Who shot that arrow in your throat?
Who missed the crimson apple?
It hung heavy on the tree above your head

This chaos, this calamity, this garden once was perfect
Give your immortality to me; I'll set you up against the stars

Saturday, June 5th, 10:34am

"Buongiorno, welcome to Volterra!" The woman in the drive-by information booth greeted me as I drove up to it. "Come sta?"

"Fine, thank you," I said.

"I'm sorry, signorina, but you're going to have to park your over here," she said in thickly accented English, pointing to a parking garage a block away. "We do not allow cars into the city.

The streets past this point are too narrow for public transport."

"Grazie," I nodded, eying the brochure of an art festival on the window of her booth. She caught me eying it.

"Would you like one of our travel guides, signorina?"

"Si," I said, and she handed me one.

"Have a nice day! Enjoy your stay at Volterra!" She said to me as I reversed my car and drove away.

What was I doing in Volterra? That's a bit of a very long story. Firstly, there was an art festival here that I really wanted to see. Secondly, I wanted to see if I could find any information on my grandfather.

My grandfather.

I have never met my grandfather, but I knew he is alive. He used to send my dad letters sometimes; once when we were born to name us, and change our last names to our mother's last name -- Marchese. Then later to ask my dad to move my comatose mother to another hospital, and then another letter requesting the same thing again a year later. I remember, when I was a little girl, grandfather once asked Rehan and I to send him letters back. We did; we sent him dozens as we were children, but then we realized we weren't getting any replies. Dad told us that grandfather was a busy man, and he must move around a lot. So, he didn't have time to reply.

But then why did he ask for them? When Rehan and I grew a little older, we realized that grandfather couldn't have moved around a lot; he was a professor in Italy at the Universita' Populare. He was the only family, apart from dad and my comatose mother, that Rehan and I had. This realization upset the two of us; that moment we realized that not all family members care for you. We never spoke of our grandfather again. I thought about him, and wondered about him; I know Rehan did too.

I know Rehan did because the week before he died, he visited Italy. That's why I was here in Italy three years later, doing chemistry research at the Universita Populare. I wanted to meet my grandfather, I wanted to know what made my brother commit suicide.

When I arrived at the Universita' Populare, I found out that Lawrence Marchese had stopped working there forty years ago. Then why had he told my dad he still worked there? From what I had garnered from several old professors at the university, my grandfather had quit to live a quiet life in Volterra. He quit to have a quiet life when he was 32 years old.

It didn't make sense at all. I didn't want to meet my grandfather, the man who'd lied to us, but I wanted to know why Rehan died.

Why was searching for my grandfather three years after Rehan had passed away? I had no idea. It was as if the past three years were a blur. Like I had died with my twin brother, and now I was coming back alive.

For some reason, searching for Lawrence seemed to be the right thing to do right now.

I parked my car, and headed to the art festival.

The sea is wine red
This is the death of beauty
The doves have died
The lovers have lied

I cut the arrow from your neck
Stretched you beneath the tree
Among the roots and baby's breath
I covered us with silver leaves

Friday, June 4th, 1:06am

"Aro," Demetri bent his head down to the masters as he walked past them. Aro took a step towards him.

"Demetri!" Aro said in his sing-song voice, taking a step towards him. "How was your hunt?"

Aro held his hand out towards Demetri.

"Mediocre," Demetri shrugged, and continued to walk past, ignoring Aro's hand and keeping his thoughts to himself.

Aro's eyes flashed curiously at his most famed guard's receding back.

Gloria,
We lied, we can't go on
This is the time and this is the place to be alive

The sea is wine red (Gloria, we lied)
This is the death of beauty (this is the time and place)

Saturday, June 5th, 7:13pm

"Scusi signor!" I asked the millionth cashier at the millionth store I had been to that day. The cashier looked down at me, annoyed that I had nothing in my hands to buy. I shot him an apologetic look but cleared my throat. "Sorry, but have you heard of a Lawrence Marchese?"

The cashier looked at me curiously, then shook his head. Damn.

"Grazi!" I said smiling, and I turned around to run out before he could guilt me into buying anything. After tiring of the art festival after two hoursI had tried almost every shop and business in Volterra, asking for my grandfather. But no one had heard of him. Was this possible? I was pretty sure that the professors at Universita' Populare had told me that he was in Volterra. And there was no other Volterra in Italy, or in the world at all.

There was one more business office on this street.

I opened the door, ignoring the tinkle of the bell, and walked over to the finely dressed receptionist. She made me feel self-conscious of my band T-shirt and jeans.

