It's morning. I wake up, and Fiore isn't here.
He didn't even come back to the hammock last night.
I lift myself off the cushions that feel like they're pushing me away, like I'm in the way, and head to the pond to wash up, hoping the magical water will fix my heart too. Of course not. That would be too easy.
Dressed, I go find Romina. I hear her rustling through the crooked cupboards in Fiore's messy kitchen.
"There you are, Sleeping Beauty. Rested well?" she teases, emphasizing the "rested".
"Like I pricked my finger on a spindle", I reply, deadpan.
She frowns. "And Fiore?"
"I don't know." I shrug. "He didn't come back to the hammock. What are you looking for?"
Her probing gaze pins me down, but I stare at the floor until she lets it go.
"A moka pot, for coffee," she finally says.
Sorry, Romi. I can't talk about it right now. It's all still too fresh, too… annoying. And the fact that he's not here just fills me with anxiety and unease.
I look around. Nothing seems out of place, aside from the eccentricity of the place.
Is he okay? Where could he have gone? Did he stay up all night?
Then I notice my phone on a small table next to a battered armchair.
I grab it and unlock it: the screen is still on the chat with Enrico. No new messages from him. I open the one with Fiore, maybe he left something… nothing. Completely empty.
Sigh. Sweet morning.
While I was washing up, it hit me: yesterday was a total red flag.
Sure, I've got my share of responsibility. But that insistence? Snooping through my private life like some detective on a stakeout… and then calling me selfish? Way over the top. I should've just said: No, I'm not telling you who I'm texting. End of story. If that bothers you, that's your problem.
Why the hell did he act like that? An hour before, all puffed up: "We're on the same wavelength, right? No relationships, blah blah." And then? Possessive, like I'd been caught doing something wrong. Seriously, fuck.
Ah! Great. I'm worked up again. My nose is practically smoking.
"Here's the moka. Let's make some coffee before you blow a fuse," Romina interrupts, reading me like an open book.
We dig out a few cookies from a cupboard wedged between two branches and pour ourselves a liter of coffee each. The only moka pot available is the family-size one. Perfect: XXL coffee for an XXL mood.
"Good morning!" Fiore's bright voice cuts through from the far end of the living room. I spin around instantly, every fiber of my body on alert.
I can't even see his eyes, hidden behind dark sunglasses. His hair's tied back in a low ponytail, he's wearing a beige knitted vest, cream shorts, and his usual beat-up sneakers. Over his shoulder and in his hands, he's lugging enormous, bulging bags that look ridiculously heavy.
"Where have you been?" I blurt out, colder than I intended.
Fiore sets the bags down with calm precision, grabs a coffee, and, removing his sunglasses with an arrogant smile, answers: "Out. Needed some time alone. You know how it is."
My jaw tightens. Trying to provoke me, huh? Fine. Clearly, you have no idea who you're dealing with: I'm the king of the passive-aggressive.
I smile placidly, sipping my coffee like it's nothing. "Oh, I know exactly how it is. Glad to see we're on the same wavelength."
Fiore grits his teeth. Like that time in the parking lot, his anger flares up fast, like a lighter flicking to life. Part of me can't help but enjoy the view.
We just stare at each other in silence for a while.
"Uh, what's in those bags?" Romina asks, trying to ease the tension.
Fiore looks away from me. "Weapons. I picked up some weapons."
"Weapons?" I ask, a flicker of curiosity in my voice.
"We can't exactly face demons empty-handed. Even me, black belt in basically everything, I struggle—imagine you guys."
He takes a sip of coffee, then bends down to open the bags. Inside: total chaos. Knives, swords, nunchaku, sticks, brass knuckles, spiked bats, like a medieval armory just exploded in there.
"Did you just raid a dungeon, or do you secretly love hoarding all this?" I quip, eyebrow raised.
Fiore keeps rummaging through the bags, completely unfazed. I roll my eyes. Of course, he's ignoring me now.
I turn away and grab a cookie, trying to ignore the frustration bubbling up.
"Pick what you need and pack it in a bag or something. Take only the essentials; we don't want to weigh ourselves down. We go out in an hour," Fiore states, curt and commanding.
"O-okay…" Romina stammers. I don't respond.
"Okay?" Fiore prompts, annoyed, glancing at me.
I give a thumbs-up without turning around. I hear him click his tongue in irritation and watch him walk off toward his "bedroom."
As soon as he's gone, Romina presses me: "Can you at least tell me what the hell happened between you two last night?"
