Author's note: This is my first fanfiction so I would really appreciate all comments/ reviews. Thank you so much for reading! A special thank you to Hufflepuff's Princess for encouraging me to write this! I love you!
The steady pattering of rain on a tin roof was interrupted momentarily by a distant rumbling noise. Suddenly, a lanky, dark-haired woman flew into the house, the slam of a door following her. Drops of water were flying off her soaked scarlet dress. She pulled a suitcase out from under a cot, and began throwing a plethora of items into it with startling ferocity. The front door opened and closed again with a bang, but instead of another woman, a short, chubby man in a coal black suit ran inside the villa.
"Sweetie, I know you're mad, but please, just let me explain..." he stuttered urgently.
"NO! I've been wondering why I married you ever since the Paris incident..."
"I thought that you'd forgotten about that Angela..."
"How could I Carlo? That... thing... it was coming at us so fast..."
"Honey, it was only an ashwinder"
"Don't you honey me Carlo De Luca! And it was not 'just an ashwinder', I thought it was going to kill us! But now tonight! You know what, just forget it. Forget it. We're done Carlo, we're done."
"Angela, please," the man pleaded. "Please don't leave me love!"
She looked at him with regret and sadness in her icy blue eyes. "No. Not after this. And I thought I knew you so well..." She slammed the lid of the suitcase closed. "Good bye Carlo," she whispered, and backed out of the door. The sound of the door closing behind her was as quiet as a pin dropping, but it echoed throughout the silent house like a gunshot. The steady patter of the rain was the only noises in the villa, except for a dull rumble of thunder.
The gentle slapping of the waves on the rocky shoreline of Lake Como, Italy brought Bianca back from her world of dreams. Sunlight streamed through the window of her loft, as she sat up and yawned. Stumbling down the ladder to the main room of her and her father's small house, she glumly grabbed the morning newspaper and skimmed the front page. She saw nothing interesting, until her eyes found the date in the upper corner of the page. "19 Luglio," it read. The 19th of July.
Suddenly, she was wide awake. "Papa, papa, wake up papa!" she shouted happily running into his cramped bedroom. Bianca jumped onto his bed and shook his shoulders. The man laying under the covers grunted and rolled over slowly to face his grinning 11-year-old daughter.
"Don't you start jumping on me without warning, little flower, it's so early in the morning. Let your papa rest, I've been so busy lately."
She hung her head in shame and said,"I'm sorry Papa, but look at this!" She thrust the paper in front of his face and brightened visibly. "It's the 19th of July Papa! You know what that means," she exclaimed, her blue eyes shining.
"Actually, no I don't remember," he replied, throwing off the covers and pulling on a coal black suit. Seeing the hurt in her eyes, he added, "I know I should flower, but it's been a long week and Daddy's had to work a lot," before walking into the kitchen.
"IT'S MY BIRTHDAY PAPA!" Bianca shouted, obviously not able to keep quiet any longer. "ISN'T THAT AWESOME!?"
Her dad, who had been stumbling around the kitchen lazily a few minutes before, suddenly stood up straight as a board and turned, shocked, toward his daughter. "How old are you turning... honey?" he asked tentatively.
"Eleven, Papa," she replied proudly.
"Wow, honey, that's... wonderful..." he replied in a worried tone, "But, um, I've got to... just go make a quick phone call... in the bedroom." He dashed out of the room and quietly shut the door to the bedroom behind him.
Bianca tiptoed over to the door and put her ear up against the keyhole. Her father's voice came drifting through the hole, muted and urgent sounding.
"... Heather, yes... Carlo speaking... haven't talked to you since... needed a huge favor... Bianca's birthday... doesn't know... immediately... can't find out... not like her mother..."
Her mother. Bianca pulled away from the door, her heart in her throat. Why was he talking about her mother? Ever since she left three months ago, Angela De Luca had been one of many things her dad had forbidden her to talk about. Who was on the phone?
"... one month... leave tomorrow... can't thank you enough... bye."
Bianca, realizing her dad had finished his call, scrambled away from the door and stood innocently in the kitchen, fixing herself breakfast.
"So, Papa, who was on the phone?" she asked, batting her eyelashes.
"Um, well, I just was calling your Aunt Heather."
"Aunt Heather?"
"She lives in Great Britain, and, um, a few months ago she called me, and um, well, she has never seen you.."
"That would explain why I don't know who she is."
"Quiet and let your father finish. So, she called and she wanted to know if she could visit you, and I said yes, but she can't come to Italy, she is, um, 'anti-travel' so I volunteered to have you come visit her."
"In Great Britain?"
"England, actually, but with my promotion at work and all, I completely forgot to tell you. She wanted to confirm our plans, but you're leaving tomorrow."
"TOMORROW?!" shouted Bianca. "How come I've never heard of Aunt Heather before? And how am I going to get there?"
"We never really talked about your relatives outside of Italy before, that's why you haven't heard of her. Now go pack your bags. You're taking the train, and then you will take the Chunnel across the channel..."
"The what?"
"It's a tunnel under the water to England from France."
"Is she mother's sister?"
Her father's sudden silence told Bianca that she had crossed the line. Her mother was one of her father's forbidden subjects, at least since they had divorced three months ago. However, he surprised her by answering her question.
"Yes, actually she is. I bet you never knew your mother was born in England. Now, go pack your bags. You will need enough clothes for a month."
Bianca scrambled to her room and began packing. Something in her gut told her that this was not right. Why didn't she know about this relative before? And England, it was so far away. And she was eleven. An eleven year old girl, traveling by herself to a country she had never been to meet a person she had never heard of before. However, she knew she had no choice in the matter. Her father was a kind person, but when he had made up his mind, he was unchangeable in his opinion.
Shoving her only sweater into her bright blue suitcase, Bianca slammed the lid and zipped it shut. One month in England. What was her father thinking?
