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– chapter one –
Felicity
Momentarily, I'm blinded. The room is painted in a light color that makes it hard to see when stepping through the door, more so because the sun is shining so brightly outside. I try blinking a few times while my eyes adjust to the dimmer light. "Welcome to the Caien Travel Agency," a female voice greets me in Italian, before I have regained total control of my eyesight.
"Thanks," I finally respond, looking at the light-haired woman. She is stunning, to say the least, her silky, gleaming hair loosely falling to the small of her back. "Do you speak English?" I know some Italian phrases, but not enough to lead an entire conversation in the language of my forefathers.
"Of course, Senora. Please, take a seat."
"Thanks." I pull the chair in front of her desk and she sits back behind it. "I'd like to do a day tour to get to know of some towns in the area."
"Then your choice in our agency is the best. We're specialized in day tours through the Tuscan towns. Depending on what historical or architectonical period you're interested in, we have several tours on offer."
I smile; that is exactly what I need. "I'm interested in various periods, historical, especially. Not so much modern times, but later Middle Ages to Renaissance are always great to see."
"I completely agree with you." The woman takes out a colorful leaflet with many pictures. "I just have the perfect tour for you, Senora." She flips the leaflet open and pushes it toward me. With a biro, she points to a map of sorts. "With the Arikin Tour, you'll travel through five towns while discovering seven historical periods." The tip of the biro runs along a small map, pointing out some village and town names that I don't even try to pronounce, certain that my tongue would find itself in a knot afterwards.
I look at the pictures. "Will there be chances to get out and walk through the towns to take photos?"
"Of course! Even though the tours are designed to be educating, they are still of a touristic nature, so you can enjoy your time and take as many pictures as you like."
"When you say 'educating', do you mean there will be a guide?" I query.
"Naturalmente."
Perfect. The tour is perfect. I would maybe find something out about Mom. "That's great." I look some more through the leaflet. "Is this here a tour bus?" I point to the photo of a group in front of a mini bus. It looks like about twenty people would fit into the vehicle.
The woman takes a short look. "Yes. We use mini busses for these tours. It creates a much more familiar atmosphere between guests and the guide, you know?" She smiles.
I nod. "Yes, that's good." There is no point in prolonging it. My decision is made. "So, how much is it?"
"That's fifty euros, Senora; lunch is not included," she answers, smiling more brightly. The woman is probably happy that she has another guest for one of her tours.
I open my bag and take out my purse to pay for the tour when I remember something else I needed to ask. "One more question: does it matter that I'm only sixteen? My dad's with me in Italy, but he's not interested in the day tour."
The woman probingly glances at me. "You look eighteen rather than sixteen," she comments. I blush and mumble my thanks while she already adds, "If your father is okay with you going to this tour . . ." She smiles again. "No one's going to ask for your age, so, as long as you don't openly declare yourself to still be underage, everything will just be fine."
"Thanks." I count out the amount and hand her the money. She takes it and slips a sheet over the desk.
"Please fill this one out. For the age, just add two years." She winks at me.
I don't make a comment. The age thing is a bit . . . odd, to say the least. They obviously are bound by law to have no one underage go on this tour without parental supervision, but the woman is letting me go anyway. Is what they are doing illegal? Is the tour I am going on dangerous? Did my mom know that, then willingly go herself, only to never return to her husband and daughter?
I mentally shake my head. I need to find out what happened nine years ago, and following my mom's last footsteps is only the beginning. I quickly fill out the form and hand it back. The woman puts her signature below it, and then our deal is perfect.
"The bus will collect you tomorrow morning at seven, in front of your hotel, Senora," she explains while seeing me to the door.
I nod my understanding. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. Enjoy the tour."
--
I tell my dad I want to see the sunrise and that I would be up and gone early. I also tell him that, depending on how far I planned to walk, I would see him either at breakfast or later, at the pool or beach. He agrees, and thus nothing prevents me when I leave the hotel room at five to seven the following morning. I don't care for breakfast; I am nervous. Besides, I feel bad for lying and deceiving my father like I did. He doesn't deserve such treatment from the only family member he has left, especially after his mother died just last autumn after six years of a widow's life.
The bus picks me up at seven o'clock sharp. There is a handful of people in it already, all looking excited but a bit tired, too. I briefly wonder when they had been picked up before taking a seat in the front row, diagonally behind the driver.
The tour starts after we pick up a couple more people from other hotels. At the last stop, a young man gets on board, greeting us all in a warm timbre. I notice he speaks five languages fluently; that amazes me. I have never been good at learning languages, hoping that, with English, I would be okay everywhere on the world. Maybe that is wishful thinking; I should concentrate more on my studies in French to show at least some effort.
