“Yes, I can imagine,” I say. “It must be difficult, especially with what’s going on politically. The fascists aren’t precisely welcoming of anyone they consider different. Though my uncle seems quite excited about his meeting with Mussolini,” I add dryly.

“I’ve heard him say that fascism is the future,” Ben says.

“I’m sure he believes it,” I say, “but I don’t think he understands the real cost. Look at what’s happening in Germany. Look at Ursula and Klaus. If you ask me, Mussolini is a dangerous man.”

Ben leans back in his seat. “You may be right,” he says. “You’ll meet plenty of people in the next couple of days who share that opinion.”

I glance over. “But not you?” I ask.

Ben shrugs. “I care about my work,” he says. “I’m no fan of Mussolini, God knows. But I know plenty who are, and some of those people are likely to be the ones who can help me work.” He frowns briefly and then his face clears. “All of this political fuss will probably come to nothing; the world will go back to normal. It’s the work that will last.”

The rest of the journey passes companionably enough. I ask Ben about some of the art we will see, and his face lights up as he describes the colours and textures, the genius of the old masters and the startling, vibrant works of the new. I like listening to him talk about it; he makes it all come alive for me. In return, I pull out the detailed itinerary I have made of all the museums that I want to visit, detailing the collections at the natural history museum, telling him about the plants at the botanical gardens.

“It’s the third oldest in Europe,” I say excitedly. “It was established in 1545 by a Medici, Ben… A Medici!”

“Everything in Florence was founded by a Medici,” Ben says. “And you’ve missed off some of the best places.”

“How will we do it all?” I ask despairingly.

“We’ll manage,” Ben says. “I promise, you won’t miss anything on your preposterous list.”

When we reach the station Ben climbs down the steps and hold his hands up for the bags. Our eyes meet, and I grin, remembering how we first met. Ben grimaces, which I think means he is remembering it too.

No one has come to meet us, but Ben says there would be no point – he knows where he’s going and they’ll all be waiting at the house anyway. The station is heaving, full of people shouting and shoving at each other. Parts of the impressive new structure are still covered in scaffolding but above us soars a great glass roof.

“More of Il Duce’s improvements,” Ben says, gesturing around us.

“It’s certainly very modern,” I say, looking around at the imposing building.