28 July 1893 — Tuscan Coast

“Allez, for the love of Merlin, Irene, JUMP!!”

Wind whipped mercilessly through Irene’s hair, sharp enough to cut through skin. Her heart pounded at an astronomic rate as she stared down incredulously at Rémy. Tanned and broad shouldered, with his hands on his waist, his teasing smile beamed up at her from their small boat moored just off the coastal line.

“Are you mad?!” She shrieked down, peering over the edge. She was barefoot, her toes gripping onto the rocks for dear life. She swore she saw a pebble break free from the cliff and fall to its metaphorical death in the waters below. “I can’t jump this high, I’ll–”

“For the last time, ma sirène, Rémy will make sure you will be fine.” The deeper throaty voice of Hélène reassured from behind her. Irene glanced over her shoulder at the older woman, eyes wide. “C’est quoi, la problème? You took to the water like a fish when we taught you how to swim.” Thus the nickname that she’d been given by the Frenchwoman. At first Irene had grated at it, however she found it rather difficult to snap at the woman when she was paddling for her life in the middle of the ocean. Eventually it became soothing to hear and Irene had relented just this once.

“That was different!” Irene spluttered with another glance downward. “I wasn’t standing halfway to heaven on the top of a cliff!” And yet the water looked achingly lovely. Though sun was beating down on them, this high up with wind pushing at her back, Irene was beginning to shiver in her water-logged clothes. Her hair hung down in an awful way from its bun, tangled to no end. She likely looked a mess, but the good news was Hélène didn’t seem to fair much better than her. The older witch was wearing it with pride though and her eyes sparkled as she stepped in front of Irene to peer over the edge. With another mumble to herself in French, she tisked and stepped back again before patting Irene on the shoulder. “Allez. I’ll count to three and you jump.”

“No.”

“Si. Allez, un –”

“Hélène please I –”

“Irene if you don’t go, she’ll push you…” A small voice carried through the air. The round eyes of Molly appeared from behind the Frenchwoman. She had finally made her way back up the cliff path. Heiress as she was, the timid American still looked as much the drowned keneazle as the rest of them. If Molly was here, Mateo wasn’t far behind. And if Hélène didn’t push her, Mateo certainly would.

“Deux…” Rémy had begun to join in and Irene felt herself step closer to the edge as if he were pulling her down. Resigned to her only two choices of being pushed or jumping herself, she faced the cliff fully, inhaling deeply.

“Trois!”

Here goes... Irene's scream followed her as she leapt off the cliff. Pain lanced through her foot as she pushed perhaps too hard off of the sharp rocks, and then she was flying. Well she was falling, but it was just as exhilarating. The shouts of encouragement followed her as she braced herself, hitting the water, and she held her breath it closed over her head.

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   Alice Dawson

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29 August 1893 — Pisa

It wasn’t often Irene felt completely dejected when she finished a piece, but then again Maestro Rinaldi seemed to have that affect on most everyone in their class except for Rémy. No, Rémy was the star pupil of the summer and usually quite unaffected by their professor. This time was different though, and Irene, Hélène, Molly and Mateo had all but lost their patience after class when Rémy began despairing over his technique. Filing out of the lecture hall felt particularly humiliating seeing as their class had ended with a particularly scalding lecture that involved at least a dozen phrases of irate Italian. By the end of it Mateo had ducked behind his painting, Irene had started to nurse a beastly headache, Molly had sunk halfway down into her chair and calm, collected Helene was even glaring at the older man. Rémy was the one scribbling furiously on parchment as if his life depended upon it.

It was after gathering in the smoldering heat outside that Irene went up to an already whining Rémy and seized the notes out of his hands. “No more talk of painting, canvases, sculpting, chiaroscuro, and Remy if I even so much as hear a plein air from you, so help me I will stuff this piece of parchment into your mouth.”

“Hear, hear!” Mateo piped up behind a cloud of smoke. He leaned lazily against the wall, cigarette stuffed into the corner of his mouth, arms crossed and his hair thoroughly streaked with the clay he’d been working with. Out of all of them, Mateo was always the one least affected by Rinaldi’s rants. Irene figured it was because he’d grown up hearing arguments like that all over his house from his cousins and family. With the way his voice boomed across the plaza, it wouldn’t be a surprise if he could match Rinaldi’s volume.

“Plus, we have Celia’s birthday celebration tomorrow.” Hélène reminded them as she patted a glassy-eyed Molly on the back. If Mateo was least affected by their master’s criticism, Molly took it the hardest. She was a talented artist, but they all knew she was her own worst critic (aside from Maestro Rinaldi).

“Che bello!” Mateo’s gleeful voice sounded in Irene’s ear, causing her to jump. He appeared behind her in another cloud of smoke which quickly enveloped Irene. “Does that - scusa, tesora - ” He quickly scooted away and patted Irene on the back as she coughed. “Does that mean Greta will make her lemon ices?” Irene laughed and nodded, and it was as if Christmas had come early for him. Celia’s cook’s desserts had quickly become his favorite over the summer, so much so that Mateo seized her by the waist and begun to spin her around their small group, crooning an old ballad in celebration. It wasn’t long until he’d coaxed half the plaza into singing the song and he’d deposited a dizzy Irene next to Rémy in favor of trying to cheer Molly up. To his credit, it seemed to be working. Molly was laughing, her eyes bright and lively again and it was as if Maestro’s lecture had never happened — for all of them, except for one.