"You don't mind me being seated here, do you?"
I look up and at the dark eyes of the man. He looks at me, waiting for an answer. A quick glance around the bus shows it is otherwise full; the seat next to me the last one available.
"Oh, um, no, I mean, yes, no . . ." I blush. I feel like such an idiot. "Please, feel free."
"Grazie."
It feels odd, sitting next to him. He appears to still be really young. He can't be very much older than me, can he?
"Is it your first time in Italy?" he asks me, all of a sudden. He doesn't look at me, more straight ahead, but I can nonetheless discern that he every so often glances at me out of the corner of his eyes.
"No," I reply, slowly. "I've been to this country a couple of times already. My family is originally from Italy." I have no idea why I tell him that. It isn't important. "But it's only the second time that I'm in Tuscany."
"I see." He remains silent for several long moments, then grabs the microphone and starts telling the bus some interesting things about the village we are nearing now, Guardistallo, if I understand him correctly. I look out of the window, watching us get closer every minute. The ancient-looking ruins are breathtaking.
It is just past eight o'clock when we drive through the village's small streets and alleyways. The houses lean against the slopes or look out over the wine and olive trees terraces. There are only very few people up and about, for many are still asleep. Before leaving the village behind, we pass a tall clock tower.
As we drive further east, the sun rises behind us. The Tuscan landscape is dreamy and truly beautiful; I feel like I've come home. Smiling, I watch houses and villages pass by in the distance while the minibus seeks its way along the serpentines.
"It seems you're the youngest one on this tour," the guide comments as soon as the bus turns onto the SR68, shortly before Casino de Terra. "Usually, the people interested in tours like this are a bit older."
I shrug. "Does it bother you that I'm only eighteen?" I still have the words of the woman in the travel agency in my mind, once again wondering if he already is of age.
His eyes meet mine straight on. They hold an expression that is hard to read. He looks disappointed, and maybe a bit livid, as well. I can't tell for his words grab my attention once more. "You look younger than eighteen."
What is it with Italians telling me how old I appear? "Well, thanks for the compliment," I spit back at him. "I am eighteen, whether you like it or not."
His expression doesn't change when he leans closer to whisper. "You better stop lying, or something disastrous will happen."
He never explains what he means with that statement.
When we leave the main street and pass through the village of Gello about five minutes later, a strange feeling starts building in my stomach. I look around; no one else seems worried. Instead, my fellow tourists are looking outside to admire the landscape or are chatting amiably with their seat neighbors. My eyes sweep the little rural village, while my brain is trying to remember the route the travel agent showed me. Gello wasn't on it. Then again, it is a small village. Would a tiny map like the one on the tour leaflet show all tiny habitations? No, my inner voice answers, it wouldn't. Now stop worrying, and enjoy the day. Nonetheless, I glance over at the guide, but he doesn't look in my direction. He looks to our left, the microphone in his hands once more while he provides information on the location.
About ten minutes later, I catch the guide staring at me. "What?" I ask.
He doesn't show any sign that he heard me, but his eyes are awake and aware. I can clearly see the light of consciousness in their dark. To be honest, his stare makes me a bit uncomfortable.
"What is it?" I repeat, hoping to get him to speak.
"You remind me of someone I knew a long time ago."
Um, what? My thoughts run wild. I haven't counted with something along that line. "Really?" is all I bring out.
The tiniest smile graces his lips before his expression returns to being indecipherable. "What's your name?" he queries.
I blink in surprise. "Felicity Giovanni," I answer.
He moves his lips, surely to quietly repeat my name, but it takes longer than I needed to reveal my identity to him. It makes me wonder what else he is saying, but I never hear him utter a sound. Only, when he looks away from me again, I think I pick up a whispered, "Nice."
The young man next to me is a riddle.
The bus stops in Montecatini Val di Cecina. The people are glad to get out, stretch their legs, or find a restroom. A few join the queue in the small café that is next to the church in the village's center. I'm still not hungry, so I wander around, the bus always in plain sight, until I reach the church. It is really beautiful. The sun lets the sandy colors of the stone gleam brightly, and the mosaic windows of God's home throw glittering patterns onto the street. I feel relaxed even though the behavior of the guide lets my thoughts run wild. I have also yet to learn his name.
"You should try to not catch the bus when we leave," a voice suddenly says into my ear; I jump in shock. My heart races, and I put my hand over it while trying to catch my breath.
When I turn around, I see the guide standing close to me, in the shadow of the alleyway. I am surprised that he would even attempt to speak to me again. "What? Why should I do that? How do you expect me to return to the hotel if I don't catch the bus?"
He throws me a long look, willing me to understand something, surely. But I don't get what he wants to tell me with his eyes. I have never been someone to read and correctly translate facial expressions.
