Georgia sighed. She had hoped that maybe during the course of a whole year she might have seen Luciano again, that he might have made one of his difficult stravagations to London, to see his family. She had kept up her violin lessons – was going to take Grade Seven in fact – and of course she was often at the Mulhollands’ house visiting Nicholas. But of Luciano there had been no sign.
Dan had been all very well and Adam was nice, but still she longed for a glimpse of Luciano.
‘A penny for them,’ said Alice. ‘That was a deep sigh.’
‘Did you ever hear about that boy who died in the year above us two years ago?’ Georgia suddenly asked. She had never talked about him to Alice before.
‘You mean the one with the black curls who was supposed to be such a dish? Most of our year had a crush on him, didn’t they? What about him?’
‘Nothing,’ said Georgia. ‘I used to see him at orchestra. I really liked him.’
‘Oh,’ said Alice surprised. ‘You never said.’
‘Not much point was there?’ said Georgia. ‘Nothing to be done about it. I’m never going to see him again.’ And she realised it was true. She was going to have to mourn Lucien all over again.
Alice looked really concerned. But at that moment the bell rang for lunch and their chance to talk was over. Students from all years streamed out into the sunshine, glad to catch a last fragment of summer.
‘Does your friend Nicholas look anything like him?’ asked Alice unexpectedly. A group of Year 9s was spilling out into the yard. A willowy figure, with curly hair, detached himself from the group and strolled over to where they were sitting on the grassy bank.
Georgia shielded her eyes against the sun and looked up at Nicholas; it was good to see his shadow stretched out behind him on the asphalt.
Luciano was working with Rodolfo and Dethridge in his master’s laboratory in Bellezza. Ever since their return from Remora, the Stravaganti had been worried about the consequences of Falco’s death. First because of fear of reprisals against them by the Duke. But also because Rodolfo had been convinced that there had been a shift in the gateway that allowed them access to the other world.
After William Dethridge’s translation, the world that Luciano had come from had moved much further on in time than sixteenth-century Talia, but the difference had slowed by the time of Luciano’s first visit. The gateway had stayed stable for months and then time slewed again when Luciano became stranded in Talia. It was only by a few weeks and the efforts of all three Stravaganti working together had stabilised it again, clawing back those weeks a day at a time, until the dates in the two worlds matched again even though still separated by over four centuries.
But now, with the death of Falco, there had been another lurch in time in the other world. And they were still trying to work out by how much it was ahead of them. Rodolfo kept a mirror trained on Luciano’s old bedroom as he had done on the day of Falco’s death, when the Duke had seemed to lose his mind. But he discouraged Luciano from looking in it.
The two older Stravaganti had watched while the Talian boy lived a life in sudden changing pictures. If they had ever seen a film in which time was supposed to pass or watched a video on fast forward, they might have compared what they saw to that. As it was they noted Falco’s absence and his return with his leg heavily plastered. They saw him gradually grow stronger and do exercises and then one day the plaster was gone and he walked with only one crutch.
They tried to judge the passing seasons by the quality of the light through his window, but sometimes they needed Luciano to interpret what they saw.
‘Whatte is thatte scarlet hose with packages sticking oute of yt?’ Dethridge asked him one day.
‘A Christmas stocking,’ said Luciano, feeling homesick. They didn’t have them in Bellezza and it was still the end of August in Talia.
They tracked Falco through the months of his convalescence and recuperation, the boy unaware that he was watched by old friends. They saw him grow stronger and taller and sometimes they saw Georgia sitting on the bed beside him. They always called Luciano when that happened and he was glad to see her. There was no sound to be heard through the mirror that linked Talia to the other world but he liked to think that sometimes Georgia and Falco were speaking about him.
By the time that Rodolfo heard of the Stellata Straordinaria, through the mirror he had trained on Remora, the other world seemed to have slowed again. He estimated that a year had passed, going by the physical changes in both Georgia and Falco.
‘Shall we go back to Remora for Falco’s race?’ asked Luciano.
