When You Wish Upon a Star: A Twisted Tale

Book : Twisted Tale, A

by Elizabeth Lim

Genres: YA Social Themes; Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends & Mythology; YA Family; YA Fantasy

Synopsis

What if the Blue Fairy wasn't supposed to help Pinocchio? This New York Times best-selling series twists another Disney classic into a harrowing story in which the Blue Fairy defies fairy law, setting off a dramatic chain of events. "Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight . . . " So begins the wish that changes everything—for Geppetto, for the Blue Fairy, and for a little puppet named Pinocchio. The Blue Fairy isn't supposed to grant wishes in the small village of Pariva, but something about this one awakens some long-buried flicker within. Perhaps it's the hope she senses beneath the old man's loneliness. Or maybe it's the fact that long ago, before she was the Blue Fairy, she was a young woman named Chiara from this very village, one with a simple wish: to help others find happiness. Her sister, Ilaria, always teased her for this, for Ilaria had big dreams to leave their sleepy village and become a world-renowned opera singer. The two were close, despite their differences. While Ilaria would have given anything to have a fairy grant her wish, Chiara didn't believe in the lore for which their village was famous. Forty years later, Chiara, now the Blue Fairy, defies the rules of magic to help an old friend. But she's discovered by the Scarlet Fairy, formerly Ilaria, who, amid a decades-long grudge, holds the transgression against her sister. They decide to settle things through a good old-fashioned bet, with Pinocchio and Geppetto's fate hanging in the balance. Will the sisters find a way back to one another? Or is this, like many matters of the heart, a gamble that comes with strings?

Release date: April 4, 2023

Publisher: Disney Hyperion

Print pages: 368

Sample

PROLOGUE

The Blue Fairy wasn’t supposed to listen to wishes tonight, and especially not wishes from the sleepy little town of Pariva. But there came a twinge in her heart as she flew across the low-roofed houses and narrow cobbled roads, and her conscience begged her not to ignore it.

It was well into the evening, and many of the houses were dark, their inhabitants gone to bed. Candlelight lit only a handful of windows, and the Blue Fairy saw eager faces peek out of the open frames. Adults and children alike cried into the empty streets, “Look up! The Wishing Star is bright tonight!”

And so it was. It shone so brilliantly that its light eclipsed the stars around it, and even the moon.

“Hurry, hurry!” the Blue Fairy heard a girl cry. “It’ll be gone if we don’t hurry up and make a wish! I’ve always wanted to see the Wishing Star. Finally, it’s here!”

With a smile, the Blue Fairy descended upon the roof of Pariva’s old bell tower, her silver slippers landing on the cracked clay tiles with the gentlest tinkle. The bell tower was empty, but even if it hadn’t been, no one could see her. She was invisible, as all her kind could be when they wanted. Such allowed her to go about her business and perform the necessary duties without being seen.

Now more than ever, she was grateful for that ability. Oh, she knew it was silly to feel that way. After all, there wasn’t anyone in Pariva who would have recognized her even if they could see her. And yet, that twinge in her heart sharpened.

Pariva was a small village, unimportant enough that it rarely appeared on any maps of Esperia. Bordered by mountains and sea, it seemed untouched by time. The school looked the same as she remembered; so did the market and Mangia Road—a block of eating establishments that included the locally famous Belmagio bakery—and cypress and laurel and pine trees still surrounded the local square, where the villagers came out to gossip or play chess or even sing together.

Had it really been forty years since she had returned? It seemed like only yesterday that she’d strolled down Pariva’s narrow streets, carrying a sack of pine nuts to her parents’ bakery or stopping by the docks to watch the fishing boats sail across the glittering sea.

Back then, she’d been a daughter, a sister, a friend. A mere slip of a young woman. Home had been a humble two-storied house on Constanza Street, with a door as yellow as daffodils and cobblestoned stairs that led into a small courtyard in the back. Her father had kept a garden of herbs; he was always frustrated by how the mint grew wild when what he truly wanted to grow was basil.

