The winter of 1931 was exceptionally cold.
Rome had been snowing for three consecutive days; the rooftops on both banks of the Tiber River were covered in a layer of grey-white, and the dome of St.
Peters Basilica became blurred in the wind and snow, as if someone had smeared a stroke of wet grey paint on a canvas.
A thin layer of ice had formed on the windows of the east wing of the Quirinal Palace; the maids had to use warm water to melt the frost on the window frames every morning before they could push the windows open.
Cerydra walked to the window, her blue cane tapping against the floor, emitting a faint, resolute sound.
The crystal Chess piece shimmered with a deep blue light in the winter twilight.
Outside the window, the silhouette of Rome loomed in the wind and snow.
On the tower of the distant Palazzo Venezia, a window was lit—that was the office of Mussolini.
Cerydra had grown accustomed to the presence of that light—it always turned on when the sky began to darken, and it was perfectly visible from the direction of her window.
She knew the other person could see her window, too.
She was fifteen years old, turning sixteen in a few months.
In the past two years, she had climbed to the peak of the European Chess world, undefeated.
She had invented two types of Chess, allowing both aristocrats and workers to find enjoyment within the same set of rules.
She had given a nun from Sicily a name from another world.
She had accepted the allegiance of an old general with three words—”Remember this.” But all of this was not enough to change anything.
She was still too young; her game had only just begun.
Her cane tightened slightly in her grip, the crystal Chess piece pressed against her palm, cold and hard.
She was not playing Chess; Chess had sixty-four squares, thirty-two pieces, black and white clearly defined.
But a real game had no boundaries.
The true chessboard was this Eternal City itself—every street, every square, every building, every living or dead person in Rome.
The real opponent was not one person.
It was everyone standing on the other side of the board, and those who had not yet chosen a side, watching from the edges of the board.
She needed pieces.
Black ones, white ones, and those whose colors had not yet been revealed.
Each one had to be placed in the correct position, and each one had to be moved to the necessary place when needed.
The snow outside the window grew heavier, and that light at the Palazzo Venezia flickered in the wind and snow.
Cerydra gazed at that light, remaining silent for a long time.
Then she turned and walked toward the desk.
Her cane tapped on the floor, emitting a faint, resolute sound.
A fifteen-year-old girl, white hair and blue eyes, cane in hand.
Her game started today.
One evening in mid-January, Cerydra’s motorcade passed through the southern suburbs of Rome.
The motorcade consisted of three black sedans; the front was the escort vehicle, the middle was Cerydra’s own car, and the last was the accompanying car carrying Virginia.
It was getting dark, but the streetlights had not yet turned on.
On both sides of the road was the Testaccio District, where workers lived in clusters; low brick houses were packed tightly together, their walls plastered with faded Fascist Regime propaganda posters.
A cold wind blew in from the direction of the Tiber River, whipping up scraps of paper and dust on the roadside.
The motorcade was forced to stop; a group of people blocked the road ahead, about twenty or thirty of them, ragged and gaunt.
They held up crooked cardboard signs with scrawled charcoal writing—”We want work,” “The children have no bread.” There were no slogans shouted, no noise, just standing quietly in the middle of the road, like a group of shadows grown from the earth.
A few Fascist Party members wearing black shirts stood opposite the crowd, holding wooden clubs, their expressions fierce.
Cerydra rolled down the car window.
“Virginia.” “Yes.” “Go and take a look.” Virginia opened the car door and stepped into the cold wind.
Her grey coat lingered at the edge of the crowd for a while, she exchanged a few words with a woman holding a baby, then turned and walked back.
Her pace remained unhurried, as usual.
“Your Highness,” she said, returning to the car, her voice very low, “It’s unemployed workers.
The factory closed last winter, and they can’t receive relief money.
The Fascist Party relief station requires them to join the party organization first, but they are unwilling.
Someone fainted from hunger today, and they wanted to stop any passing dignitaries to make the people in charge see them.” Cerydra did not answer.
Her gaze passed over Virginia and landed on a young woman in the crowd.
The woman was in her early twenties, so thin that her cheekbones protruded, holding a baby in her arms.
The baby’s face was buried in its mother’s tattered scarf, its expression invisible.