‘No,’ said Rodolfo. ‘It’s not necessary; Arianna won’t be going and there’s no need to expose you to meeting the Duke. The di Chimici will all be there, without doubt.’
*
The di Chimici clan were all mustered in the square outside the cathedral, taking their pre-race dinner in the Twins. Their own cities’ Twelfths were being neglected in favour of family unity. Duke Niccolò sitting next to his brother the Pope looked out over all his remaining sons and his daughter and his many nieces and nephews.
His plans for their inter-marriage had been well received and he looked forward to a new generation of di Chimici, to a future when his descendants ruled every city-state in Talia, as Prince or Duke. He closed his mind to the thought of the troublesome young Duchessa of Bellezza. He would find a way of dealing with her; it was just a matter of time.
‘Can I come round and see you after school?’ asked Nicholas. ‘I want to talk to you about something.’
‘OK,’ said Georgia. ‘See you then.’
She remained jumpy all day and it was a relief to get home. The house was empty with a new emptiness that shouted ABSENCE OF RUSSELL! Georgia went up to her room and saw that Russell’s door was standing open. She had never seen it like that unless he had been standing in the doorway taunting her.
She pushed the door wider and went in. His bed, chest of drawers and desk were all still there. But his stereo, computer and TV had all gone to Sussex with him and the bed was stripped. And there, in the middle of the bare, ticked mattress, was the winged horse.
No message, no note, just the horse and it was undamaged. Russell must have known she would go into his room to revel in his absence and he must have gone back in to place the talisman there after Ralph and Maura had been in and out with boxes and cases for the last time.
Gingerly, Georgia picked it up. It felt just as it always had, smooth and warm, its wings vulnerable, the fine lines of the last mend just visible at their base. The doorbell rang.
Nicholas stood on the doorstep and Georgia realised with a shock that he was now as tall as her.
‘How are you?’ he said. ‘I’ve been feeling so peculiar all day. I think it’s something to do with Remora so I wondered if you felt it too.’
And then he saw what she held in her hand.
The morning of the Stellata di Falco dawned fine and clear. Cesare went through all the rituals he had missed a month before: the jockeys’ Mass in the cathedral, the last morning heat, the registering, and then went back to the Ram for a light lunch before the afternoon’s demands.
He went out to the stables to calm his nerves and jumped out of his skin. There, in the shadows, stood a slender, tiger-haired girl, wearing a skimpy top and baggy pantaloons that struck a chord of memory.
‘Georgia?’ he asked wonderingly.
‘Cesare!’ she cried, giving him a big hug. She smelled lovely. ‘You’d better find me something to wear – my old boy’s clothes aren’t here any more.’
‘I don’t think boy’s clothes would suit you now,’ said Cesare, admiring her new figure. Georgia blushed a bit but punched him on the arm.
‘Wait till you see who’s come with me,’ she said, grinning. It felt wonderful to be back in Remora. ‘It took us ages to get to sleep – we were so excited about coming back.’
Behind her, a slender boy with black curly hair, wearing the loose outlandish clothes of t
he other world, stepped forward into the light. Cesare didn’t recognise him until Falco greeted him by name.
And then the Remoran made the Hand of Fortune. For this was Falco, an older, taller Falco, walking normally without sticks. The other world must be magical indeed.
‘I’m back,’ he said. ‘Tell me what’s been going on this last year.’
‘Year?’ said Cesare. ‘It’s only a month since you left. I can’t believe how you’ve changed! And that you came back today of all days.’
‘Why?’ asked Georgia. ‘What’s special about today?’
‘There’s going to be a special Stellata,’ explained Cesare. ‘And I’m riding Arcangelo for the Ram. It’s in Falco’s honour.’
‘Brilliant!’ said Falco.
‘We’ll come and watch you,’ said Georgia. ‘Only we need clothes.’
Cesare raced into the house to tell Paolo and Teresa the news.