The herbs went into the bread that her parents sold at their bakery. Papa crafted the savory loaves and Mamma the sweet ones, along with almond cakes drizzled with lemon glaze, chocolate biscuits with hazelnut pralines, and her famous cinnamon cookies. The magic the Blue Fairy had grown up with was sugar shimmering on her fingertips and flour dusting her hair like snow. It was her older brother, Niccolo, coaxing their finicky oven into working again, and Mamma listening for the crackle of a golden-brown crust just before her bread sang. It was her little sister Ilaria’s tongue turning green after she ate too many pistachio cakes. Most of all, magic was the smile on Mamma’s, Papa’s, Niccolo’s, and Ilaria’s faces when they brought home the bakery’s leftover chocolate cake and sank their forks into a sumptuous, moist slice.

After dinner, the Blue Fairy and her siblings made music together in the Blue Room. Its walls were bluer than the midsummer sky, and the windows arched like rainbows. It’d been her favorite room

in the house.

The memories made the Blue Fairy’s heart light and heavy all at once. Instinctively, her gaze fell upon her old house. It was still there, the door a faded yellow and the roof in need of repair. No one was at the window making a wish upon the star.

With a deep breath, she turned away from her childhood home and concentrated on the rest of the town. Still standing on the roof of the bell tower, she leaned forward and touched the end of her wand to her ear so she might hear the wishes being made below:

“Oh, Wishing Star, please help my little Maria do well in school.”

“Dear Wishing Star, I’d like for my Baci to have a whole litter of puppies. Nine of them, that look just like him—all healthy and happy, of course.”

“I wish for my shop to have more success.”

So on, the wishes went.

Several of them caught her interest, but the Blue Fairy couldn’t answer them. Pariva was not a town where she was permitted to grant wishes. Another fairy would listen to the hearts of those who spoke tonight and would heed the pleas of those they deemed worthy.

A white dove appeared at her side, settling its wings as it landed on her shoulder. It made a gentle purr, urging her to leave.

“Don’t worry, my friend,” she replied. “I know what time it is.”

She’d already overstayed the hour, and she’d be missed if she lingered any longer. “Farewell, dear Pariva,” she murmured. She raised her wand, preparing to depart—when one last wish caught her ears.

“Starlight, star bright, first star I see tonight…”

Quickly the Blue Fairy drew a circle with her wand, creating a magical window through which she could observe the speaker more closely. He was an old man kneeling upon his bed, with a spry black kitten at his side while he gazed wistfully up at the stars. His voice was not one she knew, but the sound of it—with its gentle inflections and earnest way—was familiar.

“I wish I may, I wish I might,” he continued, “have the wish I wish tonight.”

His name rushed back to her in a breath.

Geppetto.

Forty years had turned his hair entirely white and aged his face beyond recognition. But his kind blue eyes and even his nose, round and slightly ruddy, were the same.

Geppetto turned to his pet, a young prince of a cat with sleek black fur and white paws. “Figaro, you know what I wish?”

Figaro

shook his head.

“I wish that my little Pinocchio might be a real boy. Wouldn’t that be nice? Just think!”

Geppetto’s smile was warm and bright, but the Blue Fairy had always had a gift for seeing into one’s heart. She could sense the loneliness lurking behind his eyes; he had no company but for his cat and the goldfish in his workshop—no wife, no son or daughter, no siblings. Pariva’s children delighted in the toys he made, but their laughter filled only his days. His evenings were almost entirely empty.

Still smiling at the idea of having a son, Geppetto tucked himself back into bed. Within minutes, he was sound asleep.

The Wishing Star faded from the sky, and the Blue Fairy started to lower her wand. It was time to return home. Another fairy would see to it that Pariva’s wish-seekers were well taken care of, she told herself.

Yet she couldn’t go.

Seeing Geppetto had released in the Blue Fairy a flood of emotions—compassion, pity, and a flicker of guilt—and she paused in her step. Her gaze fell upon the wooden puppet sitting in Geppetto’s workshop. Her chest squeezed. She knew she ought to leave. She wasn’t supposed to be there at all, honestly, but she couldn’t bring herself to go.

Her dove tilted its head inquisitively, and the Blue Fairy made a tentative smile.

“Well, why not?” she said to the bird. “No one will know.”

Before she might think better of it, she waved her wand and became a soft beam of starlight, traveling swiftly into Geppetto’s home.

