaps it was because he had grown almost seven centimetres in six months. Or maybe it was the stress, the same stress that made him faint the day of the funeral. He'd taken great pains not to mention that episode to anyone and he was determined to take it with him to his grave.

He had to break away from this monotony. Going for a stroll might help.

He pushed open the sliding door and set off down the corridor. It was going to be a very short walk—there weren't many carriages—and probably a solitary one because there didn't seem to be any other passengers.

He was about to retrace his steps when he saw a girl fast asleep in the last compartment.

She captivated him. The first thing he noticed was that she was pretty. The second was that she was pretty in an unusual way. Her skin was as white as porcelain and the wisps of hair that fell onto her cheeks were an amazing, absolute black. Her features were pronounced but at the same time refined by a soft and almost inviting grace. Her eyelashes were so thick and her eyes so large that he was lost for a moment imagining how sweet her gaze must be.

These thoughts astounded him, since he was definitely not the type of person that had delicate thoughts about girls. He usually appreciated their more concrete attributes. Yet he couldn't stop staring at her closed eyes and wondering what colour they were.

Suddenly the spell was broken.

The girl squeezed her eyelids, her face drawn in suffering. Her lips parted like she was trying to talk but could only let out a thin heartrending moan. She was dreaming. It must be a nightmare. The door to the compartment was already open so Marco went in. He stood in front of her and tried to wake her up, speaking in English. The girl didn't seem to hear him. He tried again but to no avail.

She seemed trapped in her nightmare. Marco bent down and tried shaking her by an arm as gently as he could.

As soon as his fingers grasped her wool coat, she opened her eyes with a broken gasp, as though finally beginning to breathe after nearly suffocating. Marco pulled his hand away and tried to slow down his own heartbeat.

Her eyes were black.

"Ciao."

His voice came out a lot more resolute than he had hoped. He tried smiling but wasn't able to say anything more. Her deep, dark, beautiful gaze was startled. If earlier she'd been unsettled by her dreams, now she must be frightened at the sight of a stranger.

"Tranquil, it was just a dream," he reassured her in English.

"Who are you?"

Her voice was thin, so delicate it almost moved him, as though it were something precious and fragile that should be protected by all means.

He displayed his best smile and backed away, but the girl's eyes flew to the door like she wanted to escape.

"I am Marco," he said, holding out his hand.

As soon as she saw his gesture, she pulled back against the seat. She stared at his outstretched hand as if it were a blade aimed at her chest. Marco could've sworn he could see her heart beating under the green wool coat.

"It is okay."

"What do you want?" Her voice, a bit steadier now, contained a sweet accent that was tarnished by her totally unexpected accusing tone. He almost felt guilty.

"I want just to wake you," he explained, defensive. "You are having a bad dream."

"Get out."

Marco was disoriented for a moment before his pride and the certainty that he had done nothing wrong erupted.

"Sticazzi. What a temper!" he burst out. "I do not know what is your problem but—"

"My problem is some guy staring at me while I'm sleeping."

"Staring at me?" he mimicked. "You are out of your mind!"

"And you're still in here," she challenged. As her black eyes filled with annoyance, Marco felt oddly relieved. It was better to see her angry than scared.

"Let us be clear: I am not staring at you," he said. "And I not leave only because you say me to." Acting upon these last words, he threw himself down on the seat in front of her. "You know what I say you? I stay here," he challenged her, proudly raising his chin.

"You can't," she objected.

"Try to make me go out."

She stared at him, confused, and Marco stretched out his legs taking up all the space until he brushed up against hers.

At his touch, she pulled back, frightened once again. She stood and grabbed a worn-looking suitcase and a felt bag before running out of the compartment.

What surprised Marco most was his need to hold on to the armrests to resist the sudden and absurd impulse to run after her.