The Heart of The Sea

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴡᴏ

WILLOWY LOOKING MARBLE was what made the Università del Teatro.

That, and stained glass windows and rich mahogany doors.

A symbol of riches and a plea to hide the ugly secrets it kept, just like the one time two years ago the mahogany was scorched and was reduced to mere firewood and the mini theatres in the università simply acting as kindling.

No-one knew when the fire started. No-one knew how the fire started.

No-one knew why, either. Amalfi was peaceful, as peaceful as a coastal town could be, with haggling over prices for fish, freshly caught and a day old. For pearls that were newly harvested from oyster farms, white and pearly and pink and misshapen and spherical.

Aru took a look at the market, salted fish and freshly ground pesto hitting her nose, the garlicky, herb laden aroma taking over the entire sheltered market, alight with colours of the brightest hues to contrast the dim, grey clouds on the outside.

The pitter patter of rain slowly began to be heard, dripping on the plastic, bright, patterned canopy above them.

She breathed the scent of petrichor.

Last night wasn't as bad as the others. She'd gotten a decent amount of sleep. She'd been able to bargain for soft cow's cheese wrapped in toasted colocasia leaves.

But something was stirring in the air. The sweet scent of rain felt saccharine, a bit too sweet as though it were trying to mask so much more.

A sinister kind of saccharine.

The winter solstice was scheduled today.

She'd been noticing a pattern over the past months. A solstice, and equinox, an eclipse, any and all of the three were announced by the cloying musk over the usual rain.

If she hadn't known better, she'd have thought something otherworldly was afoot.

But otherworlds existed merely in her mother's tales and her mother's songs that were jumbles of syllables with no coherency. The comforting things she'd taken away with her after she'd decided to die

There was simple solace in the way she deluded herself into thinking she hated the woman she loved.

It is easier to hate, to resent, than love and embrace.

A lunatic was waving a bundle of newspapers, calling out to tourists who've taken the night train and to locals who brushed by him without a glance. The man put her in a state of unease, but she felt her feet move of their own accord as she dropped two liras into the hat he'd held askew and took a partially soaked, badly printed, amateur newspaper titled la speranza del sud from the top of the pile.

AVVISTAMENTI PRESSO PIAZZA DELLA SPERANZA, DUE AFFERMANO DI AVER VISTO UNA FIGURA SPETTRALE.

"Sightings at piazza della speranza, two people claim to have seen a ghostly figure." She translated out loud.

She scoffed. "Utter rubbish. The Hope of The South, my arse. A better name could've been Il Falso."

She warred with herself, contemplating on whether she should throw it into the many boxes lining the sides or tuck it into her satchel.

Three heartbeats later, it was settled in her satchel, roughly crumpled and shamelessly creased.

She felt the lunatic's eyes trained at the back of her head, and hastened her pace to the università, her stomach churning and the back of her head pounding.

She found herself in-front of the università, and made her way into the theatre she was assigned to.

Aru was early, she noticed, and she began to twist the ring, ignoring the delicate tattoo on her finger.