September 21st arrived with a sky so translucent it seemed forged of crystal. The air was no longer merely hot; it was dense, saturated with the scent of fermenting must and that metallic tang that only volcanic earth can release as the season begins its turn. Mabon, the Autumn Equinox, was at hand: that moment of perfect equilibrium when day and night are equal, and the light prepares for its final stand before descending into the dark half of the year.
Mattia and Erica arrived in Catania on the morning flight. When Belinda saw them pass through the gate of the Villa, her heart constricted. They looked like ghosts of their former selves. Mattia's eyes were rimmed with shadow, and a faint tremor touched his hands—the hands of an artist who could no longer find harmony. Erica, usually so vibrant, was wrapped in a shawl despite the Sicilian sun, as if an internal cold brought from London refused to let her go.
"It's still there, Belinda," Mattia whispered, embracing his sister. "The scent of that doll... it stayed trapped within the walls of Notting Hill. Even after the fire, we could still hear that cursed little song whispered by the wind through the branches of those blackened almond trees."
Belinda led them into the workshop, where Nonna Anna was preparing infusions of pomegranate and sage. "You are not in London now," the old woman said, her voice unwavering. "Here, the earth possesses a memory longer than your fear. Eat, drink, and then prepare yourselves. The balance of the Equinox does not wait."
The garden of the Villa had been transformed. Elia, along with a few trusted farmhands, had arranged twelve great lava stones in a perfect circle around the house. Each stone had been washed with spring water, and now Belinda was completing the work: she wrapped each boulder in strips of raw linen upon which she had embroidered, in red and gold thread, the names of their ancestors and symbols of protection—the stalk of grain, the basil, the Eye of the Moor.
"We must close the circle before the sun begins its descent," Belinda explained to Mattia and Erica. "You will be the witnesses. Mattia, you will carry the water. Erica, you will carry the salt. Elia will bring the fire, and I... I will use the thread."
As the sun reached its zenith on this day of equal light and shadow, vanishing every silhouette, the family gathered at the center of the circle. Azzurra was there too, sitting quietly at the foot of the olive tree; her basil tunic—worn on her birthday and now sanctified—seemed to glow with a light of its own.
The rite began in absolute silence. There were no written prayers, only the pure intent of four souls seeking to rewrite their own destiny. Mattia poured the water over each stone, and Erica followed him with a handful of coarse salt. Elia passed by with a lit torch, barely brushing the linen—not burning it, but infusing it with the heat of the sacred fire.
Finally, it was Belinda's turn. In her hand, she held an immense skein of red silk, a single thread that must never break. She began to run from one stone to the next, weaving the thread around the linen-wrapped boulders, creating a web of protection that connected every point of the circle.
"By the blood of those who came before us, by the harvest of this land, by the sun that finds its balance," Belinda recited, her voice resonating with a strength she hadn't known she possessed. "I rewrite the history of this house. Grandpa Giovanni's gold returns to the earth. Shimmy's hate returns to ash. We are the keepers of the Lighthouse, and here, the shadow has no right of residence!"
In that moment, something incredible happened. For an instant, the sky seemed to turn dark, as if a sudden eclipse were underway. A metallic hiss, like a cry of frustration, tore through the air. Belinda felt the red thread tighten, nearly cutting into her fingers. The shadow was fighting back, sensing the coming winter. For a heartbeat, she saw the distorted image of a giant doll looming over the Villa, its eyes filled with an ancient greed, ready to crush everything.
But Azzurra stood up. Without fear, the child approached the nearest stone and placed her small hand upon it. "Shimmer and shine..." she chanted in her pure voice, but the words were no longer the doll's. "Shimmer and shine, like the sun upon the sea!"
The shadow winced, struck by the disarming simplicity of that joy. The red thread in Belinda's hands emanated a blinding light. The circle of stones seemed to sink even deeper into the ground, anchoring the house to a depth that no curse could reach.
Then, with a crash like thunder born from a cloudless sky, the tension snapped. The darkness was sucked upward, dissolving into the golden light of the afternoon.
The silence that followed was profound, holy. Mattia fell to his knees, finally breathing clean air, devoid of that scent of plastic. Erica cast off her shawl, offering her shoulders to the warmth. Elia moved to Belinda's side and supported her as she caught her breath, the now-empty skein of silk in her hands.
"Is it over?" Mattia asked, looking up.
Nonna Anna, who had remained on the veranda watching everything, allowed a small smile. "For today, yes. You have gathered a good harvest. But remember: the light must be nourished even as the days grow shorter. A single rite is not enough to erase a century of secrets, but you have just planted the forest that will cover them."
That evening, dinner under the olive tree had a different flavor. The subtle fear that had shadowed Azzurra's birthday was gone. Mattia spoke of how he wanted to start painting again—no longer shadows, but the colors of Sicily. Erica spoke of bringing the wisdom of Anna's plants into the grey of London.
Belinda watched her family, finally reunited and protected. She knew that the "Whispers of the Forgotten Tomes" had been silenced by the thundering voice of real life. As the first star of the Equinox appeared in the sky, Belinda took up a small notebook and began to write. It was no longer a ledger, nor an archive of old sorrows.
It was the beginning of a new story. And the first word, written in a golden ink that seemed to shimmer in the dark, was: Hope.