She entered through an open window and waited until Geppetto and his cat, Figaro, were fast asleep before she unfolded from the light.

There she stood, in the middle of Geppetto’s workshop. She’d visited before, so long ago it felt like a dream. The walls were the same; the low ceiling and the long wooden table to the side, cluttered with tools and pots of paints and brushes and sketches, too, but she would not have recognized it otherwise.

Toys sat on every shelf: wooden horses with legs that wobbled and elephants with flopping ears, tiny families in boats that sang when they were wound up from the side. There were clocks, too. Clocks whose hands pointed at stars, clocks where angels standing on clouds trumpeted the hour, clocks with bunnies and sheep running out of a barn when the time struck noon and six. Ships with red-dyed sails hung from the ceiling, and toy soldiers watched over the workshop from a high shelf just below the ceiling.

So much had changed, but the smells were familiar: pine wood and paint and gentle smoke from the hearth and snuffed wax candles. 

Geppetto had always loved working with wood, and the Blue Fairy’s heart warmed to know that after all these years, that hadn’t changed.

“You were true to your word,” she murmured, taking in the dancing couples and music boxes. “Your promise to bring joy to all those around you.”

A cricket hopped onto one of Geppetto’s shelves and settled into an open matchbox. The Blue Fairy smiled to herself. Even it felt welcomed in this cozy little workshop.

She paused then before Pinocchio, the wooden boy Geppetto had spoken of in his wish. The puppet was leaning against the wall, newly finished and paint still drying.

He was tenderly crafted, simple compared to some of the other toys in the room. But the care in every detail, from the soles of his brown shoes to the gentle lift in his eyebrows, made the Blue Fairy want to reach out and hug the young toy. He was Geppetto’s masterpiece.

There was a certain mischief to his round eyes, and his innocent smile had echoes of Geppetto’s own. Had he been a real boy, he could have passed for the old toymaker’s son.

A real boy.

The Blue Fairy inhaled a deep breath. It was not within her power to grant such a wish. But her conscience would never forgive her if she left now. If she ignored the pain emanating from this noble man who had brought more than

his fair share of love to the world—who could bring even more, if given the chance.

The first lesson she had learned as a fairy was to follow her conscience. To let it guide her.

“Good Geppetto,” she murmured, “you have given so much happiness to others. You deserve to have your wish come true.”

Magic gathered in her wand, sparks glimmering from the star at its tip. She pointed it at Pinocchio’s feathered hat. “Little puppet made of pine,” she said, “wake.”

A silvery crown of starlight burst from her wand, shimmering across Pinocchio’s body.

“The gift of life is thine,” said the Blue Fairy.

The light swelled until it encompassed all of Pinocchio. Then, once it faded, Pinocchio wriggled to life, sitting up on his own. He rubbed his eyes and looked around before fluttering his hands.

“I can move!” he exclaimed in astonishment. The young puppet covered his mouth with his hands, his wide eyes blinking as if he didn’t know where the sound had come from. “I can talk!”

The Blue Fairy chuckled as Pinocchio rose unsteadily to his feet.

“I can walk.” He took a few steps before he fell down onto the table once more.

“Yes, Pinocchio,” said the Blue Fairy kindly. “I’ve given you life.”

“Why?”

“Because tonight, Geppetto wished for a real boy.”

“Am I a real boy?”

The Blue Fairy paused, not wishing to dampen his happiness with the truth, but she wouldn’t lie to him. She chose her next words carefully. “No, Pinocchio. To make Geppetto’s wish come true will be entirely up to you.”

“Up to me?” Pinocchio echoed.

“Prove yourself brave, truthful, and unselfish, and someday you will be a real boy.”

“A real boy!”

The Blue Fairy smiled, ignoring the wave of unease rising to her chest. She couldn’t bring herself to tell the young puppet that she might not be able to grant Geppetto’s wish in earnest. Turning Pinocchio into a living, breathing wooden boy in itself had been no simple feat, and it would surely come with consequences. And Pinocchio becoming a real little boy would be another matter entirely. But whatever the cost, she would bear it—and she would see his journey through.

