That day, Cerydra played five games of Chess, winning them all.
Marquis Amedeo Sforza, Prince Mario Ruspoli, Count Ettore Bianchi—a director of the Italy Chess Association—and Colonel Luigi Cadorna, nephew of the famous World War I general Luigi Cadorna, who was said to be unrivaled in Chess within the military.
The last one was the president of the Rome Chess Club himself, the sexagenarian Giovanni Maria Mastroianni—the older brother of the Mastroianni who had once lost to her at the Quirinal Palace.
Five games, five styles, five victories.
The Italian Game defeated Sforza’s Sicilian Defense.
The Ruy Lopez dismantled Prince Ruspoli’s French Defense.
The Queen’s Gambit suppressed Count Bianchi’s Queen’s Gambit Declined.
The King’s Indian Defense stifled Colonel Cadorna’s King’s Gambit attack.
In the final game, she used the Caro-Kann Defense to spar with the elder Mastroianni for sixty-two moves, ultimately winning with a one-pawn advantage.
In every game, she used different openings, different strategies, and different rhythms.
It was as if she were using five different languages to converse with five people from different countries.
And she spoke them more fluently than any of them.
News spread quickly, and the evening paper that same day featured the headline: “Rome Chess Club Discovers Teenage Chess Player, Five Wins, Five Victories.” The report did not mention her full name, referring to her only as “Miss K,” but everyone knew who that was.
The white-haired, blue-eyed little princess in the Quirinal Palace, the King’s apple of his eye, the jewel of the House of Savoy.
The next day, Rome’s newspapers printed extra copies; on the third day, Turin’s newspapers reprinted it; on the fourth day, Milan’s newspapers also reported it.
The headlines grew longer, and the adjectives became more numerous—”Genius Girl,” “Chess Miracle,” “Jewel of Savoy,” “A Once-in-a-Century Talent at the Rome Chess Club.” Professor Ferrari collected these newspapers one by one and put them into a kraft paper folder.
He did not show them to Cerydra.
It was not because he feared she would become arrogant—he had never seen her act proud because of winning a game—but because he had noticed something else.
While those newspapers were praising her, they were also doing something else: shaping her into a “story.” A genius teenage Chess player, a beautiful little princess, an elegant and intelligent royal jewel.
These labels wrapped around her name like a sugar coating, making everyone see only a fairy-tale existence—a little princess who displayed talent on the chessboard, was adored by her father and brother, and was impossibly beautiful.
No one discussed the anomaly in her Chess style, no one noticed that she had used five completely different strategies in five games, and no one questioned how a fourteen-year-old girl could display such composure, as if she were a veteran of many battles, during her first public match.
They only saw what they wanted to see.
Professor Ferrari closed the folder and looked out the window.
In the garden of the Quirinal Palace, Cerydra was sitting on a stone bench by the fountain, her cane resting horizontally on her lap, gazing blankly at the water.
Her white hair was almost transparent in the sunlight, and the blue at the tips of her hair looked like a color borrowed from the water’s reflection.
The old professor suddenly remembered how she looked seven years ago, the first time she sat before a chessboard; her hands were still too small then, and her grip on the pieces was a little unsteady.
But her eyes had been like that since then—calm, clear, as if she were looking at a larger chessboard that only she could see.
She was already in that game, the old professor thought; she had always been in that game.
March.
Spring in Rome came exceptionally early.
The signing of the “Lateran Treaty” brought Mussolini’s prestige to a new peak.
The Holy See officially recognized the Kingdom of Italy, putting an end to the “Roman Question” that had persisted for over half a century.
Newspapers published photos of the Prime Minister shaking hands with Cardinal Gasparri for a week straight, the headlines exhausting every word of praise.
“Reconciliation,” “New Era,” “The Leader’s Vision”—these words fell as densely as raindrops upon the land of Italy.
King Victor Emmanuel III attended the treaty signing ceremony.