*
In honour of the dead Falco, the Lady’s float was draped in black along with the purple and green of the Twelfth. It was pulled by black horses with silver harness and sable plumes. It carried an empty casket with the crest of the Giglian di Chimici – the lily and the perfume bottle – and a portrait painted by a Giglian master. A small orchestra of musicians on the float played a dirge.
The ensigns had black ribbons tied at the top of their flags and all the parade members of the Lady wore black under their green and purple sashes. As the Lady’s part of the procession passed each stand, the spectators removed their hats and made the sign of the cross. Weeping was heard, even in the Scales; it was a sad story even if it happened to your enemy.
The great bell of the Papal palace, which always rang its single note throughout the afternoon of the Stellata, now recalled the day it had tolled for Falco a month ago. But however sombre the parade, there was still the excitement of the race to come.
Georgia sat in the Ram’s stand with Teresa and the children. She was wearing a red dress of Teresa’s and a red and yellow sash of their Twelfth. The dress and her hair attracted admiring glances around her and she felt quite different from the jockey who had won the Stellata over a year ago.
Only it wasn’t a year ago here. It was hard to wrench her mind round the thought that she had been away hardly long enough to be missed. For one of those weeks the Montalbani had assumed her to be away in France and, though they had wondered a little about her absence since, they had not really begun to be concerned.
Little had changed in Remora since she had last been here. It seemed as if the city was in perpetual festival mode. And yet this Stellata was hardly a celebration. She scanned the crowds, looking for Falco. He had stayed longer than her in the Ram. They had both been to see all the horses and spent a long time with Merla but Falco was loath to leave her.
Georgia trusted he wasn’t going to risk sitting in the Lady’s stand or trying to gatecrash the Twins. He might be a year older and stronger and fit in body but he was still recognisably Falco. She hoped he was all right; it was an impressive first stravagation back to his old world. Georgia remembered Luciano saying how difficult it was for him but Falco seemed bright-eyed and full of energy.
The parade came to an end and the bell stopped, without any sign of Falco. Georgia decided to give up worrying about him and just enjoy the race. The twelve horses started to enter the Campo and she soon picked out Cesare on the tall chestnut. He looked stylish and confident. There was always an aura of respect around the horse of the Twelfth to win the most recent Stellata and it didn’t matter that it carried a different jockey.
The whips were handed out and the horses moved to the start. Duke Niccolò himself drew the Twelfth balls out of the bag and the order was determined. There was the usual shuffling and blocking and the crowd’s attention was fixed on the start-line.
Then, just as the Rincorsa (this time the Water-carrier) was making its run, down through the air sailed the winged horse. There was no warning cry from a Manoush this time. Just a folding of black wings and an elegant landing at full gallop, as the thirteenth horse joined the race.
The crowd went wild; who was this jockey, in his strange costume? He wore no single set of colours but had the scarves of all the Twelfths tied on to his ordinary stable boy’s clothes. He wore no helmet and his black locks streamed out behind him. He was a handsome boy and the Remoran girls began to cheer for ‘Bellerofonte! Bellerofonte!’ instantly naming the stranger after a flying horseman of old legends.
Merla and her rider flowed round the first circuit well ahead of the twelve other horses and then the first rumour began in the Twins’ stand and rippled through the Campo faster than any steed. The cry changed to ‘Falco! Falco!’ and soon the spectators in the centre began to fall to their knees and cross themselves.
‘A phantom!’ went the rumour. ‘Prince Falco has returned to his own commemoration!’ Gaetano sat like one made of stone, barely able to breathe and clutching Francesca’s hand. No one heard him whisper, ‘It worked!’
The Duke was the only one on his feet, his face a white mask of terror – or perhaps fury.
Fear filled all the jockeys except Cesare, but Falco would have won easily anyway. He didn’t fly Merla but she was still faster than any normal horse. He was racing towards the finish line, yards ahead of the Ram and the Lady.
As soon as he reached it, he whispered in Merla’s ear and urged her up into flight. As the flying horse took off into the setting sun, her mighty winged shadow fell over the upturned faces of the crowd beneath. And then came the intake of breath and the cries of ‘Dia!’ The shadow-horse had no shadow-rider.
