The Richmond Theatre appeared like a jewel set in the velvet of the London evening, but for Belinda, just stepping out of her taxi, that luxury smelled of dust and secrets. Wrapped in her heavy black wool shawl, the Sicilian woman felt the jarring contrast between her skin—still marked by the salt spray of the Strait—and the heated, almost suffocating air of the theatre lobby.
She did not enter through the main doors. Following the directions in Mrs. Bennett's invitation, she headed toward the stage door. Her heart beat in unison with the scratch Azzurra felt on her neck; an invisible beckoning that guided her through narrow corridors, crowded with feathered costumes and papier-mâché sets. When she reached the wings, the music—if that telluric thrumming could even be called music—hit her with the force of a tidal wave.
Under the harsh lights of the dress rehearsal, Belinda saw her daughter. But she was not the child she had said goodbye to two years prior. She was a creature of mud and silk, whose movements told a story of pain that Belinda knew all too well. And beside her stood Oliver.
"Stop! Stop everything!" Belinda's cry tore through the sonic fabric.
Mrs. Bennett bolted upright from the stalls. Azzurra froze mid-leap, falling to her knees, her breath shattered. Oliver, stripped of the dance's momentum, collapsed onto his side.
Belinda ascended the stage with feline speed. She did not look at her daughter, not at first. Her eyes fell upon Oliver's bare back, where the bluish bruises pulsed as if alive, mapping out a disaster unfolding thousands of miles away.
"What have you done to him?" Belinda hissed, turning toward Mrs. Bennett, who had by then reached them. "This isn't ballet. This is a transfusion of pain! You are using this boy as a lightning rod for a storm that does not belong to him!"
"Signora Belinda, I..." the headmistress tried to justify herself, but she was interrupted by another voice, icy and imperious.
Erica had just entered from the wings, followed by Mattia. Her face was a mask of horror and disdain. "Belinda! What are you doing here? And what is happening on this stage? Azzurra, cover yourself immediately!"
"Erica, look at this boy!" Belinda shouted, pointing to the marks on Oliver's skin. "Look at what your 'perfection' is producing! You tried to hide the truth under velvet, and the truth has burst forth from the flesh of those who love your niece!"
Erica recoiled in horror at Oliver's burns. "It's... it's an allergic reaction. Or some macabre game. Mrs. Bennett, I demand that this performance be cancelled. Now."
But Mrs. Bennett, despite the trembling of her hands, did not back down. "I cannot do that, Erica. It isn't an allergy. It is art becoming flesh. If we stop Azzurra now, she will never heal. And this boy... he chose to carry the weight. Look him in the eyes."
Oliver pulled himself up with effort, leaning against a piece of scenery. His gaze met Belinda's. There was no fear, only a fierce determination. "I chose it, ma'am. I've seen Samuele in my dreams. I've seen the lighthouse. If this is the price to keep Azzurra with us, I will pay it."
Belinda felt tears trail down her face. She stepped toward Oliver and placed a hand on his back. Upon contact, the marks glowed with a violet light. "You are a madman, my boy. You are a madman just as he was." Then she turned to Azzurra, who was staring at her motionless, the scratch on her neck beginning to bleed once more. "Azzurra... my joy. Your aunt is right about one thing: this place is not ready for what you are doing. But Mrs. Bennett is right about the other: the sea cannot be contained. If you dance tomorrow, you will do it before the world. And the world will know that the Draunara is no legend."
The clash between the two sisters-in-law flared in the silence of the empty theatre. Erica represented flight, the golden oblivion; Belinda represented memory, the mud that cannot be washed away.
"If this outrage goes on stage," Erica threatened, "Azzurra will leave London with you tomorrow morning. I will not pay another penny for a school that practices the occult."
"Then let it be so," Belinda replied, drawing her daughter to her. "But tomorrow night, Azzurra will dance. And you, Erica, will stay and watch as your castle of lies crumbles."