In the photo, he stood beside Mussolini, short of stature, his back slightly hunched, his expression so calm that no emotion could be discerned.
No one knew what he was thinking.
Cerydra stood before a second-floor window of the Quirinal Palace, watching her father’s motorcade drive toward the Lateran Palace.
She held her cane in her hand, the crystal Chess piece pressing against her palm.
Umberto had returned from Turin; the twenty-three-year-old crown prince had grown into a lean and silent young man.
He had completed his studies at the military academy and was serving in the military; the uniform fit him better than it ever had before.
But there was an extra layer in his eyes—not melancholy, but a quiet vigilance.
“Did you read today’s newspaper?” he asked Cerydra.
“I did.” “The third page.” Cerydra nodded.
The third page was the culture section, which reported on her Chess match.
But it was placed at the very bottom, with lengthy reports on the “Lateran Treaty” above it.
Her name was squeezed into a corner, like a Chess piece pushed to the edge of the board.
“It’s intentional,” Umberto said.
“I know.” Umberto glanced at his sister.
Cerydra’s tone was as calm as if she were commenting on the weather.
She was fourteen this year, already reaching his shoulder, with white hair and blue eyes, never parting with her cane.
Sometimes when he looked at her, he felt she was not his sister, but a character who had walked out of a painting—exquisite, distant, and not belonging to this time and space.
“You don’t care?” he asked.
“Care about what?” “That they buried the report about you at the very bottom.” Cerydra turned her head to look at her brother.
Sunlight streamed in from the window, gilding her white short hair with a golden edge, and the blue at the tips of her hair became almost transparent in the light.
“What the newspapers want people to see and what actually happened are two different things.” She said, “Today they suppressed the report about me.
Tomorrow it might be something else.
What’s important is not what they suppressed, but why they suppressed it.” Umberto was silent for a moment.
“Why do you think?” “Testing the waters,” Cerydra said.
“They want to know if the royal family will speak out about this.
If the royal family doesn’t speak out, it means they can continue to suppress things.
If the royal family speaks out—” She did not continue.
Umberto understood.
The signing of the “Lateran Treaty” meant that Mussolini and the Holy See had reached a historic reconciliation.
This was the Prime Minister’s victory, not the King’s.
At such a moment, any royal news that might distract the public would be handled cautiously.
It wasn’t directed at Cerydra personally, but at anything that might remind the public that the “royal family still exists.” “I will speak to Father,” Umberto said.
“No need.” “Why?” Cerydra’s gaze passed over her brother’s shoulder and looked out the window.
The city of Rome spread out under the spring sunshine; church domes, the broken columns of ancient ruins, the newly built Fascist Regime buildings—layered and piled, like a Chess game where people of different eras repeatedly made their moves.
“Because now is not the time,” she said.
Umberto looked at his sister’s profile; the sunlight outlined her silhouette, her delicate nose, her calm eyes, and her slightly pursed lips.
The way she spoke was becoming less and less like a fourteen-year-old girl.
That tone, that sense of propriety, that certainty as if she were merely stating facts—sometimes he would even forget her age.
“Kelü.” He suddenly used her nickname, just as he often did when she was very small.
Cerydra turned her head.
“You are fourteen this year,” Umberto said.
“You don’t have to think so much.” Cerydra looked at him.
In those blue eyes, something moved slightly—very lightly, very briefly, like ripples on the water.
Then she smiled, not that kind of polite smile, but a genuine one, carrying a touch of warmth.
“Brother,” she said.
She only said those two words.
Umberto did not ask again.
He reached out and gently patted the top of her head—a gesture he had been accustomed to since the first time he held her, when she was just a newborn baby and he was so nervous that his whole body went stiff.
Now she had grown up, but he still couldn’t help but make this gesture.
Cerydra did not dodge.
The cane quietly refracted the sunlight in her hand, and the crystal Chess piece shone slightly.