Azzurra's dream had left a subtle restlessness in the house, like the humming of an invisible insect that refuses to stop beating against the glass. Belinda could not find peace. There was something too precise about that reference to Shimmy, the doll from London, to be dismissed as a mere nocturnal suggestion. The scirocco continued to blow, making the air thick and heavy, and in that opaque half-light, Belinda felt the call of a place she had not visited in years: the villa's attic.
It was a low-ceilinged space with a sloping roof and the smell of old wood and dust that time had laid down in layers. Elia had always advised her against going up there, fearing that the strain of the spiral staircase might weigh on her heart or fatigue her fragile kidneys, but that morning Belinda would hear no reason. She climbed slowly, one step at a time, feeling her breath grow short but her will turn to iron.
The attic was a cemetery of memories. There were old pieces of furniture covered in white sheets that looked like ghosts sitting in wait, boxes full of Azzurra's school notebooks, and the first embroidery looms Belinda had used when magic was still just a child's game. In a corner, half-hidden under an old straw-bottomed chair, she saw a small blue tin chest, rusted at the edges.
Her heart leaped in her chest. With trembling hands, Belinda knelt on the dusty floor and opened the lid. Inside, wrapped in a sheet of yellowed tissue paper, they were there: the odalisque slippers. They were tiny, made of a purple silk that time had not managed to fade entirely, decorated with golden embroidery now blackened by oxidation. They belonged to the outfit of Shimmy, the doll that Mattia and Erica had sent her years ago. When the doll had been destroyed and thrown away because it was deemed a bringer of darkness, Belinda must have unconsciously kept this fragment of the dress, perhaps out of a remnant of that instinct that prevented her from totally destroying anything that came from her brother.
She grabbed the slippers and felt a cold jolt race through her fingers. They were heavy, too heavy to be made only of silk. It felt as if lead had been sewn into the toes—the same metal she felt weighing down inside her sick body.
She descended the stairs almost in a trance, ignoring Tiziana's call from the kitchen asking if she wanted a coffee. She locked herself in the studio, sat at the desk, and, with her breath still broken, dialed Mattia's number. She knew it was rush hour in London, but she could not wait.
On the third ring, Mattia's voice answered, clear and pragmatic as always. "Belinda? Is everything okay? Are you feeling ill?"
"No, Mattia, I'm fine. Or at least, the body is holding up," she replied, clutching the purple slippers in her fist. "I found Shimmy's slippers. The ones from the doll you sent me years ago. Azzurra dreamed of her last night. She dreamed of wearing that dress and repairing the walls of a house falling to pieces through dance."
A heavy silence fell on the other end of the line. Mattia was not a man who easily believed in the supernatural, but the word "Shimmy" seemed to have reopened a wound in him as well. "Belinda... that doll wasn't just a gift," Mattia finally said, his voice sounding as if it came from very far away. "Erica and I never told you so as not to scare you, but when we bought it in that antique shop in Chelsea, the seller told us it belonged to a family of exiles who had lost everything. They said the doll held the 'memory of lost steps.' We sent it to Azzurra because we hoped it would bring her luck in dancing, but then you told us it seemed malevolent and we preferred to forget."
"Mattia, Azzurra isn't afraid of her," Belinda continued, looking at the golden reflection of the slippers on the desk. "She wants to wear them. She wants to transform that darkness into light. She told me that in the dream, the dress wasn't a disguise; it was her true skin."
"Listen to me, Beli," Mattia's voice grew urgent. "If Azzurra feels this calling, don't stop her. But be careful. The lead you feel inside you isn't just the illness; it's the debt of a magic that tried to skip stages. Azzurra has the hardest task: she must pay the debt not with pain, but with grace. If those slippers have resurfaced, it means the London cycle is closing here, in Sicily."
They stayed on the phone talking for nearly an hour. Mattia told her how Erica, in London, had begun to study the history of those exiles, discovering that they were textile artisans who used lead to weight the hems of ceremonial robes so that they would fall perfectly during rituals. Everything clicked: Belinda's lead, Azzurra's silk, the grandfather's gold.
When she hung up, Belinda felt drained but lucid. She called Azzurra into the studio. The girl entered, her hair still tied in the chignon from her morning rehearsal. When she saw the slippers on the desk, she did not flinch. Her green eyes shone with an ancient light.
"You found them," Azzurra said simply.
"Yes. I found them. But they are heavy, Azzurra. There is lead inside."
The girl stepped closer and took them in her hands. She smiled, a smile that had nothing childish about it. "The lead is for staying anchored to the ground when jumping toward the sky, Mama. Don't be afraid for me. I won't get sick. I will dance for you, too."
Belinda embraced her, smelling the scent of soap and her daughter's youth. She understood that her battle had become Azzurra's mission. The torch had been officially passed, not through a secret rite, but through a pair of slippers forgotten in an attic.