Page 60 of Under a Dancing Star

“I only found out by following the little trail of breadcrumbs,” Lili laughs. “We wondered where all the bread had been going. By the time Ben let him go he was the fattest pigeon in all of Florence.”

“Bea would have liked him,” Ben says. “She would have known his name in Latin, Pigeonus maximus or suchlike.”

“Columbidae, actually,” I correct him with a smile. “I did the same thing once, with a sparrow. But my mother found out and she was furious. She wouldn’t let me keep him, despite the fact that – as I pointed out – a big creaky wreck like Langton Hall was probably full of rats and bats and other, far less savoury, creatures.”

“I’m surprised that didn’t win her over,” says Ben.

“I was too,” I agree. “But then you never can have a logical argument with her.”

“It sounds like you and Ben would have been good friends, then,” Gert puts in.

“Yes,” I say. “I think we would.”

Ben shakes his head. “Oh, I doubt Beatrice would have had much to do with a ragamuffin like me.” The words are said lightly, but there’s something underneath them that I don’t like.

“Well, it’s a good job you found each other in the end,” Lili says firmly.

My eyes meet Ben’s across the table. “Hear, hear,” he says, raising his wine in toast. We all clink our glasses together.

Later, after the candles have burned down and we’ve cleared the table, Ben and I sneak up to the roof. I’m fairly sure that Lili and Gert know that we come up here, but they haven’t said anything about it, and as long as we preserve the illusion of propriety they seem happy to leave us to it.

As it has every evening, the view momentarily deprives my lungs of air. Stars wheel overhead, and, with the lights burning in the surrounding windows, it feels as though we are suspended among them. Settling in to the nest of blankets and cushions that we have built, Ben hands me a paper bag full of sweets which we chose together this morning. This, too, has become tradition, and I rifle through until I find one of my favourite sweet violet pastilles.

Sucking on a cinnamon sweet, Ben eyes me thoughtfully. “So,” he says. “We’re heading back to the villa tomorrow.”

“I know.” I draw small circles on the blanket with my finger. “I can’t believe we’re leaving Florence already. I really love it here.”

“But you love the villa as well,” Ben points out.

“Yes,” I agree, lifting my head to meet his eye. “But it’s been different to be here. With you. I mean, things feel different between us,” I finish a little awkwardly.

There’s a pause as we look at each other for a long moment.

“There are only two weeks until you go home,” Ben says carefully, breaking the silence.

I feel a twist in my gut. I nod. “I know that, too,” I say.

“And our experiment will reach its conclusion,” Ben says. “Do you feel it has been a success so far?”

I consider the question. “Well,” I say, “when one considers the objectives, I think we’ve done quite well.”

“The objectives?” Ben offers me another sweet and our fingers graze as I take it.

“You promised me romance. And there have been flowers and boiled sweets and” – I grimace here – “poetry.”

“I seem to remember Ursula mentioned kisses.” Ben grins. “I think we’ve done all right on that front too.”

“She also said that she thought you would be a satisfactory lover,” I say.

Ben chokes on his sweet. “What?” he finally manages after a significant amount of spluttering. “I don’t remember that part of the conversation.”

“I don’t think you were there,” I say.

“Oh.”

“Is that something you would be interested in?” I ask.

He stares at me.