Chapter 6 Mother
The sky over Monte Argento was white and empty.
I tripped on the edge of the flowerbed and cut my hand on the bricks.
Blood slid across the grooves in the flagstone and clung to the skin under my nails.
I was in too much pain to cry.
Dorian sat ten feet away. Twelve years old. Watching.
He didn’t move.
His silence scraped something raw inside me.
I pushed myself upright, grit clinging to my knees, blood soaking into the sleeve of my jumper.
I stood. Walked.
Left a trail the whole way in.
The maid cleaned the cut. Wrapped the hand tightly.
My left fingers wouldn’t grip for days.
I told myself he didn’t care. That he hadn’t helped because he didn’t want to.
Then I heard him one evening, his voice behind the kitchen door, quiet but hard-edged.
‘Make sure she doesn’t touch water. Wash her yourself if you have to.’
After that, I changed my mind, told myself Dorian Bellarmine wasn’t so bad.
That was a huge mistake.
Before I turned eighteen, I had no idea what he actually did.
He was never home. Maybe a few weeks a year, maximum.
When he was around, he just sat there, quiet, detached, unreadable.
No small talk. No eye contact. Not even a ‘pass the salt’.
After eighteen, I found out.
I’d have preferred not to.
He was Remigio Bellarmine’s bastard. Born to a mistress, unlike the other three sons.
Everyone knew Remigio had a trail of other children scattered through Port Azure like cigarette butts, but Dorian was the only one he ever acknowledged.
Brought him right into the house. Put the family name on him like a branded stamp.
Remigio had the kind of face that made strangers describe him as ‘distinguished’.
Straight nose, tidy hair, soft voice, clean suits.
That impression never lasted.
His temperament was the opposite of his looks.
Cold. Exacting. Detached, even from his own children.
He didn’t raise Dorian; he handled him, like a subordinate.
My mother called him a devil.
She wasn’t wrong.
His favourite was Aurelian, the eldest son. The heir.
He wanted to mould him into a weapon, hand him the empire on a platter.
But things never went quite the way Remigio wanted them to.
I’d fallen asleep without meaning to.
Too late to bed, too late to rise.
My head felt heavy. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, eyes wide open, throat dry.
The sheets were tangled around my legs.
Eventually, I pushed myself upright.
I walked out in my pyjamas.
The air in the flat was warm.
I caught the scent halfway across the living room.
The sofa was empty, the blanket folded neatly.
Livia Castellari was in the kitchen.
She stood at the stove, sleeves rolled to her elbows, pyjama trousers bunched at her knees.
She was making frittata.
I watched her tip diced vegetables into the pan. Courgette, red onion, scraps of tomato.
She sprinkled in grated cheese from a plastic tub.
The sharp, oily scent hit me first. Then the heat.
My stomach clenched.
Mum used to cook early.
I’d wake up to the sound of chopping, the clatter of the gas hob, the smell of fried egg or sweet milk bread or coffee.
She never had to call me. My nose did the work.
There was no extractor on. Steam drifted through the kitchen, soft and wet. The windows had fogged over.
Livia moved like she wasn’t fully awake.
Her skin looked thin, almost translucent in the light.
She blinked hard as if the steam had blurred her vision.
She looked fragile. Not pathetic. Just small. And alone.
She looked nothing like my mother, yet somehow, she reminded me of her.
Livia turned the flame down and glanced sideways.
Her eyes flicked up, caught me.
I was standing at the kitchen threshold. The curtains were wide open behind me.
The light outside was dull but rising, silver-grey through the lingering mist.
It cut around me, filling the edges of the flat.
She stared. People often did.
I was tall, and I knew what to do with my height. I stood straight. My mother taught me that.
My face was what people called ‘refined’, though I hated the word.
It just meant I didn’t look soft.
Livia blinked again and said, half-whispered, half-startled: ‘You scared me.’
‘You’re using too much oil,’ I said.
She flushed. The tip of her nose went pink.
‘Sorry,’ she blurted. ‘You were still asleep. I didn’t want to wake you. I wasn’t doing anything, so I just… I thought I could help make breakfast. I promise I’ll clean everything up! Do you want to eat now? The frittata’s almost ready.’
I stepped up beside her.
She flinched, only slightly, when I reached out and patted her head.
Her hair was warm, slightly damp at the crown.
‘It’s fine,’ I said. My voice came out lighter than usual. ‘Use the kitchen however you like. I’ll go wash up, then we’ll eat. It smells good. Thanks.’
Her whole face lit up. ‘Okay. I’ll set the table.’
We ate together. She had made pan-fried potatoes too, crisp and salted, the edges browned.
The frittata was hot, soft, sharp with Parmesan, and tasted strongly of egg.
I hadn’t planned on finishing the first piece, but I took another without thinking.
It tasted almost like the ones my mother used to make.
Afterwards, she started stacking the plates.
I didn’t stop her.
While she washed up, I went into the storeroom.
It was small, with a tall window and a narrow sliding door.
I had turned it into a laundry room. Washer, dryer, press, iron. Everything lined up neatly. I’d installed a dehumidifier. No dust settled in here.
I liked this room. It was clean.
I took the dry shirts from the rack one by one, pressed out the creases, and hung them on wooden hangers.
Cotton. Linen. Silk.
I moved slowly, methodically.
It calmed me.
I was halfway through pressing the last shirt when she showed up in the doorway.
She stood there awkwardly, one foot behind the other, hands twisted together.