In the spring of 1921, the King did something that surprised the entire court.
He sent someone to the University of Turin to invite a retired professor to teach the six-year-old Cerydra.
This professor was named Professor Ferrari, sixty-eight years old, who had taught law and classical studies at the University of Turin for forty years and was also the honorary president of the Italy Chess Association.
He was thin with a full head of silver hair, his eyes hidden behind thick lenses, habitually squinting slightly when looking at people, as if examining a Chess piece.
No one understood why the King would invite such a highly respected scholar from Turin to Rome just to teach a six-year-old princess.
According to the traditions of the House of Savoy, the education of princesses was the responsibility of court governesses, with content limited to literature, music, etiquette, and needlework.
Hiring a law professor to teach was simply unheard of.
The King offered no explanation.
He only said one sentence to Professor Ferrari: “She is different.” The first lesson took place in a small study in the east wing of the Quirinal Palace.
It was a morning in March, and the sunlight shone through the floor-to-ceiling windows, spreading a layer of gold across the parquet floor.
The room contained a mahogany desk, two chairs, a wall of bookshelves, and an exquisite Chess set—the board was made of inlaid maple and walnut, and the pieces were carved from ivory, a gift from the King.
Cerydra sat in a chair, her feet not yet reaching the floor.
She wore a simple white dress, her short white hair reaching just to her shoulders, the blue at the tips shimmering faintly in the sunlight.
A cane leaned against the edge of the desk at her right hand, and the crystal King piece quietly refracted the light.
When Professor Ferrari entered the room, the first thing he noticed was not her appearance, but her posture.
The six-year-old child sat there with her back straight, hands naturally folded on the desk, her gaze calmly fixed on the direction from which he entered.
There was no restlessness, no curious glancing around, no instinctive tension children display when meeting a stranger.
It was a posture of waiting.
Like a Chess player waiting for an opponent to take their seat.
Professor Ferrari had been teaching for forty years and had seen too many students.
Some students entered the classroom restless, some lazy, some nervous, and some arrogant.
But he had never seen this posture in a six-year-old child—calm, focused, and carrying a sense of composed anticipation.
“Your Highness.” He bowed slightly.
“Professor.” Cerydra nodded gently.
Her voice was soft, but her articulation was clear.
It was not the clarity of someone deliberately imitating an adult, but a natural, seemingly innate certainty.
Professor Ferrari sat down opposite her and placed the books he had brought on the desk.
He had originally prepared an introductory course designed specifically for young children—simple letter cards, brightly colored picture books, and a soft cloth Chess piece to spark interest.
At this moment, looking at the little girl with white hair and blue eyes before him, he suddenly felt that the things he had prepared might not be appropriate.
He decided to change his opening approach.
“Have you had any contact with Chess before, Your Highness?” Cerydra’s gaze fell on the ivory Chess set, “Father taught me how the pieces move.” “Then,” Professor Ferrari opened the chessboard and set the pieces up one by one, “would you like to play a game with me?” Cerydra glanced at him.
A glint flashed in those blue eyes that Professor Ferrari could not decipher at the time—it was not the excitement of a child invited to play a game, but a more complex emotion, somewhere between scrutiny and confirmation.
“Very well.” She said.
She played white, and the professor played black.
The six-year-old princess reached out, her fair fingers hovering above the board for a second before landing on the King’s pawn and pushing it forward two squares.
e4.
Professor Ferrari’s eyebrows raised slightly.
It was not because this move was particularly brilliant—it was one of the most common openings—but because of her gesture.
The movement of her small hand as it landed on the piece was clean and decisive, without any hesitation, and the way her fingertips touched the ivory piece was just right—neither too light nor too heavy, as if she had repeated the action a thousand times.
He responded with e5.
Cerydra’s second move was Knight to f3.
The third move was Bishop to c4.
The Italian Game.
Classical, steady, and upright.
Professor Ferrari responded in silence, his gaze moving back and forth between the board and the girl’s face.
When Cerydra played, there was no superfluous expression on her face.
No smiling, no frowning, no biting her lip, no tilting her head in thought.
She simply looked at the board and then made her move.
The interval between each move was roughly the same, as if some inner rhythm were guiding her hand.
By the fifteenth move, Professor Ferrari paused.
On the board, the layout of the white pieces presented a strange form.
It was not that it was particularly ingenious—given her age of six, her Chess strength was naturally far inferior to his—but the way it was laid out.
The distribution of the pieces, their interaction with one another, and the rhythm of the overall advancement had an indescribable sense of “orderliness.” It was as if measured with a ruler; every piece was exactly where it ought to be, not an inch too far or too short.
As if some law were being strictly enforced on the board.
“Your Highness,” Professor Ferrari put down the black piece in his hand, “what are you thinking about when you play?” Cerydra looked up at him.
Those excessively blue eyes were almost transparent in the sunlight.
“I am thinking,” she said, “about how to keep them in the correct positions.” “What do you mean by the correct positions?” “It is…
where they ought to be.” Professor Ferrari was silent for a long time.
Outside the window came the sound of the gardener pruning branches in the garden, click-clack, ringing out rhythmically.
The sunlight moved slowly across the floor, crawling up the table legs, climbing onto the edge of the board.
He suddenly understood the meaning of the King’s words.
She is different.
From that day on, Professor Ferrari’s teaching plan was completely overturned.
He did not bring out those cards and picture books prepared for toddlers again.
The next day, he brought an introductory Latin textbook, a basic arithmetic book, an Italy geography atlas, and a copy of “Principles of Chess” which he had written himself.
Cerydra took the Chess manual, opened the first page, and began to read quietly.
“You can read, Your Highness?” Professor Ferrari was somewhat surprised.
“Sister Yolanda taught me some.” Cerydra said.
Of course, she could not show her progress too quickly.
A six-year-old child could be “smart,” but not “erudite.” Being smart made people fond of you; being erudite made people suspicious.
So she restrained herself; she “learned” quickly, but not to an absurd degree.
In arithmetic, she “understood” quickly, but would occasionally “get a question wrong,” then carefully correct it.
In geography, she “remembered” the names of the cities along the Adriatic Sea with exceptional clarity—Trieste, Fiume, Zara, Spalato; when she spoke these place names, which were repeatedly contested in the post-war treaties, her pronunciation was so accurate that Professor Ferrari put down his pen.
“Are you familiar with these place names, Your Highness?” “They are on Father’s map.” Cerydra said calmly.
This was not a lie.
There was indeed a huge map of Italy hanging in the King’s study, marking the new territories acquired after the war.
She just did not say that her familiarity with these place names came more from another world.
Professor Ferrari did not press for more.
He only wrote in his notebook after the lesson that day: “Extraordinary memory; special sensitivity to geographical names; suggest strengthening history and geopolitics content in subsequent lessons.” After writing it, he looked at these lines and suddenly felt that he was not writing a teaching report for a six-year-old child, but rather…
something he could not name.