“Yes.” I blow gently on my coffee. “It’s all dressed up in so much civility,” I say. “Like that horrible Lady Frances woman my uncle seems so enamoured of.”

Lili nods. “Evil can come under the guise of gentility. Things will get a lot worse before they get better,” she says with certainty.

“Let’s not talk about it this morning,” Gert chimes in, coming through the door in a pale pink silk dressing gown. She reaches up to peck Lili on the cheek. “We should be making the most of having Ben and Bea here with us for a few days.”

We chat quietly about other things as we eat our breakfast, but I know I’m not the only one with half my mind still on our conversation. I remember again the newsreels I have seen of Mussolini shouting from a podium at wild crowds of people, leading military demonstrations of rows and rows of soldiers, stony-faced and obedient. Lili’s warning sits in my stomach like a stone and part of me knows she’s right, knows that something dark and dangerous is wrapping itself in a death grip around this beautiful country. It may be easy to ignore it, but it doesn’t seem like something that’s going to go away on its own, whatever Ben may say.

“So what do you two have planned for today?” Gert asks.

“A lot,” I say, a surge of excitement thrilling through me.

“So much that we should really get going,” Ben agrees. “Thanks for breakfast, Lil.” He walks around to the other side of the counter and kisses Lili on the cheek.

She reaches out a hand and pats the side of his face. “We’ll see you both later for a family dinner,” she says.

Ben and I leave the house, stepping into the dazzling sunshine. Adrenaline thumps through my veins as I realize that we have the whole city to explore. It’s that vertiginous feeling of freedom again, calling to me, reminding me that I’m far from home.

The city is a warren of side streets and we zigzag through them heading for our destination. Ben is buzzing with excitement, almost giddy, and his enthusiasm feeds mine as we skitter through the streets, giggling like school children.

We walk for miles. Strolling through the Piazza del Duomo, I finally see the famous red brick domes up close. As I stretch my neck, tipping my head up to the skies to take it all in, right up to the gleaming bronze ball that Leonardo himself may have had his hands on, the cathedral is like something from a fantasy. The white and green marble exterior looks like it has been spun from sugar in an eccentric confectioner’s workshop, the fulfilment of a greedy child’s wish. It is a ridiculous, delicious delight.

“It’s so beautiful,” I say.

“Like a wedding cake,” Ben says, his nose slightly wrinkled.