The December wind in Messina does not possess the delicacy of London snow; it is a brackish blast that slaps against the villa's windows, bringing with it the scent of algae and the promise of new storms. Belinda sat in her study, surrounded by stacks of technical documents and invoices for the "Samuele's Lighthouse" fund. Her life, in recent months, had been reduced to a constant calculation between the concrete needed for the pier and the hope required to sustain the fishermen's families.
The postman arrived in the early afternoon, leaving a heavy, cream-colored envelope sealed with the wax stamp of the Richmond Academy of Dance. It wasn't one of Erica's usual letters, written in a nervous hand and filled with admonitions. This was official.
Belinda opened it with trembling fingers. Inside, an embossed card announced the Christmas Grand Gala at the Richmond Theatre. But it wasn't a simple invitation to witness her daughter's progress. At the bottom, handwritten with the elegance of a bygone era, was a note from Mrs. Bennett:
"Dear Signora Belinda, your daughter Azzurra is preparing to perform an act of artistic courage unprecedented in this academy. She will bring to the stage a piece titled 'The Dance of the Draunara.' I believe your presence is not only welcome, but necessary. You are the root of this movement. We expect you as our guest of honor."
Belinda reread those words three times. The Dance of the Draunara. The name made her breath catch. She felt a sudden warmth in her chest, a vibration that seemed to answer her daughter's call from across the continent. Azzurra had not forgotten. Despite Erica's silk, despite two years of English discipline, Samuele's blood and the mud of Sicily were about to explode upon London's most prestigious stage.
"Anna! Elia!" Belinda cried out, running toward the kitchen where Nonna Anna was preparing orange preserves.
When she finished reading the invitation aloud, a silence heavy with emotion fell over the room. Elia, usually a man of pragmatism and few words, was openly moved. "Azzurra... our little Azzurra will bring our pain to the theatre. She will make those English people understand what it means to be children of the Strait."
Nonna Anna, however, did not quite smile. Her pale eyes, which seemed to have seen the very bottom of the sea, were fixed on the invitation. "It is an honor, Belinda, but it is also a danger. Calling the Draunara into a theatre, before hundreds of people, is no game. Azzurra is uncovering a vessel we have struggled to seal. You must go. You must be there to protect her, because when that dance begins, the shadows will try to reclaim what belongs to them."
Belinda nodded, already feeling the weight of responsibility. "I will go. Erica won't be happy—I know she tried to hide everything from me—but this time she cannot stop me. It is Mrs. Bennett herself calling for me."
However, the journey presented an obstacle. The fund was in a delicate phase. The Sant'Alessio pier, following its miraculous overnight consolidation, was attracting too much attention. Belinda felt that her absence would be the perfect moment for her enemies to strike.
"Don't worry about the site," Elia said, squeezing her hand. "Anna and I are here. And the local boys are with us. No one will dare touch a single stone of the Lighthouse while we stand guard. Go to your daughter. Bring her the strength of this land."
Belinda spent the rest of the day preparing. She didn't choose a gala dress. Instead, she opened Alfio's old trunk and pulled out a heavy black wool shawl that smelled of smoke and history. She would go to London not as a wealthy benefactor, but as Samuele's mother—as the woman who had looked the hurricane in the eye.
That evening, gazing at the lighthouse towering in the dark, Belinda felt a profound connection. She knew that Azzurra, thousands of miles away, was rehearsing the steps. She could almost feel her daughter's heartbeat synchronizing with the rhythm of the Sicilian sea. The battle was shifting to a stage of red vellut, but the weapons remained the same: love, memory, and the indomable strength of the roots.