Emotional scenes were taking place all around her. Grandparents meeting grandchildren for the first time. Couples reuniting after long separations. Dejected business travellers trudging to the taxi line alone. Then one welcome sight caught Friday’s eye. A big scruffy man in a beaten-up old grey fedora. His shirt was crumpled and he looked a little sweaty, like he’d just jogged two miles in the suit he was wearing.

  ‘Uncle Bernie!’ called Friday. And in that moment, she did something most uncharacteristic. She burst into tears. She hadn’t realised how much she was looking forward to seeing him.

  ‘Friday,’ said Uncle Bernie, as he lamely patted her on the shoulder. He was as bad as handling human emotions as she was. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘She’ll be fine eventually,’ Melanie assured him. ‘She’s just overwhelmed. Being imprisoned for eleven months took a psychological toll. She’s like one of those prisoners who spends forty years in maximum security for a crime they didn’t commit, but when they get pardoned, they find it hard to readjust to society. It doesn’t help that she wasn’t very well adjusted to society to start with.’

  Friday still couldn’t stop crying. She was sobbing loudly now. Great racking, wailing sobs.

  ‘Did you bring Ian with you?’ asked Melanie. ‘I think she needs a hug. He’s a good hugger. For Friday anyway. He’s tall enough to rest his chin on her head.’

  ‘He’s not with me, no,’ said Uncle Bernie. He looked anxious about this. ‘I’m sorry, Friday.’ He summed up the courage to give her a hug himself. It turned out that Uncle Bernie was a pretty good hugger too. He was a very big broad man. You don’t get picked to play ice hockey for the Riga Raiders if you can’t block 80 per cent of the goal face with the sheer size of your body.

  Eventually Friday got her sobbing under control.

  ‘Who is this handsome devil?’ demanded Mrs Cannon, sailing over to investigate the situation. She looked Uncle Bernie up and down.

  ‘This is Uncle Bernie,’ said Melanie. ‘He’s married to Ian Wainscott’s mother, so he’s taken, Mrs Cannon. You’re married too, remember.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Mrs Cannon. ‘I can still look. I like a man with meat on his bones.’ Mrs Cannon had ‘meat on her bones’ herself. But she carried herself with the confidence of a chanteuse, and strangely it seemed to work.

  Uncle Bernie blushed.

  ‘Will you be riding into town with him then, girls?’ asked Mrs Cannon. ‘Perhaps I’d better come too to act as chaperone. I’m sure I can squeeze in. In fact, it would be fun trying.’ She was literally stroking Uncle Bernie’s arm like he was a cat. ‘I hope you’ve got a small car, Europeans drive such cosy little vehicles.’

  ‘Actually, er,’ said Uncle Bernie, scratching the back of his head to get his arm out of Mrs Cannon’s reach. ‘My car broke down on the motorway and I had to get it towed. I hitchhiked the rest of the way here. I was hoping I could get a lift back on your bus.’

  ‘Of course!’ said Mrs Cannon. ‘The more the merrier.’

  ‘Are you sure there will be enough room?’ worried Uncle Bernie.

  ‘If there isn’t, I’ll strap some of the children to the roof to make way for you,’ said Mrs Cannon with a wink.

  ‘Mrs Cannon, you’re being wildly inappropriate,’ said Melanie.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Mrs Cannon. ‘We’re in Italy now. I’m behaving like an Italian. As Saint Augustine said, “When in Rome . . .”’

  ‘The quote is “When in Rome behave as Romans do”,’ said Friday. ‘Not “When in Rome harass married men.”’

  ‘It’s not my fault Saint Augustine didn’t get out enough,’ said Mrs Cannon, as she looped her arm through Uncle Bernie’s and handed him her suitcase. ‘Now let’s find our bus. I do hope the bus driver is handsome. Then you two can fight over me.’

  Friday and Melanie ambled after them.

  Luckily the bus driver was handsome and he didn’t speak a word of English, so Mrs Cannon forgot about Uncle Bernie entirely, because she could get away with saying even more outrageous things to the hapless driver.

  Bernie, Friday and Melanie took up the back seat of the bus. The other students were excited but also exhausted from the long flight. The bus was soon on the motorway, travelling at alarming speeds through industrial estates and eventually rolling green farmland. It all looked very Italian, but not terribly picturesque yet, more semi-industrial and functional. The students were starting to drift off to sleep in their seats. Friday was confident she could have a proper conversation with Uncle Bernie without anyone paying enough attention to what they were saying.