“Rémy, cheer up.” Irene nudged him with her elbow, her eyes still watching as Mateo traded with another student and started to dance with Helene. “We’ve all had a smack from Maestro this summer, and you know you’re his favorite student.” But as she looked closer, it didn’t appear that Rémy was listening. His gaze remained rather distant and despite his bronzed complexion, she quite thought he looked a bit pale. “Rémy?”

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29 August 1893 — Pisa

Irene woke up the next morning to a wonderful fragrance drifting through the window. And when she opened the shutters of her bedroom, a bright explosion of color quickly materialized before her. Flowers of all different colors and sizes - some magically enhanced - were beginning to cover the entirety of the villa in arches of wisteria, patches of sunflowers, and bouquets of hydrangeas. Waterfalls of ivy spilled onto the terrace and the fountains were sparkling as if the marble had just been installed.

As Irene descended the stairs for breakfast, she could hear Celia’s voice drifting through the hallways.

“…and check with Irene that she’ll be able to - ah! Irene there you are, how did you sleep darling?”

Irene plucked a plate from the end of the serving table. “Well, thank you, and you?”

“Oh yes quite well - anyways as I was saying before your prompt arrival, I have an errand to run before I come back and help set up. When you get back from your lesson could you help Farrow with directing everyone where to go?” Irene had gotten special permission from Maestro Rinaldi to miss half of the class today. In addition to being a donor of the art institute in France, Cousin Celia was also a donor to one of the institutes in Tuscany, the very one that Irene and her friends were attending. Despite Rinaldi’s harsh criticism of their work, he had become a good acquaintance of her cousin in the past few months and had given them all permission for a half-day so they might help with the set up. It also helped that the entirety of their class would be there later that evening.

“Certainly,” Irene replied with a smile before they dissolved into more chatter about the plans for the night. Magical instruments would be playing throughout the vineyard with the fountains in the courtyard syncing up with the music. When Irene pointed out that it might not be wise to have floating instruments around with Flopsy and Mopsy, Celia’s Maremmano-Abruzzese Sheepdogs on the property, Celia gaily waved off her worries, deposited a kiss on Irene’s forehead and floated out of the room to get her hat.

It wasn’t long after that until Betsy came into the room to announce that Mr. Rémy and Mr. Gasparini were waiting for her in the foyer. After taking a napkin and wiping the lipstick from her cousin’s kiss goodbye off her forehead, Irene ate one more bite of her toast before grabbing her bag and hurrying to meet them. Rémy still looked out of sorts, and slightly uncomfortable whereas Mateo had scooped up Bear in his arms and was crooning to him in Italian. Th cat, for his part, was looking mildly annoyed but tolerating of Mateo.

“Andiamo!” Irene greeted cheerfully, grabbing her hat, thanking Betsy and hurrying for the door. Bear leapt out of Mateo’s arms and meowed at the three of them before running outside. Mateo quickly followed. Linking her arm with Rémy, Irene tugged him along whispering, “Are you alright?” as they walked out the door. The far-off look in his eyes never really faded as he shook himself, looked at Irene and smiled. “Oui, beauté.”

Irene frowned at him as he seemed to go rigid with resolve and shake off the thoughts that had been running through his mind. “Just a little tired is all, nothing for you to worry about. Allez, it looks like Mateo’s got a head start on us.”

Even as he pulled her to run and catch up with Mateo, she kept an eye on him all afternoon, during their practice session, walking back to the villa and even while she was attempting to herd Flopsy and Mopsy into the house for the night (a fruitless endeavor).

“Rémy,” She eventually approached him when the festivities were in full swing. The instruments were playing a jolly tune whilst attempting to evade the sheepdogs trying to herd them. Guests whirled past them in a flurry of colors, but Irene payed them no mind. Sliding a glass of wine towards her friend, she sat down under the pergola that had been designed as a place of respite. “Won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

“Tell me again why you signed up for the class.”

If she’d been expecting anything from him, it wasn’t that. Averting her gaze, Irene took a sip of her drink. Try as she might, the past few months hadn’t been the easiest for her. She missed home, and she missed her friends, but ultimately knew she couldn’t stay in Hogsmeade. Not while… “You know the story.” And he did. Confused as to why he’d brought it up, she glanced back at him, and her question died on her lips.

Instead of having a distant look in his eye, his attention was fully on the couples dancing middle of the courtyard; not just any couple, though. She watched as his gaze followed Hélène as she danced with Mateo, and with a jolt, realized she recognized the expression on his face, plain as day. She knew if she had been watching herself on that day of the flower show, her eyes following as Elias danced with Daffodil, that she’d have had the very same expression on her face as Rémy did now. Looking back and forth between Rémy and Hélène, Irene could only watch in stunned despair as a familiar ache hit in her square in the chest as if someone had hexed her. Rémy…

But then Hélène withdrew, her cheeks flushed, bun slightly undone and started walking towards them. Irene felt herself straighten, her eyes darting over to Rémy. While he smiled at their friend, his eyes still didn’t leave the courtyard. A shout rose from the crowd; Mateo’s voice if Irene had a guess. However she didn’t have to go searching for Mateo; Rémy had already found him, the pained expression on his face even more prominent.

Before she could even find the words, Hélène sat down, brushing wisps of hair away from her eyes and reaching over to take some of Rémy’s drink. “Ça va, Irene?”

Whipping her gaze back to Hélène, Irene opened her mouth to speak as her mind raced to cover her own shock over what she’d just discovered. She didn’t have to think of anything though. Hélène had turned to look to her childhood friend, her own expression morose.

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   Alice Dawson

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