The morning after the storm, the bay was insultingly calm. The sun rose over a flat sea, as if the waves had never tried to snatch away a five-year-old girl just hours before. At the Villa, however, the silence was different: it was not the quiet of peace, but that of an army reorganizing its ranks after a border skirmish.
Belinda sat in her workshop, her fingers grazing Azzurra's white tunic. The fabric was dry, but it still carried the scent of ash and salt. Holding it up against the light, Belinda noticed something that made her heart skip a beat: the gold threads forming the Moorish Heads seemed to have changed texture. They were no longer flat; they appeared in relief, as if they had become living veins, much like those of a real leaf.
"It wasn't just a coincidence, was it?" Elia's voice came from the doorway. He was pale, with deep dark circles under his eyes—testament to a night spent watching over their daughter's sleep.
"No," Belinda replied, without looking up. "The embroidery held. But Elia, the voice Azzurra heard... it was Shimmy. Or rather, it was the energy Mattia dispersed in London. It has come home, like a predator following the scent of blood."
Elia approached and placed a hand on her shoulder. "My mother says the shadow is like water: it always finds the smallest crack to seep through. Last night it found the wind and the sea. But Azzurra chose the basil. She chose us."
Belinda stood up, feeling a new determination coursing through her veins. "Defending ourselves is no longer enough, Elia. Litha is only a few days away. The summer solstice is the moment when the sun stands still, the zenith of light. If we want to seal this crack, we must do it then. We must transform Il Faro from a workshop into a true circle of protection."
The project for the Litha collection changed radically in those hours. Belinda was no longer seeking aesthetic beauty; she was searching for sacred geometry. She began to draw complex patterns where the Wheel of the Year merged with the crowns of the Moors. Every stitch, every eyelet, had to be a knot that sealed the darkness outside the walls of their lives.
While she worked, a call came from London. It was Mattia. His voice sounded metallic, distorted by an interference that Belinda recognized with a shiver.
"Belinda, something strange is happening," Mattia began without preamble. "Erica went into the garden this morning. Where we destroyed the doll and burned the remains..."
"What happened, Mattia?"
"Teresa's almond trees... they've bloomed. All at once. In a single night. But the flowers aren't white, Belinda. They are a deep, almost black purple. And the smell... they don't smell of almond. They smell of burnt plastic."
Belinda gripped the phone until her knuckles turned white. The purge in Notting Hill had not destroyed the evil; it had nourished it, transplanting it into a new form. The "Great Rewriting" she had discovered in the Forgotten Tomes was not just an ancient myth: it was happening again. The past was rewriting the present through their very attempts at salvation.
"Mattia, listen to me carefully," Belinda said, her voice as steady as Nonna Anna's. "Take Erica and come here. Immediately. Do not stay in London. The shadow has deep roots there, but here we have the ancient earth. We have Etna. We need the family united for Litha."
After hanging up, Belinda returned to her loom. She knew what she had to do. If the shadow was rewriting their story, she would use the ink of the soul and the thread of truth to create a new page.
Azzurra entered the workshop shortly after, carrying a small terracotta pot. "Mama, look! My basil has grown even more since last night!"
Belinda looked at the plant: the leaves were wide and fleshy, a green so intense it seemed surreal. In the center of the pot, half-hidden by the soil, poked a small lava stone that Elia must have placed there.
In that moment, Belinda had her final intuition. The "Banquet of Light" had not ended on the beach. It would continue until the solstice.
"Elia!" she called out loudly.
The man appeared at the door, soiled with earth; he had been reinforcing the dry-stone walls of the garden.
"We must prepare a great circle of stones around the Villa. But not just any stones. I want every stone to be wrapped in a length of embroidered linen. We will create a perimeter of protection that the light of Litha will charge for the entire year."
Elia smiled, a weary but proud smile. "I will help you. And I'll call the men from the vineyards, too. If we are to protect this land, we will do it the old way: with our hands and our hearts."
The chapter closed with the rhythmic sound of Belinda's needle piercing the linen and the sound of Elia's stones locking into one another. Two artisans of destiny, ready to challenge the eclipse of the soul. June 21st was approaching, and with it the moment when the sun would decide whether to keep shining or give way to the whispers of the forgotten tomes.
Belinda looked out the window: the shadows were lengthening, but she was no longer afraid. She had learned that the secret is not to hide the light, but to become the light itself.