I will find a way, she thought. Geppetto deserves this happiness. And Pinocchio deserves to be real.

She looked around, trying to figure out a way to quell the worry that still nagged at her. Even with a good father such as Geppetto, a wooden boy was bound to find himself in trouble. Especially one as new to life as Pinocchio.

A conscience. Pinocchio would need a conscience.

The Blue Fairy eyed the workshop and spied the humble cricket who had been eavesdropping on their conversation. She had a soft spot for crickets. Doves, too.

Pinocchio would need help—why not a cricket?

This one would do fine, the Blue Fairy knew in her heart. After a pleasant introduction, she knighted “Sir Jiminy” to be Pinocchio’s official conscience.

Then she renewed her attention on Pinocchio. “Remember, be a good boy. And let your conscience guide you.”

As Pinocchio and the cricket waved farewell, the Blue Fairy exited Geppetto’s workshop in the same soft beam of starlight with which she’d come. But she lingered outside Geppetto’s house, listening to Jiminy warn Pinocchio about the world’s temptations.

The cricket chirped about learning right from wrong, and taught Pinocchio how to whistle when he needed Jiminy’s help.

She chuckled, and the unease in her heart faded. Pinocchio would be just

 fine.

Now all she had to do was find a way to fulfill the whole wish. Surely her fellow fairies would be sympathetic to Geppetto’s cause. She’d bring it up with them as soon as she could, at the next monthly meeting on the Wishing Star.

She shot onto the rooftop of Geppetto’s workshop, reassuming her fairy form to take one last look at her old friend’s home. She didn’t know when she’d have another chance to come back. Then she spun, about to make for the Wishing Star that had disappeared behind the night, and a shadow fell over her.

“Still making promises you know you can’t keep,” mused a woman from behind. “Some things never change.”

The Blue Fairy recognized the intruder immediately. Slowly she turned, and as her eyes met the Scarlet Fairy’s, her famous poise and serenity faltered, and her lips parted with disbelief.

“Speechless, I see,” said the Scarlet Fairy. She lowered her arm, letting the slender red wand in her hand click against the roof. A round ruby sparkled at its head, bright as fresh blood. “Well, it has been a long time.”

“So it has.” The Blue Fairy tried to search the Scarlet Fairy’s face for signs of regret or remorse. For any feeling at all.

It shouldn’t have surprised her that she found nothing.

She raised her chin, refusing to let the Scarlet Fairy’s appearance ruffle her. “I do intend to keep my promise to Pinocchio.”

“And make him a real boy? Pray tell, how?”

“He is a good lad. I’m certain the other fairies will see so, too. They’ll find that Geppetto deserves some happiness, and Pinocchio will be a worthy addition to the world. They will grant me permission to give Geppetto his wish.”

“But what if Pinocchio isn’t worthy?” The Scarlet Fairy lowered her lashes. “You assume he’ll be unselfish, brave, and truthful, but…”

“But what?”

“But he’s a pup

pet.” The Scarlet Fairy toyed with a strand of her dark hair, as if she were twisting the strings of a marionette. She paused meaningfully. “He has no heart.”

Suddenly understanding what the Scarlet Fairy meant to do, the Blue Fairy’s pulse quickened in alarm. “Please. Don’t—”

“Interfere?” the Scarlet Fairy said with a laugh. “But that’s my duty. My responsibility. How ironic, Chiara, that after all these years, it’s you who should falter from your responsibility. Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised. You aren’t as loyal as you make everyone think.”

The Blue Fairy flinched, both at the insult and at the sound of her birth name. “Now, that isn’t true—”

“Once your hopeless little fairies see what a wicked boy Pinocchio is,” the Scarlet Fairy went on, ignoring her, “you’ll have to turn him back into a pile of wood. How sad old Geppetto will be then.”

“You wouldn’t!”

The Scarlet Fairy’s lips curved into the ghost of a smile Chiara had once known and loved, except it was all wrong. There was no cheer in it, no warmth. No mischief. It was cold enough to freeze the Lyre Sea.

Forty years had wedged a world between them.

The Blue Fairy half closed her eyes, missing the days when the Scarlet Fairy spoke to her without vitriol, and she replied with dread. “Unless what?”