As it passed over the Lady’s stand, a purple and green scarf came fluttering down to be caught by the Duke’s mailed fist.
It took a moment or two for people to realise that the race was over. Cesare had pulled back at the last moment and the Lady’s jockey had taken his chance. Cherubino had urged Zarina across the finish point and waved his whip aloft, victorious. The Lady’s supporters invaded the track to embrace the jockey and pat the horse. Georgia left the Ram’s stand and pushed her way towards Cesare, against the swelling rush of the Lady’s Twelvers wanting to wrest the Stellata banner from the Judges’ stand.
‘Why did you do it?’ she whispered to Cesare, who stood sweating beside Arcangelo.
‘Look at the Duke,’ said Cesare. ‘It doesn’t do to keep crossing the Lady.’
‘But Falco would have been disqualified and you would have won easily for the Ram,’ protested Georgia. ‘Imagine, two Stellata banners in one year! Arianna would have been delighted.’
‘Rules or not,’ said Cesare, ‘Falco was the real winner.’
They looked at the Duke, who was being guided down from the stand to congratulate Cherubino. He was glassy-eyed and clutching the green and purple scarf, still warm from his son’s body. In spite of the clamour of the spectators, he did not believe he had seen a ghost. As he descended into the Campo, he caught sight of the flame-coloured girl and the chestnut horse and remembered the mysterious jockey of the Ram’s who had robbed his family of victory a month ago.
Duke Niccolò knew exactly what he had seen, even if he didn’t understand it: his son, transformed, whole and well again, had returned to show him and his family that he still lived, in another world. And the Stravaganti had the secret. From now on, he would move heaven and earth to find out what it was.
A Note on the Stellata and the Palio
As Georgia discovers, the annual horse race in Remora is not quite the same as that of Siena. Some of the differences arise from the differences between the actual and imagined cities. Remora is divided into twelve wards – called Twelfths, naturally – while Siena is divided into seventeen contrade.
The Twelfths are named after the Talian version of the Zodiac, whereas the contrade take their names from a range of animals, even slow ones like Bruco (caterpillar) and Chiocciola (snail), and a few objects – Nicchio (shell), Torre (tower), Onda (wave) and Selva (forest).
&n
bsp; There is only one ward which is the same in both cities – the Ram in Remora and Valdimontone in Siena. The colours of Valdimontone are also red and yellow and their symbol of the crowned Ram can be seen everywhere in the south-east of the city of Siena, in the Third of San Martino.
The Palio is run twice every summer – on 2nd July and 16th August – whereas the Stellata happens only once, on 15th August. Both can have extra races to commemorate special occasions. Only ten contrade run in any single Palio – seven by right, because they won’t have had a horse and jockey in the equivalent one the year before, and three drawn by lot. It is therefore possible for a contrada to win twice in a year, though this is rare.
The great Campo in Siena is not circular, but shell-shaped; nevertheless, it is still the case that the Palio, preceded by a two-hour procession, the Corteo Storico, takes only about a minute and a half to run. (It may take an hour or more, though, to get an approved start!)
The Palio used to be run on the straight, from as far back as the fourteenth century, but transferred to the Campo in 1650. In Remora, the Stellata has already been run in the circular Campo for at least a century in 1578.
There are three aspects of the Stellata which I thought I had invented, only to discover that they had actually happened in the Sienese Palio. Hundreds of years ago, the jockeys in Siena were likely to be young teenage boys, and there was even a girl racing in a special Palio of 1581. She was called Virginia and rode for Drago (the dragon), but did not win.
And I discovered that there was an ancient tradition of contrade having special allegiances with other cities, long after I had decided on the Reman custom that linked the Ram to Bellezza, the Lady to Giglia and so on. As Alan Dundes and Alessandro Falassi say in their book La Terra in Piazza (University of California Press, 1975), ‘We must not forget that every contrada considers itself a little republic or state ... Many contrade have established twinning arrangements with other Italian cities, as if they were political entities completely separate from the city of Siena.’