In the autumn of 1926, Cerydra was eleven years old.
Mr.
Mastroianni from the Rome Chess Club came to the Quirinal Palace for the third time.
When this player, ranked in the top three in Italy, arrived the first time, his expression was relaxed, even carrying a hint of the indulgent smile an elder gives a child.
When he came the second time, his smile had diminished by half.
By the third time, his smile was gone entirely.
The game had reached the forty-seventh move.
Mastroianni’s finger hovered over a black knight, frozen.
Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, glistening in the October afternoon sunlight.
Across the board, eleven-year-old Cerydra sat quietly, her cane leaning against the chair, the crystal king piece refracting the light from outside the window.
Her hands were folded on her lap, her gaze fixed on the board—not urging, not impatient, simply waiting.
That waiting itself was a form of pressure.
Mastroianni finally placed the knight down.
His hand trembled slightly—not out of nervousness, but because the moment he made the move, he already saw what would happen next.
Cerydra reached out, her white bishop moving diagonally to capture a pawn that had been lurking deep in the black side for a long time.
Mastroianni’s breath hitched.
That pawn was the key fulcrum of his entire defensive system.
It was hidden very deep, having never moved since the opening, like a silent rivet, firmly anchoring his left flank defense.
He thought she wouldn’t notice.
Everyone who had played against him would overlook that quiet pawn when the battle was at its peak.
She had noticed it.
“Your Highness,” Mastroianni’s voice was somewhat dry, “when did you discover this pawn?” Cerydra raised her eyes to look at him.
In those eyes, blue to the point of being almost transparent, there was no victor’s triumph, no childlike innocence, only a calm, almost matter-of-fact certainty.
“From the moment you placed it there,” she said.
Mastroianni was silent for a long time, then he reached out and tipped over his king.
“I concede.” This was the seventh game he had lost in front of Cerydra.
Out of seven games, he had won one, drawn one, and lost five.
As for that one victory, he later reviewed the game repeatedly, becoming increasingly uncertain—whether he had won it by his own merit, or if she had deliberately let him win.
He did not ask; some questions would be too impolite to voice.
After Mastroianni left, Professor Ferrari sat before the chessboard, silent for a long time.
He was seventy-three years old, his hair completely white, his back slightly hunched, but those eyes hidden behind thick lenses remained sharp.
He looked down at the black and white endgame on the board, as if reading a book that only he could fully understand.
“Your Highness,” he finally spoke.
“Yes.” “Mr.
Mastroianni is one of the best chess players in Italy.” “I know.” “You have won five games against him.” “Yes.” “You are eleven years old this year.” Cerydra did not speak.
She reached out and began to clear the pieces from the board.
Her white fingers picked up the ivory pieces, placing them back into the wooden box one by one, her movements light and steady, as if performing some kind of ritual.
Professor Ferrari watched her, “Your Highness, I can no longer teach you.” Cerydra’s hand paused.
“You said that,” she said, “three years ago.” “When I said that three years ago, I meant that my ability was no longer sufficient to teach you new things.
Today, when I say that, I mean—” Professor Ferrari took off his glasses and slowly wiped the lenses with his cuff, “I can no longer understand the chess you play.” The study fell silent.
Outside the window came the sound of fallen leaves in the garden being swept up by the wind, rustling, like countless tiny fingers stroking paper.
The autumn of 1926 was descending upon Rome; the plane trees at the Quirinal Palace were beginning to shed their green, revealing grayish-white branches.
Cerydra placed the last piece back into the box and closed the lid.
“Professor,” she said, “what you have taught me has never been just chess.” Professor Ferrari put his glasses back on and looked at her.
“What you taught me is how to understand the chessboard.” Cerydra’s gaze fell upon the empty chessboard, those sixty-four black and white squares lying quietly in the afternoon light.
“The pieces will change, the opponents will change, and the rules will change.
But the chessboard itself has always been the same.” Professor Ferrari did not speak; he suddenly remembered how, five years ago, this six-year-old child had looked when she first sat before the chessboard.
At that time, her hands were still too small, and her posture for holding the pieces was somewhat unsteady.
But the way she placed her pieces was like that from the very beginning—clean, certain, as if tidying up a messy room.
Five years had passed, her hands had grown, her chess skills had improved, and the opponents she had defeated had changed from court maids to top-tier players in Italy.
But the way she placed her pieces had not changed at all.
It was still the same.
