Page 101

‘The older woman can’t bear to watch the horror of the blood flowing from the deep gash – the unfinished severing of the saint’s head.’ Valentina was aware of Peter stifling a laugh, perhaps at her daring in front of someone with whom everyone was always so cautious. But Valentina sensed the Queen’s intrigue. This was not the moment to hold back out of protocol.

‘Oh, do go on. The suspense is killing me,’ the Queen said.

Everyone laughed, breaking the tension of the moment, and

Valentina relaxed.

‘Well, the blood is pooling over there, as you can see, Your Majesty.’ She pointed, and the Queen nodded, concentrating. ‘But there are those rivulets, tendrils even… If there is a signature, I feel strongly that this is where we’ll find it. I think those wool-like threads that we can’t make out may well become the letters of his name once it’s all cleaned.’

‘Valentina!’ Carmel exclaimed. ‘That’s an extraordinary theory.’

She looked down. ‘I’m sorry, yes, I shouldn’t⁠—’

Peter put a hand on her arm. ‘Of course you should. I think your theory is inspired,’ he interjected. ‘And should it prove to be true, I simply can’t wait to include it as a special chapter in the book I keep threatening to write.’ He turned to the Queen. ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty. This is a very intriguing premise that Val… that Mrs Falzon has posited.’

‘Indeed,’ the Queen agreed. ‘And if this painting will be undergoing restoration in Italy, as you say, we should know soon, I hope?’

Carmel replied. ‘Yes, Your Majesty. I shall be travelling with it to ensure its safety.’

‘Well, I do hope very much that Valentina is also invited to be involved in that special mission.’ The Queen glanced at Valentina and smiled.

Carmel looked back stunned. ‘Er, yes… yes, of course, Your Majesty.’

Valentina felt as though her legs were surely going to buckle.

‘Very good.’ Queen Elizabeth smiled. ‘What an intrigue. I hope you reveal your secret, Valentina,’ she said, holding out her hand.

Valentina’s gloved hand briefly touched the Queen’s gloved hand and she remembered to curtsy again, her mind scrambling, her throat tightening. She mustn’t cry. Was this the happiest day of her life since Danjel was put in her arms? She thought it might be. Although… the other night with Peter… She smiled. Life, just in this sparkling moment, felt full.

The Queen turned to the men. ‘Mr Fox, Mr Galea, thank you so much for this enlightening visit.’

And then the entourage was moving once again, out into the brightness of the Maltese sun and the cheering crowds. Suddenly the Queen was gone.

Her visit hadn’t quite taken twenty minutes. But in that short space of time, Valentina knew that the English monarch had just changed the course of a simple commoner’s life.

TWENTY-SIX

The days of the royal visit passed in a blur of colour and laughter for Valentina. Her city was swollen with people hoping to catch a glimpse of the monarch and her duke, but above all, it was being with Peter and Danjel that brought her joy.

Her son was visibly more relaxed without his bullying father around. His smile arrived more readily and his conversation had opened up, now there was no fear of being shut down or jeered at. With Peter in their midst, Danjel talked openly about his love of history, of art and of football.

They had just finished a picnic dinner in the Hastings Gardens, which were quiet and cool at sunset. The royal couple had left the previous day, and the city was calming down after all the drama and glamour of their visit. There was no calming for Valentina, though; she felt like an electric current had passed through her, waking her up to her life and all of its misery and shortcomings. She felt as though she was finally seeing clearly after years of her spirit being dulled and battered.

And she alone could change her situation.

‘Those were delicious,’ Peter said of the pastries Valentina had baked that afternoon. He was now peeling a fresh mandarin. ‘Ah, that citrus smell. These are so much easier than oranges,’ he remarked.

‘We call these mandolina,’ she said, smiling, half at him, half at Danjel, who was kicking a ball around nearby, practising his trickery skills for dribbling the football down the field and dodging opposing players.

Peter followed her gaze. ‘He’s good.’

‘He’s passionate,’ she remarked.

‘An English football team would snap him up.’

‘You have so many over there. But his father has given him two choices. Leave school at fourteen and work at the bar, unless he can qualify to play for Floriana.’

‘I’m guessing neither suits?’