The woman’s eyes stared straight in the direction of the motorcade, without anger, without pleading, only a numbness as if frozen.
She pushed open the car door and stepped into the cold wind.
Virginia followed closely behind, her lips moving as if to say something, but Cerydra had already taken a step.
The officer of the escort team nervously tried to follow but was stopped by a look from Cerydra.
Her cane tapped on the ground, emitting a faint, clear sound.
The crowd saw her.
Her white short hair shimmering with a faint blue light in the twilight, her blue cane, the crystal Chess piece refracting a dim gleam in the fading light.
Someone recognized her and whispered the name—”Princess Cerydra”—like a pebble thrown into water, the ripples spreading from the first person to the second, then to everyone.
The Blackshirt party members looked at each other, and the wooden clubs in their hands dropped involuntarily.
Cerydra walked up to the woman holding the baby.
“How old is the child?” she asked.
The woman was stunned, not expecting the princess to speak to her.
“Three…
three months, Your Highness.” “Has it eaten?” The woman lowered her head and said nothing.
The baby made a faint, kitten-like cry in the scarf.
The cry was so small, almost drowned out by the sound of the wind.
But Cerydra heard it.
She turned and her gaze swept across the crowd.
Those twenty-some gaunt faces, those twenty-some pairs of eyes, either numb, astonished, or hopeful.
Some lowered their heads, some had red eyes, and some clutched the cardboard signs covered in writing.
“Virginia.” “Yes.” “Write down the names of everyone here.
Tomorrow morning, have them come to the east gate of the Quirinal Palace.” A low commotion erupted in the crowd; some could not believe their ears, some began to cry, and some wanted to kneel but were supported by those beside them.
The woman holding the baby opened her eyes wide, her lips trembling, unable to speak.
Cerydra reached out and gently touched the small hand the baby had exposed from the scarf.
That hand was so small, too small to grasp anything.
But she held its fingers.
The baby’s crying stopped.
In the twilight, that tiny life opened its eyes and looked at the white-haired, blue-eyed girl in front of it.
Cerydra withdrew her hand.
She turned and walked toward the motorcade.
Her cane tapped on the ground, emitting a faint, resolute sound.
The crowd automatically cleared a path.
No one spoke, no one shouted, no one tried to approach.
They just stood quietly, watching the girl with the cane walk back to the car.
The sound of the car door closing echoed softly in the quiet twilight.
The motorcade started up again.
Virginia sat in the backseat, watching Cerydra’s profile.
The princess gazed at the streetscape retreating rapidly outside the window, her white short hair blown by the wind coming through the gap in the window, the blue at the tips of her hair almost turning black in the darkening car.
“Your Highness,” Virginia said.
“Hmm.” “Among those people, there might be OVRA spies.” Cerydra turned her head and looked at Virginia.
In those grey-green eyes, there was a quiet alertness.
Cerydra was silent for a moment.
“I know.” “Aren’t you afraid that Mussolini will find out, Your Highness?” “Heh.” Cerydra said, as the streetlights outside the window lit up one by one, the orange light sweeping across her face, bright one moment, dark the next.
“That is exactly why he should know.” Virginia did not ask again.
She suddenly understood—not that she understood the Princess’s entire plan, for that was something she could never fully grasp—but she understood one thing: the Princess was playing a game of Chess.
And those unemployed workers who had stood in the cold wind all day were the first pieces placed on the board.
Not pieces being used.
Pieces being caught.
Catching a piece and using a piece sometimes look exactly the same.
But the piece knows the difference; every piece that is caught will remember that hand.
In the remaining days of January, there was a queue at the east gate of the Quirinal Palace every day.
Not to petition, not to demonstrate, but to receive food.
Cerydra used her own annuity to set up a relief station, opening at seven every morning and closing at five in the afternoon.
Two large pots were set up at the entrance, one for porridge, one for soup.
The bread was baked by the palace kitchen the previous night—coarse bread, not the white bread the aristocrats ate, but enough to fill their stomachs.
The work at the relief station was managed by Virginia.
On the first day, she established a complete process—queue, register, one portion per person, no more, no less.
The register contained everyone’s name, age, address, and family size.
She did not explain why this registration was necessary, nor did anyone ask.