“Unless we make a wager,” mused the Scarlet Fairy. “Or are you too good and righteous to partake in a harmless little bet?”

“Coming from you, I doubt very much that it will be harmless.”

“It could be very beneficial for your dear Pinocchio,” the Scarlet Fairy said. Before Chiara could respond, she went on, “If you win, I won’t tell the fairies about what you’ve done here tonight, and I’ll even help you turn Pinocchio into a real boy.”

Surprise made the Blue Fairy look up. “You’d help me?”

“If you win,” confirmed the Scarlet Fairy. “But if you lose…”

Chiara went silent, knowing that the price would be high. She’d been caught in a trap, and she knew it. If she left now to tell the others, the Scarlet Fairy would embroil poor Pinocchio into an awful plot, and everyone on the Wishing Star would unanimously vote that Chiara lift her spell. There would be a good chance she’d lose her wand and wings and be cast out from the fairies forever.

How did we become like this? she wanted to ask aloud. Can we go back to the way things were?

But she already knew what the Scarlet Fairy’s answer would be.

Hiding her disappointment, the Blue Fairy eyed her companion coolly. “ Name your terms, sister.”

 

CHAPTER ONE

Forty years earlier

Ask anyone in Pariva, and they would have agreed that Chiara Belmagio was the kindest, warmest girl in town. Her patience, especially, was legendary. Then again, anyone who had grown up with a sister like Ilaria Belmagio—local prima donna in both voice and demeanor—and still considered her to be their best friend had to be nothing short of an angel.

Chiara was newly eighteen, having celebrated her birthday a month earlier, in June, and she was the middle child of Anna and Alberto Belmagio, beloved owners of Pariva’s only bakery. In short, she had modest ability on the harpsichord, favored blackberry jam over chocolate, and loved to read outside under her family’s lemon tree, where she often helped children with their arithmetic homework and nurtured nests of young doves.

Like her neighbors, she knew each name and face of the 387 people in Pariva, but unlike most, she took the time to make anyone she encountered smile, even grumpy Mr. Tommaso—who was a challenge. And she took pleasure in it.

When people wanted to talk, she listened. That was how she learned of the dreams and hopes of everyone in town. Many dreamt of leaving Pariva, some to seek fame and fortune, others to find adventure or even romance. But never once did Chiara ever desire to leave her hometown. Never once did she covet such things as fine dresses or invitations to grand parties in Vallan. Still, that didn’t mean she was without dreams.

Hers was a simple one, compared to her sister’s of becoming an opera singer or her brother’s to master their parents’ rye bread and serve it to the king one day. A silly one, Ilaria would say, if she knew.

But Chiara never spoke of her dream. Unlike most folks in town, she never looked out for the Wishing Star to wish that it might come true—she was too practical to believe in miracles that came from wands or wishes, and she certainly didn’t believe in fairies. She didn’t believe in magic, either, at least not the sort of magic in the stories her papa had told her and her siblings when they were little, about fairy godmothers who could turn pumpkins into carriages and magic wands that could change stones into diamonds.

The magic she believed in was of a different sort. The sort that cheered a pall of melancholy, that fed a hungry belly, that warmed a cold heart. She believed in kindness, in compassion, and in sharing what fortune she had—with those who needed it.

Ironic, of course. For little did she know it, but Chiara Belmagio was about to meet a fairy.

It was a blistering August morning. Too hot even for Chiara, who typically loved the sun. She was outside in the garden, pruning violets and bluebells to take to the bakery. She liked giving flowers to their customers; it always made them happy.

“Mamma and Papa sent a messenger,” called her older brother, Niccolo, from the back door. Careful to stay under the shade of the roof, the young man had one foot out in the garden, and one foot remaining in the house. “You’ve the day off. No one’s buying bread in this heat.”

Chiara bunched the flowers into a bouquet and rubbed her hands on her aprons. “Are Mamma and Papa coming home, then?”

“They’re going over to Mr. and Mrs. Bruno’s after they sell off Papa’s sandwiches. Bet they’ll be there all afternoon playing cards.” Niccolo turned back for the kitchen. “I made juice. Orange and lemon. Come inside before Ilaria drinks your share.”

