What had Babbo been seeking with the lightning? And lightning would illuminate the way towhat?
The guys talked for a few minutes before Jack signed off. But I had tuned them out by that point, my mind churning.
What really had happened that fateful night? Had things occurred as we thought?
I stood up, walking to the open window, staring out to the ruined tower. Given how my life had been lately, you’d think I would have turned away.
But . . .
I was still that same girl. The one who never tapped out. Who never backed down.
Curious and nosy to a fault.
Was there something there we had missed over the years? Would something in the tower ruins light the way?
Suddenly, I had to know. I couldn’t wait even another moment.
I stepped out of the enormous window and on to the large terrace.
“Chiara!” Tennyson called after me.
I spun around. He stood outlined in the window.
“Come inside. The storm will hit in a few minutes. You’ll get soaked. If there’s anything there, we’ll find it later.”
I waved him off, sending him strong ‘I’m fine’ thoughts and kept on walking straight to the flowers planted amongst stones.
The remains of the ruined tower.
Somehow, it seemed right to be here with a storm threatening. This spot had ended it all for my dad. Mom hadn’t moved a thing after the tower was destroyed. She considered it my father’s grave, as there hadn’t been much of him left to bury. This wasn’t a place of sunshine and roses.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. There were roses, I supposed. Mom had almost immediately planted a garden in the ruins. Turning a place of horror into one of beauty, she said. A living mausoleum. The flowers bobbed in the breeze, rustling against the fallen rocks.
Why had Babbo been up here that night? What had he been trying to do? Was the message from Cesareil Pompasojust a sick joke? The man clearly was a lunatic. And given his messages to Dante and Branwell, he liked messing with people.
Had Babbo just been caught up in some rambling vision that went awry? Had he even clearly understood what he was doing?
I scampered over the stones, studying them. Tumbled blocks of different shapes and sizes. Wind tugged at my hair and clothing. Twenty minutes later, I had nothing. The stones didn’t form any sort of discernible pattern. Nothing stood out as different or unusual.
WasBabbo trying to communicate with us through me? If so, why? And why now? Why lightning?
I couldn’t remember my sleepwalking dreams. Even my experiment in Riomaggiore was fuzzy. In some ways, that was the worst part.
Iwantedto remember. Anything to blot out my last memory of my father. That split second eye contact before he deliberately turned away from me, the tower exploding in a blast of bricks and rock.
Rain started to fall, just like that summer afternoon so long ago. Heavy, pot-bellied drops, eagerly plundering the dry earth. I was soaked in seconds.
I collapsed to my knees in the middle of the garden, breathing in the scents of lavender and roses and freesia. I backed up against one of the stones, holding my head in my hands.
I let it all wash over me. All the pain and revelations and hopeless yearning of the last several weeks.
Lightning flashed. Rain pounded. The fury of the external storm reflecting the chaotic agony inside my chest.
Why had Babbo chosen to leave me? How could he have looked at his little girl and still turned away? Why hadn’t I been lovable enough to stop him?
Light cracked across the sky. Rain pelted my skin.
How could he? How could he leave me like that?
