I smile. “I was thinking a home for your sugar mice.”

We keep moving, through to the Piazza della Signoria, where the town hall, the Palazzo Vecchio, looms – an impressive fortress, a palace complete with battlements at the top. In the square we pass a group of Blackshirts, none of them much older than me, and they are joking and laughing, though in their black shirts, ties and hats they still manage to look sinister, like overgrown crows.

I look at them for a moment and catch the eye of one boy. He grins and shouts something in Italian that I don’t understand.

“What did he say?” I ask Ben.

“You don’t want to know,” he says grimly, dragging me along.

“I would think you would know me better than that,” I reply.

An exasperated smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Let’s just say he was appreciative of your appearance.”

“Ah.” I turn over my shoulder and catch the boy’s eye, then I shout something back. The boy’s mouth drops open in incredulity and then, amidst his friends’ shouts of laughter, he begins to move towards us.

“You’ve done it now,” Ben sighs, tugging me down an alleyway. We run, zigzagging a little, until he is certain we have lost our pursuer.

“And where did you learn that?” Ben asks. “I’m fairly sure they don’t teach words like that to proper young ladies.”

“Good job there aren’t any of those around, then,” I reply. “And I learned it from Ursula, of course. Such a poetic language, Italian.” It’s rankling a little that we fled so easily. The sight of the Blackshirts unnerved me, and a part of me relished the idea of a confrontation. I wanted to push back against something that I know in my heart is wrong. Doing nothing, running away, it feels … cowardly.

There’s not too much time to dwell on this, though, as we have reached our first important stop, a pilgrimage to Ben’s place of worship: the Uffizi gallery. We turn down an unobtrusive side street and find ourselves walking the length of the narrow courtyard between the two wings of the museum; ahead is a tantalizing glimpse of the Arno and all around us the high walls of the old building, built for the Medici. Graceful pillars support a wide portico where happy tourists buzz like little bees, and we join the swarm into the gallery.