Page 8 of Under a Dancing Star

I decide it’s best not to pay attention to this fit of the sullens, but instead to concentrate on the matter at hand. I take a step closer to him.

“What are you doing?” He leaps back, alarmed; the backs of his legs hit the bench and it clatters against the wall behind him.

“Nothing to worry about,” I say soothingly. “I just need to feel your nose.”

“Feel my nose?” His outrage is so comical that I can’t stop the laughter from bubbling out, which only makes him look even more thunderous.

“Yes,” I say. “I’ll just check it isn’t broken. You’re probably concerned about your face.” I tilt my head on one side. “It is very pretty.”

His mouth drops open at this, and he makes a spluttering noise as though he can’t find the words he wants. Taking advantage of his confusion, I reach up and take hold of his nose.

We stand there for a moment, as I check his perfect face for damage, and as I do so I can’t help thinking how odd this is. All my life, I’ve only ever had polite, dull conversations with boys my age – and if I ever try to be anything other than polite and dull, the response is usually blind terror, as with Cuthbert. But Ben has talked back to me. It hasn’t exactly been friendly talk, but in a strange way that’s what makes it so enjoyable.

He clears his throat and I realize my hands are still on his face.

“Not even broken,” I say, stepping back. “You remain symmetrical.”

“There’s no need to sound so disappointed.”

“I’ve never really punched someone like that before,” I explain. “I learned it from a book, you see, rather than from any practical experience.” I glance down at my fingers. “Honestly, I hoped I’d be capable of doing a bit more damage.”

“Believe me, the damage was more than sufficient.” He shoots me another dark look.

“I’m sure it hurts less than my hand does,” I say. “And you don’t see me making a fuss.”

Ben’s eyes dart to my bruised knuckles and, for a second, I think he’s going to show concern for my own injuries. Then, to my surprise, he smirks. “Serves you right.”

He reaches down and picks up the bag that has caused so many problems and slings it over his shoulder.

“Come on then,” he says. “Let’s get you delivered to Leo in one piece. He was most concerned about you; said he didn’t want you left waiting alone. Said you were a well-bred and sheltered young lady.” He snorts. “And I’m the King of England.” He looks at me, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “I’d even go so far as to say you were quite enjoying yourself.”

“I certainly enjoyed the part where your feet went up over your head before you hit the platform,” I say sweetly.

Ben shakes his head. “You caught me by surprise,” he mutters, and then turns on his heel.

I follow him outside to a battered car that looks like it’s held together with nothing but rust and hope. Ben throws my bag on to the back seat and I slide into the passenger side. He starts the car and we shudder away from the station and out into the night.

In the darkness around us, barely anything is visible; the weak arcs of light from the car headlamps achieve little except to attract every moth within a one-mile radius. The sky is still overcast and only a few of the more robust stars are on display, while the moon drifts in and out of sight as the breeze moves the clouds across its reassuringly familiar face. It’s funny that after all this travel the same moon hangs suspended in the sky – as though that, too, should somehow be different. The roof of the car is down and the air slipping past me is cool, carrying a sharp smell of pine needles.

I shiver a little, though whether it is from the temperature or the excitement I’m not sure.

I glimpse a rough blanket folded on the back seat beside my bag. As I twist and lean over to get it I’m forced to clamber about a bit. Ben grinds the gears rather dramatically.

“Car troubles?” I ask sympathetically, dropping back into the seat. “If it helps, I think you might be trying to change up too quickly.”

“The only problem I have is you flailing around while I’m trying to concentrate,” he snaps.

“I’m cold,” I say. “I needed the blanket.” I drag it around my shoulders, welcoming the warmth it brings.

We travel on in silence, which is fine by me – I am happy just to sit and strain my eyes against the darkness for any clues about our whereabouts. I am in Italy, I think, as Ben hums beneath his breath and the car heaves itself along. I am really here; it is really happening.

Suddenly, Ben turns the steering wheel sharply to the left and, as we judder along over the dirt road, a row of cypress trees appears, their knife-like silhouettes cutting dense shadows against the inky sky. Moments later, lights blaze into view: burning torches dug into the ground that reveal a rough driveway and a long, imposing wall with an arch carved in the middle. It looks like a fortress, the shadows of the trees playing eerily across the stone in the firelight. It’s as though we’ve been dropped unceremoniously into the past.

“No electricity outside the house,” Ben explains, gesturing to the torches. It must be the early hours of the morning now and everything is silent as we trundle through the archway into a sort of courtyard. The car comes to a stop and the weak glow from its headlamps is extinguished.

I take a deep breath; there’s a clinging, heavy scent in the air that’s sweet, like jasmine. Ben steps out of the car and I do the same, slipping out from under the blanket and stretching my cramped limbs.

“We’re here,” I say into the night. I can’t believe it.