I SPOKE OF LOVE : THE SECRET OF THE PENDANT

"Prologue Part 2: The Revelation

Alessandro had spent the night in his father's study, pacing like a hunted animal, back and forth, from the grand rosewood bookcase to the window beside the desk. The empty brandy bottle fell to the floor, and moments later, so did he. He clasped his hands to his head, grimacing as a sharp pain in his stomach reached first his throat and then his brain. 

He began to mumble incoherent syllables until he clearly pronounced a man's name: "Michael." He tore off his white cravat and removed his shirt, standing bare-chested and resting part of his head against the marble of the fireplace. He banged the back of his head three times, repeating, "Why? Why?" 

Finally, the chain that gripped him like a vice loosened, and he was able to breathe. How much strength and will does it take for a man to cry? He removed his trousers and remained immobile for a long moment, staring at his splendid reflection in the mirror beside the window; then he buried his head between his knees and swallowed the bitterness, the fleeting dust of a life slipping through his fingers, and finally, he wept in long sobs that flowed down his cheeks, lips, and neck.

"Brother, what is happening? I heard a commotion." Amalia's voice was barely a whisper, laden with worry and tension.

Amalia closed the door slowly and approached her brother. She removed her wool shawl and wrapped it around Alessandro's bare shoulders. She cradled his face in her hands, stroking his hair, and finally sat beside him. She eased his head onto her lap, bending down several times to kiss his forehead.

"You are suffering so much," Amalia said, her voice cracking with emotion, knowing she would receive no answer. But the answer was before her: her brother had finally revealed the greatness and frailty of human nature and the extraordinary image of compassion, of suffering in another's arms, sharing the most intimate complexities of existence.

"Now sleep, Alessandro. I shall stay here with you. I will fetch a blanket from the armchair."

"No, Amalia," sighed Alessandro, searching for his sister in the dim light of the room. "I don't want to know anything. You are my brother. We are alone in this bloody, miserable world," Amalia stammered, her face flushing slightly. "Let us cover ourselves, I want to sleep beside my beloved brother."

Alessandro held her close, pressing his lips to her ear, brushing aside a few blond curls that teased his face. "Do you and Pietro love each other as I suspect?"

"Yes, brother, but tomorrow I must bid him farewell." Amalia's voice quivered, the pain evident, compressing her chest again and again.

"I will accompany you. Our mother will not let you leave, not even with Marianna." Alessandro spoke with fierce determination, as if ready to fight the entire world for her. But in truth, he wished to confront society for his own torment that choked him.

"And what will you do?" asked Amalia, blushing, feeling the weight of her own choices and, in some way, those of her brother.

"I envy your Pietro; he can marry whomever he desires and, in some ways, love whomever he wishes," Alessandro said tersely, fingering his pendant absent-mindedly. "It's not fair, Amalia. It's not fair."

"But he cannot marry me!"

Amalia took the pendant between her fingers and looked at her brother with a respectful yet intimate glimmer of love in her eyes. "Do you love him?"

"Yes, I love him, sister. I love him as I have never loved anyone. Absurd, sister, I love him more than you, and you are the person I adore most in this cursed world." His voice was a whisper, laden with pain, passion, and a desire to escape the confined circle that gripped his existence.

"Then, my brother, let us dream that something beautiful might happen."

"Do you truly believe, sister, that a dream is enough? If I were the Head of the Family, I could already do more for you. Our mother would go to the widow's house in Racconigi and could not hinder my decisions."

"Please, brother, I do not even want to think about it!" Amalia looked at him with fear in her eyes, dreading the changes that might overwhelm them. Alessandro also knew perfectly well that changes had to be slow and imperceptible, the immobility of a pawn on a chessboard without forcing the game. No one should win, no one should lose. One had to find a crack to slip inside and wait. And then finally deliver the final blow.

"In the meantime, you shall not marry him. Humour our mother, go to England, I beg you, do not act rashly. Sometimes one must be cold. I will manage to persuade His Majesty. Do you trust me?"

"Yes," Amalia sighed, embracing her brother as the soft light of the fire played on their faces and the pendant glittered.

"What is his name?" Amalia ventured, trying to break the tension.

"Michael."

"A beautiful name. It isn't Italian, is the pendant a gift from him?" Amalia asked, trying to smile.

"He is from London, and yes, it is a beautiful name. The pendant is his, sister, it comes from Prague, crafted by an alchemist for me."

Alessandro closed his eyes, remembering Michael's face, smiling behind the gnarled tree by the lake at Maryfield estate outside London, at his uncles'; and a sad smile on his lips carved a slight wrinkle as Amalia's fingers gently caressed his eyes.

"My brother, dream of your Michael."