-
We're in Prato della Valle, hunting for the statue of Pietro d'Abano among the seventy-eight that guard the square. It's Saturday, and chaos reigns all around: pedestrians weaving through, bikes zooming past, market stalls spilling into every corner.
The mood between me and Fiore couldn't be worse. I'd briefly explained to Romina what happened yesterday, and she'd just gone "Mmm," without another word.
We parked far away and dragged ourselves here under the sun. It's merciless, beating down on the pale concrete and the white tarps of the stalls—the reflected light almost feels like a weapon.
"So, I saw online that Pietro d'Abano's statue is number six. Between the northwest and southwest entrances," Romina announces, dodging a mom with a massive stroller; she holds her bag tight in front of her, like it's the Ark of the Covenant. There are two knives inside, but it's obvious she's not comfortable carrying them.
I went with a short sword in my backpack. Don't know how to use it, but at least I could toss it to Fiore in an emergency.
Speaking of him, he's walking behind us. Even with sunglasses on, I swear I can feel his gaze piercing the back of my neck. Those things must have X-ray vision.
And yes, despite my cynicism, part of me wants to clear things up with him as soon as possible. But I know right now we'd just end up tearing each other apart. And waiting too long would only make things worse—ask Romina. I shake the thought off and focus on the mission: finding clues about the Heptameron starting from Pietro d'Abano's statue.
"There it is!" Romina exclaims, pointing to a white stone figure with a missing nose. Draped robes, a long hat falling over the shoulders, a sphere, and a scroll clutched in its hands. Under one foot, it even crushes a book.
On top, a pigeon with that vacant stare typical of its kind surveys the market, as if it's the real ruler of the square.
At the base, it reads:
PETRO • APONENSI
PHILOSOPHO • MEDICO • MATHEMATICO
INGENII • ET • DOCTRINE • PRAESTANTIA
HVMANAM • FIDEM • SVPERGRESSO
Below that, other words are barely legible, worn away by time.
The three of us study the imposing statue. Around us, the market buzz continues, indifferent, while we inspect every detail without spotting anything unusual.
"Well? Now what?" Romina asks, hesitant.
"Maybe Milo needs to part the Veil. Might make a difference," Fiore suggests.
I glance at him sideways. Ah, so we're already talking about me in the third person. Bravo, very grown-up. But I bite my tongue: instead, I squint, focus, and breathe in. One, two, three… there it is. The Veil moves, as always.
But nothing changes around us, only that faint, familiar sense that something is imperceptibly different in the air. We look around, puzzled.
Then something catches my eye: a strange glint among the letters of the inscription.
I furrow my brow and move closer. On the second H of PHILOSOPHO, there's a reddish shimmer, like fresh ink.
I turn to Romina and Fiore. "Guys, there's something here, on the H," I say, pointing at the inscription.
They step closer to take a look.
"Looks like fresh ink…" Romina observes.
"Not just there, but on other letters too. One per word," Fiore notes, finally taking off his sunglasses.
"Try touching them," he suggests, finally looking me in the eye without annoyance.
For a moment, our eyes lock.
In an instant, I forget yesterday's fight, his attitude earlier… and I feel like he's caught in this moment too.
Then Fiore looks away, scratching his nose, almost… embarrassed?
I turn back to the letters, my heart pounding.
Following his suggestion, I touch them one by one, in order.
H M A E T R P N E O.
Nothing happens.
I glance at Fiore. He shrugs, as if to say: "Well, bro, I tried."
"Obviously," Romina exclaims, eyes sparkling with excitement. "These letters spell out 'HEPTAMERON.' But you have to put them in the right order, in my opinion."
I stare, impressed, then look back at the base of the statue. "Romi, you're right! You're a genius. So?"
"So start with the H on PHILOSOPHO, then follow with the E. We just need to figure out whether the first E is from INGENII or FIDEM. If we mess up, we switch and try again."
"I'm already lost," Fiore grins, and a smile slips out of me too.
"Come on, it's easy. Try again, start with the E from INGENII first."
I nod and focus. I touch the H on PHILOSOPHO, then the E on INGENII. Following the order: P on PRAESTANTIA, T on ET, A on MATHEMATICO, M on MEDICO, E on FIDEM, R on DOCTRINE, O on SVPERGRESSO, and N on HVMANAM.
With each touch, the letters glow brighter, as if responding to my touch. Once the sequence is complete, the color deepens—red, like fresh blood—and slowly snakes up the statue to reach the book carved under its foot.
Then a sound of crumbling stone explodes through the air, followed by a vibration from the base.
We jump back. The statue… is moving!