Ten more minutes outside under the torturous sun, and Chiara decided to take her brother up on his offer. She was parched. Her scalp burned, and her skin was so warm she felt almost feverish. As she retreated into the house, she doffed her hat and wiped the perspiration that pooled at her temples. Her fair blond hair clung to her temples, and the blue ribbon she always tied around her head was practically drenched.

The promised glass of juice awaited her in the kitchen, and she drank quickly, savoring the tartness of orange and lemon on her tongue. “Ily?” she called, entering the hall. “Nico?”

Beyond the kitchen, in the Blue Room where her family gathered while not eating, she heard her siblings. Sixteen-year-old Ilaria, primarily, wheedling their brother to take out the boat. Chiara stopped just outside the door, not wanting to interrupt.

“Will you stop being such a slug, Niccolo, and take pity on your poor, favorite sister for once? All I’m asking for is just an hour at sea. You always love taking out the boat—”

“I don’t think I’ve ever called you my favorite sister,” replied Niccolo, turning the page of his book. His dark brown hair fell over his eyes. “That honor belongs to Chia.”

Ilaria ignored the insult. “The house is a furnace. If I stay here any longer, I’ll perish.”

“Then go outside for a walk.”

“Outside isn’t much better. You know how sensitive my skin is on days like this. I’ll peel and burn—I need fresh sea air.”

“Fresh sea air is still under the sun, sister,” Niccolo pointed out. He dipped his head back into his book. “I told you, the water’s dangerous. There’s talk of a giant whale in the sea. It’s already capsized four fishing boats.”

“Giant whales.” Ilaria rolled her eyes. “I bet if they were mermaids you’d be clamoring to go for a sail. Even if their siren song made us crash against the rocks.”

“There are no mermaids. Only a whale.”

“So you say.” Ilaria leaned against the chipped blue wallpaper, the back of her hand to her forehead. Chia knew the look well—the prelude to a dramatic swoon. At the age of seven—when Ilaria first decided she would become a world-famous opera singer—she’d begun practicing the art of swooning. By now she was a master.

Unfortunately for her, Nico wouldn’t fall for her tricks.

“You kill me, brother,” Ilaria said, going ahead with the swoon anyway. “I shall die of heat and suffocation.”

“Go ahead. Usually it’s consumption, lovesickness, or utter boredom that are

going to kill you. Heat and suffocation should be amusing. Are you going to sing a twenty-minute aria now as you die?”

Ily glared. “I sense a mockery being made of me.”

“You make it too easy.”

With a scowl, Chia’s sister folded her knees under her skirts and began to slump gracefully down against the wall. In about three seconds, she would wilt into a well-posed puddle on their grandmother’s knotted rug.

One, Chiara counted.

Ilaria fanned herself with her hand.

Two.

Ilaria tugged at her collar.

Three.

Ilaria collapsed with an elegant thud. A beat later, Niccolo lowered his book and rose from his seat, walking leisurely to his sister’s side. “No song this time?” he teased.

When she didn’t reply, he dropped his book squarely on her stomach, and her eyes snapped open.

“Why you—you could have broken my rib!”

“Hardly,” said Niccolo dryly, retrieving his book, which was small enough to fit in his pocket. “You’ve cried wolf far too many times, little sister. Did you really think I’d believe you?”

Ilaria rolled up, twisted toward the mirror vainly, and touched up her crumpled hair. “You’ll regret this when I’m famous.”

“Your death scenes are already famous—in this house.”

Chiara chuckled, giving away her presence just outside the room. Niccolo glanced over his shoulder, and his frown released into a smile. “See, even Chia agrees. Maybe she can accompany your swan song on the harpsichord.”

Ily threw up her arms and appealed to her sister. “Every day, he mocks me. How am I related to this uncultured boor!”

“It might be wise not to call our brother an uncultured boor,” said Chia evenly. “Especially when you’re trying to ask a favor of him.”

“Ignoramus, then,” amended Ilaria without a hint of contrition. “Chia, I have to get out of here.” Her dark green eyes rounded with a plea. “Please, help me?”

