The sound of the drawer closing echoed in the empty office, then returned to silence.
In July, in the garden of the Quirinal Palace, the roses were in full bloom.
Cerydra sat on a stone bench by the fountain, with a book spread on her lap, but she was not reading.
Her cane leaned by her side, and the crystal Chess piece reflected the water light, refracting fragmented colors.
Her gaze crossed the garden hedge, crossed the wall of the Quirinal Palace, and fell on the silhouette of Rome in the distance.
Professor Ferrari walked along the garden path, his pace much slower than before.
He sat down beside Cerydra, took a newspaper from his bosom, and handed it to her.
“Today’s.” Cerydra took the newspaper and opened it.
On the third page, the cultural section, her name appeared in the middle—not at the top, not at the bottom.
A commentary article about her match against a worker-born opponent, titled “The Princess and the Worker: Italy in a Game of Chess”.
The article was written very well, without excessive hype, nor deliberately downplaying it; it just objectively analyzed the brilliance of that game, then borrowed the topic to talk about the principle that “everyone is equal in front of the chessboard”.
“The position has changed,” Cerydra said.
“Yes.” “Moved from the bottom to the middle.” “Yes.” Cerydra closed the newspaper and placed it on her lap.
“Someone has said something.” Professor Ferrari did not answer; he knew Cerydra was not asking him.
“In February it was pressed in the corner, in April it moved to the middle.” Cerydra’s voice was very light, as if she were talking to herself.
“It means they are adjusting.
Not to ban, but to control.
Let the public know of my existence, but not know too much.
Let them like me, but not like me too much.
A precisely controlled Chess piece, placed in the safest position on the chessboard.” She paused.
“Safe, but controlled.” Professor Ferrari looked at her profile.
Fifteen years old, in less than a year, she would be fifteen.
Her short white hair was blown by the breeze, and the blue at the tips of her hair looked like a color borrowed from the sky.
Her eyes looked into the distance, and in those overly blue eyes, there was something the old professor had been unable to fully understand even after eight years.
“Your Highness,” Professor Ferrari said, “when did you start noticing these things?” Cerydra was silent for a while.
“From the beginning,” she said.
“The beginning of what?” “From the beginning of when I knew where I was.” Professor Ferrari did not ask further.
Some answers do not need to be spoken out.
He had taught her for eight years, watching her grow from a six-year-old child to a fourteen-year-old girl, watching her grow from a beginner to Italy’s top Chess player, watching her place one silent Chess piece after another on the board.
He knew better than anyone that she was never just playing Chess.
“Your Highness.” The old professor stood up, his spine looking somewhat hunched in the sunlight.
“I am old.
Everything I could teach you, I have already taught.” Cerydra looked up at him.
“The road ahead,” Professor Ferrari said, “you must walk by yourself.” The garden was quiet for a long time, the sound of the fountain chimed softly, and the fragrance of roses slowly diffused in the afternoon air.
Cerydra stood up, took her cane, and walked to the old professor.
Then she bent down and bowed to him.
Not the etiquette of a princess to a subject, but the etiquette of a student to a teacher.
Deeply, earnestly, lasting for a long time.
Professor Ferrari’s eyes moistened.
He reached out, as he did when she was a child, and gently patted the top of her head.
The short white hair was soft and cool, and the blue at the tips leaked out between his fingers, like a handful of light that could not be held.
“In my life, I have taught many students,” he said, his voice a little hoarse, “but only with Your Highness, I do not know if I taught Your Highness, or if Your Highness taught me.” Cerydra straightened up, and in those blue eyes, something was glowing slightly.
“Professor,” she said, “what you taught me is that the pieces will change, the opponents will change, and the rules will change.
But the eyes that look at the chessboard cannot change.” Professor Ferrari nodded.
He turned and walked away slowly along the garden path.
The July sunlight fell on his gray hair, on his slightly hunched back, on the places he had walked.
Cerydra stood in place, holding her cane, watching his back until that figure disappeared around the corner of the hedge.
The crystal Chess piece on the top of the cane was quietly refracting light in the sun.
She turned and looked at Rome outside the garden wall.
The summer of 1929 was burning, the black shirts of the Fascist Party were patrolling the streets, Mussolini’s portrait hung on the walls of every public building, and Italy was irreversibly sliding towards a certain future—the future she had read about in history textbooks in another world.
And she stood here, knowing that she was currently just a Chess piece on the board, being observed, being evaluated, being placed in a “safe” position.
But Chess pieces can also move.
She turned and walked into the depths of the Quirinal Palace.
The cane tapped on the ground, making a soft and firm sound.
Her short white hair shimmered with a slight blue in the afternoon light, like a moving, quiet, unextinguishable light.
She had not yet made her move.
But she had already seen the chessboard.
The entire chessboard.