Page 59 of Under a Dancing Star

In one room we find several works by Caravaggio, and Ben is amused by my bloodthirsty enjoyment of his depiction of Medusa – a screaming, severed head with twisting serpents instead of hair.

“I always liked the idea of Medusa having serpents instead of hair,” I admit. “At least she had company.” I tip my head to consider the painting. “Snakes were probably better than most of the humans she encountered anyway.”

We stop outside the Uffizi so that Ben can buy us both gelato, handing over a fistful of coins for the two small dishes. I’ve never eaten it before, and mine is pale green and tastes of sunshine. “Pistachio,” I murmur, spooning the smooth, sweet ice cream into my mouth and closing my eyes as it melts on my tongue. “It’s wonderful.”

We walk along, eating our gelato and watching the world go by. We’re by the river now, and the sunlight dances on the blue water, leaving spots of light glittering like sequins scattered on the surface. We cross over the Ponte Vecchio, the famous bridge, lined with higgledy-piggledy rows of shops, mostly jewellers, their wooden shutters flung open for business.

When we turn down another narrow street, full of life and car horns and crowds, and past the Pitti Palace, I feel my heart speed up. There has been one place I’ve been longing to go since I heard we were coming to Florence, and we’re about to arrive. We continue to make our way down the road which grows narrower and narrower, until we stop in front of an unassuming facade with a small stone plaque beside the door. “Museo di Fisica e Storia Naturale,” I breathe. “The Museum of Physics and Natural History.” I dance from foot to foot.

“I’ve never been.” Ben looks down at me. “It’s your turn to be the guide now.” I grab his hand, tugging him through the doorway and down the long, dimly lit stone passage beyond.

Inside the museum is a treasure-trove. Dozens of rooms crammed with all sorts of fascinating exhibits. Others might have been horrified by the gruesome anatomical wax models that fill several of the rooms, but Ben listens with interest, as I explain that they were used in the eighteenth century to teach medical students. “They’re incredibly accurate because they were copied from real corpses,” I say, as we linger over a waxwork heart.

Ben’s eyes light up. “I would love to come back and sketch some of this.”

“So would I,” I admit. “I feel like Stubbs with his horses.”

“So we can tell your uncle that I made an artist of you after all.” Ben grins. “I’m sure he’ll be relieved to know he got his money’s worth.” The words have a slightly bitter ring to them, and I look up, surprised, but Ben has already moved on to another model and is asking me what the names of the various veins and arteries are.

I take him into more rooms, rooms filled with entomological collections. “Of course you want to spend your time with the bugs,” Ben grumbles, but I’m not listening.

There, on one of the long wooden drawers, is a label, Collezione Rondani. “Camillo Rondani’s collection,” I whisper, awed as I pull out the drawer, slowly and with a muffled shushing sound.

“Who was he?” Ben asks.

“He was an expert on Diptera, or—”

“Flies.” Ben cuts me off. He flushes at my surprised expression. “You mentioned it the other week. I looked up what it meant.”

That warm feeling in my chest is back and I try to fight it down, to keep a lid on the thing that is growing inside me with every day we spend together, the thing I don’t want to name. I try not to beam at him, like a moonstruck ninny, like so many girls have probably beamed at him before.

“Yes, flies.” I clear my throat. “He also wrote some fascinating things about insects in Sicilian amber.”

“Like what?” Ben asks.

I walk around the room, pointing things out. I like that he’s interested, and that he doesn’t mind me knowing so much more than him about this. He asks me just as many questions as I asked him in the gallery. Mother and Father always told me that a man wouldn’t appreciate a woman who had more education than him. I smile. Ben seems to appreciate me just fine.

At the end of the day, when we return to Lili’s house, I am relaxed and happy. Ben holds the door open, and my body brushes against his as I walk through. He catches me, and kisses me before we go inside. This is dangerous, I know; this is playing with fire.

And yet, as I look up at him, I feel ready to burn the whole place down.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The next day we return to the natural history museum, where Ben makes quick, vibrant sketches, and where I attend to my anatomical studies. I’m particularly proud of the drawing I do of the human digestive system, based on the wax figures.

“Isn’t it fascinating, Ben?” I ask. “To think all of this is going on inside us right now. That our bodies work so perfectly.”

“It’s … something.” Ben admits.

“Beautiful,” I breathe, looking at the cross section of a forearm, the bones, muscles and arteries all intricately bound together.

Ben laughs. “Is it any wonder you weren’t won over by the traditional romantic gestures?”

“You’re not going to start reading poetry again, are you?” I ask suspiciously.

“Philistine.” Ben shakes his head and goes back to his own sketching.

Later that evening we have dinner with Lili and Gert. They tell me stories about Ben when he was small, about the time he brought an injured pigeon into the house and kept it secretly in a box in his room.