“Eat, eat,” she urged, gesturing to the lavish spread of warm scones, whipped butter, sliced fruits, and flaky pastries perfumed with vanilla and citrus.
I reached for a scone, spreading marmalade thickly over its golden surface. As I bit in, a wave of excitement surged up my spine. Out the window, the morning sun painted the sky in a golden blush. The world felt alive.
Tonight,I thought,everything will change.
Mama gently broke the shell of her soft-boiled egg, scooping the bright yolk with quiet precision. Then she looked up.
“What has you in such good spirits today, my child?”
I swallowed my bite, practically glowing.
“Tomaso has invited me to Pietro Costa’s masquerade ball,” I announced. “And I’m going!”
Silence fell like a guillotine.
Mama’s spoon froze midair. Papa lowered the paper.
Their eyes met mine—cold, unreadable.
“No,” Mama said, her voice sharper than I’d expected. “You arenotgoing to that party.”
Papa folded his news sheet with surgical calm.
“Your mother and I will be attending. Alone,” he said flatly. “That is final.”
“No! You can’t do this to me!” I shrieked, my fists slamming against the table with a force that rattled the cutlery. Rage surged through me like a wildfire. I shot to my feet, chest heaving, barely able to contain the storm building inside.
“You can’t stop me!”
“Watch me!” Papa roared.
He rose from his chair in one violent motion, seized my arm, and yanked me out of the dining room with a grip like iron.
I kicked, thrashed, screamed his name through clenched teeth—but it didn’t matter. His hold didn’t falter.
“You’ll thank me one day,” he muttered, dragging me up the stairs. “I’m doing this for your good, daughter.”
Then, with one shove, I was thrown backward onto my bed, the silk sheets tangling around me like a web.
“It’s one thing to protect your virtue,” Papa said, his voice strained, cracking with conflicting emotions. “It’s another to let you attend a ball of debauchery and shame.”
He loomed in the doorway—tall, unforgiving, the final word carved into stone.
“I’m an adult, too!” I cried, scrambling to my knees.
“You’re sixteen,” he said, softer now, his tone edged with sadness. “You know nothing of the world yet, piccolo uccello.”
His eyes searched mine, and I saw him falter for a heartbeat. The stern mask slipped just slightly. His lips parted as if he wanted to say more, but he didn’t.
That was all I needed.
I struck, words sharp and cold.
“The neighbor’s daughter married at fifteen. I’m already far more mature than she’s ever been.”
Papa’s jaw clenched. Whatever softness had bloomed there vanished like smoke.
“No, my child,” he said. “You are not. And my decision is final.”
