“I knew you’d love it.” His voice is smug but for once I don’t care. Spread out in front of us like a divine offering is all of Florence, radiant under rose-tinted skies. The sun has almost done its work for the day, and it hangs just above the horizon burning fiercely like a hot ember. The golden light has diffused into something pink and mellow and the river Arno curls around a criss-cross pattern of streets that stretch out for miles; in front of us and a little way into the distance, the Duomo glows softly like a beacon, welcoming us to the city.

I sit beside Ben in silence for a while, too full of it all to speak. It feels so big; endlessly big, I think, as if the sky has grown.

“This is my secret place.” Ben’s voice breaks the quiet. “I used to sneak up here by myself all the time. Mum never knew where I was; it drove her mad. Lili knew, I think, but she never said anything.”

“Will you tell me about your mother?” I ask hesitantly. There’s a pause.

“She was very beautiful,” he says, and his voice is a little rusty, as if he’s trying out the words for the first time. “That’s the thing I remember most, actually – that she looked like an angel. Every day I feel like I remember a bit less, just pieces. How she smelled like lilacs in spring, how she could peel an apple in one long, curling strip.”

He looks off into the distance and rubs his nose. “She was always nervous: highly strung, I suppose you’d say – but who could blame her when she’d been kicked out of her home at sixteen for falling pregnant with me? She loved me.” His voice is so soft now I can hardly hear it. “I remember that, at least.” He clears his throat. “Somehow she got the fare together and we came to Europe. To France first and then to Italy. Someone gave her Lili’s name and she took us in, and then we lived here for a little over two years. It was home, or the closest to it I ever had.”

“Why did you leave?” I ask.