Fontanarossa Airport was swarming with the frantic life of late August. Between tourists returning with sun-scorched skin and Sicilians departing for work with heavy hearts, Azzurra walked with her backpack and the case of her dreams—her dance shoes—clutched tightly in her hand, as if they were an amulet. The moment of departure had arrived, marked by the constant hum of announcements and the scent of coffee and kerosene that filled the terminals.
Elia and Belinda watched her with a mixture of pride and anxiety they struggled to hide. They had decided that the best thing for Azzurra was to distance herself from the sites of the trauma, returning to London not as a victim fleeing illness, but as a young student ready to reclaim her life. The destination was the home of Uncle Mattia, Belinda's brother, a solid, practical, and affectionate man who lived in the verdant neighborhood of Richmond with his wife, Erica.
"Take care, Azzurra," Elia said, kissing her forehead, his hands lingering on her shoulders. "Uncle Mattia will be waiting for you right at the arrivals exit. Listen to Erica, follow her lead in everything... you know how much she loves you and how happy she is to have you there." Belinda embraced her with a strength that seemed intended to transmit all her vital energy, whispering one last warning into her ear: "Remember Samuele's words. Protect the heart, my little one, but never stop dancing. Even if the floor seems to tremble, it is you who leads the dance now. Never forget that."
Azzurra boarded the plane alone, suddenly feeling tiny in the large leather seat. As the Boeing took off, watching the smoking silhouette of Mount Etna grow smaller until it vanished into the clouds, she felt a strange euphoria mingle with melancholy. The journey was long, a bridge thrown between the visceral warmth of Sicily, with its volcanic rocks and its blood secrets, and the misty, composed elegance of England.
Arrival at Heathrow was a whirlwind of neon lights, endless escalators, and a Babel of voices from every corner of the world. Waiting for her beyond the arrivals barrier was Mattia. As soon as he saw her, he hoisted her up in an embrace that tasted of family and stability—an embrace that smelled of citrus aftershave and home. Beside him, Erica stood out with her innate British elegance: she wore a light camel-colored trench coat and a warm smile that immediately brightened the girl's mood, dissipating the exhaustion of the flight.
Erica was not at all the shadow Belinda feared in her darkest nightmares. She was an exceptional aunt, a cultured and refined woman who had always spoiled Azzurra with rare books, silk ribbons for her hair, and precious advice. As soon as they arrived at their splendid Georgian house in Richmond, overlooking a park that looked like a painting, Erica had already planned every detail to make her feel like a queen.
"Welcome home, my darling," Erica said, pulling her close and kissing her cheeks. "I've prepared the room on the second floor for you, the one looking out over the flower garden. And I've already made arrangements with Mrs. Bennett, a fantastic governess: you'll have your private lessons here every morning. Literature, science, English... you won't fall behind the Italian curriculum; in fact, you'll return to Messina knowing more than your professors! It will be like having a private little college all to yourself."
Azzurra was enchanted. The house was flooded with natural light filtering through the large sash windows—an environment so different from the narrow, damp alleys she remembered from East London. But the biggest surprise, the one that took her breath away, Erica saved for last. "Come with me, I have something to show you," the aunt said with a knowing wink. She led Azzurra to the basement, which had been completely renovated during the summer. Mattia, following his wife's instructions, had installed a sprung cherry-wood floor, an immense wall-to-wall mirror, and a professional ash-wood ballet barre.
"I know how much Samuele cared about your dancing, and I know that for you, it is the very air you breathe," Erica murmured with infinite sweetness, placing a protective hand on Azzurra's shoulder. "Here you can practice every afternoon in total peace. No matter what storm is outside, in here you are free. Mattia and I want these three months to be your true rebirth, your compensation for everything you have suffered."
Azzurra felt tears press behind her eyes. In that house, enveloped by the solid affection of her uncle and the almost maternal, meticulous care of Erica, the weight of the hurricane and the loss of Samuele finally seemed to grow lighter. Throughout September and early October, her routine became a balm for her soul. In the morning, she immersed herself in study with the tutors, rediscovering the pleasure of learning; in the afternoon, she lost herself for hours in exercises at the barre. She felt her muscles regain their tone, flexibility begin to flow through her limbs again, and her heart rediscover, beat by beat, a serene rhythm.
Erica was a constant but never intrusive presence: she prepared Earl Grey tea with shortbread, helped her translate the more difficult passages of Shakespeare, and in the evenings they read together by the lit fireplace, commenting on the poems of Keats. "You are a warrior, Azzurra," Erica would often tell her, stroking her hair. "You have survived storms that would have snapped ancient oaks. Now is your time to shine, to show the world what you are made of."
However, despite the optimism and the beauty of that golden new life, Azzurra could not forget entirely. Sometimes, while performing an arabesque alone in the silence of the basement, she had the impression that the mirror reflected a strange light—a flicker that did not come from the wall lamps. Mastro Alfio's pendant, though remaining silent, stayed constantly warm against her skin, a physical reminder of the pact that bound her to her lineage. Azzurra knew, deep down, she was there for a greater mission: to settle the debt. But with Mattia and Erica by her side, she felt for the first time that she was not alone in that battle. London was no longer just the place of darkness; it was becoming the stage for her definitive transformation.