Clean, certain, as if executing some kind of law.
In 1927, Cerydra was twelve years old.
This year, the political atmosphere in Italy became even more stifling.
Mussolini’s power was constantly expanding, and the Fascist Party’s control over the state apparatus was becoming increasingly tight.
The voices of the opposition had basically disappeared, leaving only monotonous paeans of praise in the newspapers.
Secret police patrolled the streets, and columns of black shirts filled the squares every weekend.
The decrees signed by the King increasingly bore the Prime Minister’s countersignature—that flamboyant signature, like an increasingly heavy seal, pressing down upon the authority of the House of Savoy.
The atmosphere inside the Quirinal Palace also became subtle accordingly.
On the surface, everything was as usual.
Court balls were held as usual, diplomatic receptions proceeded as usual, and the royal family’s public activities continued to appear on the front pages of newspapers.
But Cerydra could feel that the lights in her father’s study stayed on later and later, the letters Umberto wrote from Turin became shorter and shorter, and the glances her sisters exchanged at the dinner table became increasingly complex.
She was observing.
This was the first lesson Professor Ferrari taught her—not about chess, but about people.
“The person playing chess,” the old professor had once said, “is more important than the chess itself.
How a person places their pieces is how a person conducts their life.” Cerydra kept this sentence in her heart, then extended it beyond the chessboard.
She began to observe everyone in the palace.
Not the kind of observation that is deliberate or purposeful, but a natural, almost unconscious habit—just like how she observed opponents on the chessboard.
She watched their posture while walking, listened to the tone of their speech, noted changes in their expressions in different situations, and remembered how they reacted to different things.
Everyone was a chess piece.
Every piece had its own way of moving.
When Minister of War Marshal Armando Diaz came to the palace for an audience, Cerydra happened to be present.
This hero of World War I was now over sixty, tall, his military uniform crisp, his chest covered in medals.
When he spoke to the King, his voice was loud and full of vigor, but Cerydra noticed that his right hand was always slightly clenched, his thumb constantly rubbing against his index finger joint—that was a sign of nervousness.
Why would a distinguished marshal be nervous in front of the King?
Later, she pieced together the answer from her father’s fragmented words: Diaz was personally promoted by the King, but Mussolini was wooing the military.
The Marshal was caught in the middle, in a dilemma.
She remembered that thumb-rubbing-index-finger gesture.
That was the unconscious self-comfort of someone caught in a crack.
Loyal yet suspicious, can be used for stability.
When Foreign Minister Dino Grandi came to the palace, Cerydra brushed past him in the corridor.
This young diplomat wore a well-tailored suit, his leather shoes polished to a shine, face smiling, elegant and charming.
He bowed to Cerydra, his posture impeccably elegant.
But Cerydra noticed that his gaze lingered on her face for a second longer than etiquette required—not offensive, but a quick, scrutinizing scan, as if evaluating something.
Later she learned that Grandi was one of the few monarchists within the Fascist Party, advocating for the preservation of the royal family’s status, but he was also one of Mussolini’s most capable lieutenants.
Between his loyalty to the royal family and his obedience to the leader, there existed a certain balance that needed to be constantly weighed.
She remembered that quick, scrutinizing gaze.
That was the instinctive vigilance of someone who needed to constantly make choices between two forces.
Sharp and adept at balancing, can be used for change.
When Mussolini himself came to the palace for an audience, Cerydra stood in the shadows of the second-floor corridor to watch.
This current leader of Italy stepped out of a black sedan, short and stout, chin protruding, wearing a black shirt and a dark suit.
His way of walking was very distinctive—his steps were not large but the frequency was very fast, as if he were always in a hurry.
When he entered the door, he did not pause at the threshold to adjust his clothes like others; instead, he stepped straight in, as if this door was meant to be open for him all along.
Cerydra watched him cross the courtyard, walk up the steps, and disappear under the portico.
She noticed one thing: when his entourage walked behind him, they all kept their heads down, their steps hurried and cautious.
That was not respect; that was fear.
She remembered that gait.
That was the gait of someone who believed they were destined to walk into history.
Ambitious and extreme, bound to lose their position.
Everyone who entered her field of vision was recorded, analyzed, and evaluated.
Not as a person, but as a chess piece.
As a piece that could be moved, joined, sacrificed, or retained at any given moment.
This was not cold-heartedness.
This was the second thing she learned after learning to understand the chessboard—understanding the people in the game of chess.