London in October was a watercolor of pearly grays and burnt oranges. Richmond, with its immense parks where deer roamed free amidst the morning mist, offered Azzurra a sense of protection and spaciousness she had never felt before. Uncle Mattia's Georgian house, with its red bricks and white sash windows, had become her glass castle, and Aunt Erica her most attentive and devoted guardian.
Azzurra's days followed a methodical, almost therapeutic rhythm. Erica had understood from the very first moment that the girl needed more than just care; she needed a purpose. In the mornings, Mrs. Bennett—a woman of gentle manners but British rigor—pushed her to explore English literature, teaching her to savor the cadence of Keats and Wordsworth's verses. But it was in the afternoons, in the basement transformed into a professional dance studio, that Azzurra sought to reassemble the pieces of her own soul, fragmented by the trauma of her illness and the hurricane.
One Tuesday afternoon, while practicing an adagio sequence at the barre, Azzurra stopped abruptly. The cherry-wood floor, perfectly sprung, seemed to return an unusual energy to her. The mirror, which usually reflected only her slender figure and the elegant furniture, seemed for an instant to vibrate under the light of the wall lamps. It wasn't a frightening vision, but a visual echo: for a second, Azzurra did not see the room in Richmond, but an expanse of crystal-clear water, warm and vibrant, just like the one her mother had described in the stories of her Sicilian childhood. At the center of that reflection, there were no demons, only a sense of peace that seemed to invite her to dance not against the pain, but with it.
"Are you all right, dear? I saw you standing still—you looked like a marble statue," Erica said, appearing in the doorway with her usual grace. She carried a silver tray with a porcelain teapot and ginger biscuits. The scent of Earl Grey tea diffused immediately, warming the cool air of the basement.
"Yes, Auntie. I was just... lost in the rhythm. This place is magical; I feel so light here," Azzurra replied, smiling sincerely.
Erica entered, placing the tray on a matching side table. She approached her niece and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear with a gesture of pure tenderness. "Dance is your language, Azzurra. Mattia and I only want you to find your voice again. Remember that beauty is never a debt to be paid, but a gift to be cherished. Your mother, in Sicily, lives under the weight of too many heavy legends. Here, in this house, silk is just silk, and gold is just a metal that shines."
Later, Erica invited Azzurra into her private library. It was a circular room, filled with ancient volumes and forest-green velvet armchairs. Erica pulled a silk-lined box from a shelf. "I want to show you something, sweetheart. This is a fragment of wild silk that my grandfather bought years ago. Look at the weave: it's irregular, imperfect, yet that is what makes it precious. You are like this silk, Azzurra. The scars of your past are not stains; they are the points where your weave has become stronger."
Azzurra touched the fabric, feeling its texture. For the first time, the word "silk" did not evoke the Shimmy doll or the family curses, but only the skill of artisan hands that loved their craft. She thought of Mastro Alfio, the man who had created her pendant: a simple artist who had put his art at the service of protection, knowing nothing of the shadows that tormented Belinda. In that moment, surrounded by Erica's affection, Azzurra felt, for the first time, truly free.