Chiara pursed her lips as she studied her sister. Side by side, she and Ily didn’t look much like sisters, and their temperaments too were as different as night and day. Chiara was bright like the meaning of her name, with sun-kissed golden hair—the color of uncooked pasta, Nico liked to tease—that curled at her shoulders, and eyes as blue as the jays that perched along their roofs come spring. She was kind and patient and warm, while the only angelic thing about Ilaria was her voice. Mischief and cunning made the younger Belmagio daughter’s green eyes glitter, and she shared the same dark chocolate hair as Niccolo and their mother. But what both girls did share

 was the heart-shaped blush on their cheeks when they were happy, the way their heads tilted to the left when they were quizzical, and the way they sighed—as Chiara did now, with resignation.

Why not, her heart told her. After all, like Niccolo said, the bakery was closed and didn’t need flowers, her parents were playing cards with friends—and most of all, it would make Ily happy. Chia loved seeing her sister happy.

But how to convince Niccolo to take them out?

“Think of my voice, my future!” Ily went on. “It hurts just to breathe, the air is so thick.”

“Smell this, then,” said Chiara, passing her sister a small bouquet of the flowers she’d plucked outside. She made a curtsy. “For the prima donna of Pariva.”

“Are you sure you want to encourage that ego of hers?” said Niccolo.

Chiara knew what she was doing. While Ily sniffed the flowers, Chiara seated herself at the harpsichord and coaxed out the opening chords to her sister’s favorite aria, “The Nightingale.” As she predicted, Ilaria couldn’t resist joining in on the music. Without even realizing it, Ilaria started singing the first stanza, which mimicked a lost nightingale chirping as it searched for its home.

Music always cast a spell over the Belmagio household and eased away any discord between the siblings. The three had spent many afternoons in their youth making music together, Niccolo joining on his violin. By the time Ily had sung through the whole song, even Niccolo had forgotten his irritation at Ily and was clapping. Just as Chia knew he would.

Chiara joined in on the applause. “You see?” she said to her sister. “A little heat has no chance against a voice as powerful as yours. Which means when your auditions come around, they’ll be a breeze.”

Ilaria grinned. “Only because you’re at the keys, Chia.”

“Well, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be your accompanist as long as you need me.” Chiara paused, turning slowly toward Niccolo as she flexed her fingers. “Though now I am a bit warm.”

It was true. Sitting at the harpsichord by the window had made Chiara’s skin heat. She raised her glass of juice for one last sip. “If Niccolo won’t come, maybe I’ll take the boat out for some fresh air.”

Ilaria gasped in delight. “You’re a bona fide saint.” She hugged Chiara. “Thank you, thank you!”

“You can’t take the boat out by yourselves!” Niccolo exclaimed.

“Why not? If you won’t go…”

Their brother grimaced and tugged on his collar, the way he did when he was about to give in to something. “I told Ily already I don’t think it’s safe—”

“Because of the whale?” Ily snorted. “Who’d you hear this from, the sailors on the docks? You really believe there’s a giant beast large enough to swallow entire houses?”

Niccolo flinched. “Monstro. Everyone says he’s real.”

“Then maybe we should look for him.” Ilaria knew better than anyone how to pull her brother’s strings—when she put her mind to it. How to pull anyone’s strings, really. That was her talent. “Unless…you’re afraid.”

“Afraid?” Niccolo spluttered, though from the way his shoulders tensed, it was obvious that he was. “I’m not afraid of a big fish. I’m afraid of putting my two sisters in danger.”

“You talk as if we’re delicate lilies wilting under the sun,” said Ilaria. “We’re—”

“Grateful for your worry, Nico,” Chiara interrupted. “How about we only go for an hour, and stay close to the coast? If the water starts to become too rough, we’ll come back straightaway.” She cast her sister a meaningful look. “Ilaria will even help row.”

Niccolo gave Ily a narrow look. “I’ll have to see it to believe it.”

“It’s a promise,” said Ilaria, making a crossing motion over her heart. “Honest.”

Niccolo sniffed. But he was tempted; Chiara could tell by the way he tilted his head, considering. “I guess there’s no harm so long as we keep in sight of the coast,” he said slowly. “I’ll bring my telescope in case there’s a Monstro sighting.”