"Scusi," I said, and she lifted a eye with heavy blue eyeshadow to look at me. "Have you heard of a Lawrence Marchese?" She shook her head. Damn again. "Okay, thank you!" I ran out of the office. I walked over to a bench and took out my map, crossing off this street. 53 streets, hundreds of places I had asked, but no one had heard of Lawrence Marchese. Had he changed his name?

Did he not exist?

I took my water bottle out of my bag and took a long sip, thirsty from running around all of Volterra. I hadn't had time to admire the city yet, and I still needed to reserve a hotel room since I planned to spend the weekend here. I sighed, and started to walk with the crowds of clamoring tourists, turning my head to now admire the beautiful architecture. What was I going to do? I had asked for Lawrence everywhere.

But, I hadn't asked the church, I realized, as I watched a row of men with bent heads and capes enter a church. Any of the churches in Volterra, I realized, as I heard a church bell chime. I got up, stuffing my map into my bag, and ran to the sound of the bells that come from a street behind this one.

The church was ancient; its stained glass windows were faded, and the door was peeling. I opened the door, and walked past the empty pews to the man praying in the corner. The priest? He was an elderly man, with white hair. He was immersed in prayers, and didn't even hear me come in.

"Scusi," I whispered, when I got up to him. My mouth was almost dry from talking to so many people today. The man looked up at me, not at all bothered to be interrupted in his prayers. Yet, I still felt guilty. "Sorry," I muttered in Italian.

"Not a problem, child," the man stood up, speaking in Italian. He folded arms and looked kindly up at me.

"I was just wondering...have you heaRd of a Lawrence Marchese?" I asked in Italian, still whispering. The man shook his head, but smiled. I bated my breath, he seemed like he had something to say. Hopefully he wasn't going to try to preach to me.

"Is he your relative?" The priest asked. I nodded.

"My grandfather," I said. The priest turned to look at the front doors of the church.

"I remember every person who has walked into these doors and spoken to me," the priest said, "I have had several Marcheses, but no Lawrence Marchese." He paused. I looked around the church, hoping he wasn't expecting me to stay and pray. Dad had raised me agnostic. I tried to admire the glass windows, and the priest cleared his throat, interrupting my train of thought. "Perhaps you are related to a woman named Allegra?" I looked at him. Allegra is my comatose mother's name. How did he know?

"Si, that was my mother," I said slowly, cautiously. Was he psychic? Supernatural? My eyes flickered around the room; there was no one else here.

"She was here." the man shut his eyes. "Twenty years ago. You look like her. You and your brother do."

"My brother?" I thought aloud, both frightened and shocked. Rehan? Had Rehan been here?

"Yes, he came tracing your mother's path. Three years ago," the priest said. Three years ago. My face was stiff. He noticed, "You don't like your brother?"

"No," I said, looking down on the floor. The hairs on my back were raised; I felt the need to leave. I didn't feel comfortable. Not because of the man, but the mention of Rehan. And my mother. I hadn't thought about them in a while. "I do. I loved him."

"What happened?" The priest asked. "You say loved."

"Yes," I said. "He committed suicide a month after visiting Italy," I said quickly, not wanting to linger on those words. The priest looked down on the floor.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely, grasping my hand.

"Would you-," my voice broke. "Would you happen to know anything that could have caused him to...to-..." my voice trailed off. How long did he talk to Rehan? What did they talk about?

"No," the priest said after a moment's silence. He looked calmly to the floor, almost as if he was hiding uneasiness. Why would he be uneasy? He was a priest, he dealt with helping people grieve over lost loved ones. "Nothing."

"What did he do when you saw him?" I asked.

"He came to visit me, and asked about your mother," he said. "I told him about the day your mother came, asking me for advice. She had a trivial problem; she wanted to know if it was right for her to have children." He seemed reluctant to talk about Rehan, and I wasn't going to force him. I couldn't hear about him.

"Oh," I said. My mother had had a history of health problems; that was why she was comatose.

"Is she still comatose?" the priest asked. I nodded, and I looked around the church. My brother had been here. My mother had been here. They had been in this small, white-washed, enclosed space. I needed air. The priest put a hand on my shoulder.

"God bless you child," the priest said. I looked at him, and thanked him silently, and then resumed glancing around the room. The priest cleared his throat, "You would do best to get out of Volterra." I looked at him, surprised.

"Why?" I asked. The priest's eyes flickered. "Volterra has the lowest crime rate," I said, surprised. "The city is overruled by a group of people who aren't what they seem," he said almost angrily. His eyebrows were knotted in fury. I was surprised; what was it about them that made a priest upset? "You would do best to leave. Your mother and brother both did."

The doves have died (Gloria, we lied)
The lovers have lied (this is the time and place)

Wine Red by The Hush Sound

In case you were wondering…yes, the priest does know about the Volturi.