"Just be late on purpose," he orders.
I open my mouth to respond, to demand to get answers on the topic of why he doesn't want me to join them on the rest of the trip. But he no longer looks at me, and his presence renders me speechless. His last words were spoken with an authority that makes it impossible for me not to obey him.
For now.
I make a non-committal sound and enter the church.
The building's interior is cool, opposite to the slowly awakening warmth outside. In a few hours, the sun will be blazing heat from a cloud-free azure sky. The cool air inside the church is momentarily refreshing. I sit in one of the benches and just look around, trying to not think of anything while admiring the biblical figures and scenes painted to the walls and ceiling. The plastering is so very detailed that I can hardly get enough of it. I've never been a fan of history the way Mom used to be, but I can easily understand why she was fascinated with past eras.
I decide to hit the restroom before going back to the bus. Would the guide order the bus to leave when everyone but me is there? My thoughts run wild. I am internally dying to know what his cryptic words meant, why he wants to get rid of me. A tiny voice in my head tells me to follow his order and stay behind. But I'm also afraid to be stuck in Montecatini without the means to get back. The cash I carry with me is not enough to afford a taxi — if there is something like a taxi accessible in this small village — back to the hotel, and I can't call Dad and ask him to pick me up. The thought of my father sends a wave of guilt through me. He is surely worrying about me, and I haven't brought my cell phone.
It is the thoughts about Dad that help me decide.
I hurry and finish in the restroom, then sprint back to the bus.
The guide stands next to the open bus door, in the shadow of the neighboring building. He frowns when I halt next to him, breathing faster from the physical exercise of running. For a moment, he simply stares at me, then sighs loudly. Grabbing my left upper arm tightly, he drags me into another alleyway, where he whirls me around. My back hits the wall. But, before I can muster the strength to push myself away from it, he leans forward, cornering me. His hands come to rest against the wall, over my shoulders.
"Now, explain why you can't follow the order." His tone is icy cold, and his eyes gleam with tightly suppressed anger.
I gulp down my slowly rising fear. He isn't going to hurt me, is he? You're old enough not to be treated like a child, my inner voice says, supporting my case.
Right. I can stand up to him.
"I'm not a child to be ordered around," I respond, my voice as steady as possible. I wonder briefly if I can fool him. Probably not, but trying never hurts.
His eyes narrow. "You are underage."
"I'm eighteen."
His expression hardens even more. His face nears mine. "Don't lie to me, Felicity."
What the -? I shiver from the clearly audible threat in his words, and the way he emphasizes my name nourishes the feeling that something is wrong. But I've never backed down from anything. Some call me stubborn, but I say I'm determined.
"I am not lying." His dark eyes keep staring at mine. "And, even if I were, what's it to you?"
He growls — he actually growls! It's a rumbling coming from deep within his chest. I'm not completely sure if what I hear can be defined as growling, but it's like the sounds my friend's dog makes when he growls at strangers. It makes the guide's words and posture all the more threatening.
He leans even closer still, until his breath brushes over my jaw and ear. It's cool, and makes me shiver once again. "What is bad in wanting to protect you? Don't you have at least a little bit self-preservation?"
My eyes widen. Protect me? Self-preservation? Does he really think there's a serious threat waiting for me? No, my mind replies, approaching the situation logically detached, he's not thinking there will be a threat. He knows there is going to be one!
I gulp.
"What is this all about?" I query, uneasiness spreading through me. "Will there be . . . casualties?" My voice wavers, threatening to leave me. I'm suddenly afraid, very much so.
He moves back a bit until our eyes meet once more. For a couple of moments, he remains silent. Then, he says, quietly but very clearly, "Yes."
Oh my God!
"Who?"
He doesn't need to reply — his face tells me enough.
"All of us?" I wonder why I need to phrase it as a question when the answer is clear in his eyes.
"Yes."
I gasp, panic rising within me. It's one thing to conclude something for myself, but another entirely to hear the conclusion confirmed verbally. Suddenly, there's a sobbing sound and a heart-breaking whimper. After a while, I realize that I am making the noises.
"Why?" A mere whisper.
His eyes soften before he closes them. "It's better if you don't know. You know too much already."
I don't think I do, but I'm not going to press it. There's something else I need to know. "Why are you telling me, and not the others?" I have no idea how I manage to stay calm enough to ask all of those questions. The fear should immobilize me and any thought that can be defined as coherent. But, somehow, I'm still able to ask him questions. "Because I remind you of someone?"
Our gazes meet again before he answers, "Yes. It's the only way. My one chance at redemption."
Another update will follow approx. around 8 April as I'm going to be away from being online until then. So far, enjoy! I would love to get some more feedback in the meantime.