Ilaria let out a triumphant squeal and pushed Chiara toward the stairs. “Hurry and get your hat, Chia. Can you pack some sandwiches, too?”

“And pistachio cookies?”

Ilaria winked. “You read my mind.”

Simple as that, Chiara’s plans were changed. Fate had stepped in and ordained that she should go sailing with her siblings.

It was to be a decision that would change everything.

CHAPTER TWO

Geppetto blamed the heat for muddying his senses, and for making him slip out of the workshop in the middle of the afternoon for a row around the coast. It wasn’t like him to take off to the sea, especially in his father’s cherished but moldy shrimping boat.

At least he wasn’t the only one with the idea. Back at the docks, Niccolo Belmagio was untethering their family boat while his sisters, Chiara and Ilaria, hopped inside.

“Looks like they’re going for a sail, too,” Geppetto murmured. Had he waited twenty minutes, he might have gotten to say hello to them.

He laughed at himself. “Even if you had,” he admonished, “you’d be too shy to speak with them. To make friends.” Oh, Niccolo had always been pleasant to him; they were the same age—nineteen years old—and had gone to school together, and there was no one kinder than Chiara, but Ilaria…Ilaria probably didn’t even know he existed.

Geppetto’s laugh died in his throat. He could never admit aloud, not even to himself, that it was Ilaria he wanted to speak to. Well, it was Ilaria he wanted to hear. Her voice, round and resonant with a singer’s richness, was his favorite sound in the world. It was music to his ears, and simply thinking of it made a clumsy smile spread across his face. Without realizing it, Geppetto started humming.

The sound filled the silence between his oar strokes, and finally he succumbed to the ache in his arms and set the oars aside for a moment’s rest. He was a competent enough sailor, thanks to the frequent trips to the sea he and his papa used to take before his mother had passed away two years earlier. What he wasn’t—was a rebel.

Taking the shrimping boat out without permission, leaving in the middle of the day when there was still work to be done—it had to be the heat that had stolen his senses. He could hardly believe what he’d done. He’d regretted it the moment he’d jumped into the boat.

But the current was strong, and when he tried to turn back, it pushed him the other direction—into the wide and open sea. He glanced back, watching his hometown shrink against the horizon.

He took an uneasy breath. “I guess I should just enjoy it.”

Folding his arms behind his head, Geppetto leaned against the side of his boat and gazed at the sky, marveling at how far and blue it unfolded. When was the last time he’d just stared at the clouds? All day and evening, he worked as Pariva’s sole luthier, repairing instruments. Papa’s fingers had become swollen with age, so he increasingly relied on Geppetto to keep the workshop running. And Geppetto did, dutifully.

He didn’t have the courage to refuse.

Nor did he have the courage to open the trove of dreams he kept stowed in his heart. Secret dreams, like the one that had led him out to sea today.

“That’s all they will ever be,” he murmured to himself as he watched the sea. A ripple disrupted the still water. “Dreams. Papa will never understand.”

The ripple ballooned, and Geppetto thought he glimpsed the flash of a black tail far in the distance. He sat up, the rush of fear in his gut telling him he should pick up his oars right away and row back toward shore.

But then the breeze picked up and a gull squawked and he realized how silly he was being on this perfect day.

“It’s probably just

a seal,” he said, laughing at himself. “Don’t be such a coward, Geppetto.”

With a sigh, he picked out the pencil he had tucked behind his ear and fumbled for the sketchbook he’d brought. He might not have the courage to tell his father about his dreams, but he certainly wouldn’t run away from a seal. Still humming to himself, he flipped past sketches—a father and son hiking the base of Mount Cecilia, an old woman feeding pigeons along the old fountain in the middle of Pariva’s town square, a young couple strolling around the bell tower at dusk—until he found a fresh new page. In a series of crisp, confident lines, he drew a seal’s tail, and he readied his pencil for more as the ripples grow closer and stronger.

Everything seemed to go perfectly still.

Then the water beneath his boat suddenly lifted, and the sea turned black as night. Geppetto stopped humming, but it was too late.

Two wrathful green eyes lifted out of the sea.

And Geppetto found himself face to face with a monster.