  ‘So, why did you send for me?’ asked Friday in a hushed voice.

  ‘Yes, do tell,’ urged Melanie. Having slept soundly through most of the flight, she was awake too.

  Bernie fidgeted nervously, eyeing the other students to see if any of them were trying to listen in. ‘There’s a lot of pressure at work,’ he finally said.

  ‘What sort of pressure?’ asked Friday. Uncle Bernie was head of security at the Uffizi. It was the most famous art gallery in Italy. France had the Louvre, Russia had the Hermitage, Spain had the Prado and Italy had the Uffizi. It was a big deal. Obviously, it would be stressful being in charge of one of the most prestigious art collections in the world. But Uncle Bernie, for all his scruffiness, was actually very good at his job and normally would not be worried about things like that.

  ‘There’s been a crime wave in the art world,’ said Uncle Bernie.

  ‘Has this got something to do with the robbery at the Rijksmuseum?’ asked Friday.

  ‘You read about that?’ asked Bernie.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Friday.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘The Rijksmuseum in Holland was robbed six months ago,’ said Friday. ‘Twelve paintings were stolen in broad daylight and no-one knows how they did it.’

  ‘There has been a series of these mysterious crimes in art galleries and museums across Europe,’ added Bernie. ‘No-one knows who’s behind it, or how they’re doing it.’

  ‘And you think the Uffizi might be next?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Yes, and it’s making management nervous,’ said Bernie. ‘A lot of people on the board don’t like that I’m foreign. They want an Italian to have my job.’

  ‘It’s your clothes, isn’t it?’ said Melanie.

  Uncle Bernie looked down at his crumpled shirt. He had taken his suit jacket off and you could see the sweat stains under his armpits.

  ‘Italians are very particular about clothes and style,’ said Melanie.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Uncle Bernie. ‘Normally I could get away with being eccentric, but there’s been lots of chatter that someone is going to rob the museum.’

  ‘Organised criminals? Political activists?’ asked Friday.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘But our systems have been compromised. The computers were hacked in our maintenance department.’

  ‘Why would someone want to hack the maintenance department?’ asked Melanie. ‘Are they after your toilet paper supplies?’

  ‘We can’t be sure,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘But they could have been looking for the specifications to the security system. Like where the sensors are, so they can figure out how to circumvent them.’

  ‘Oh, that’s clever,’ said Melanie.

  ‘Crimes of opportunity can be avoided with good systems management,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘But a well-organised, well-funded attack on the museum’s security protocols, that is almost impossible to defend against. Not without shutting down the whole museum and sticking all the artworks in security boxes. And we can’t do that because the Uffizi attracts four million tourists a year. It’s an economic powerhouse for the region.’

  ‘But you’re good at your job,’ said Friday. ‘You don’t need me.’

  ‘They’re bringing in a new governor. A security specialist from Rome, to oversee my work,’ said Bernie. ‘I think “oversee” will pretty quickly become “sack” if I put one foot wrong.’

  ‘Could he be in on it?’ asked Friday. ‘An inside actor?’

  ‘No, she’s a she actually, Governatrice Offredi,’ said Bernie. ‘And she’s actually really good. Very highly regarded in the industry. She even looks more professional than me.’

  ‘Winos asleep in the gutter look more professional than you,’ said Melanie.

  ‘I know,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘But this is a look I’ve cultivated. Getting people to underestimate me is my professional strategy.’

  ‘And now you’re too good at it?’ suggested Melanie.

  ‘You could always try ironing your clothes,’ suggested Friday. ‘Italians respect nice clothes.’

  ‘Italians don’t have clothes in my size or shape,’ said Uncle Bernie.

  Friday could see what he meant. Uncle Bernie’s physique resembled a Kodiak bear.

  ‘Look,’ said Uncle Bernie, ‘we’ll sort out my work problems. I’m glad you’re here now to help me with things. But there’s something else I need to tell you.’

  Friday turned to look Bernie in the eye.

  He was uncharacteristically serious.

  ‘It’s about Ian,’ said Uncle Bernie. He gulped like he was frightened to say what he was about to say.

  Friday started to get a cold sense of dread.

  ‘What’s wrong with Ian?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Bernie. ‘He’s fine. He’s well. It’s just . . .’

  He couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud.

  ‘Ian is . . . seeing someone,’ Uncle Bernie finally blurted.

  ‘A psychiatrist?’ asked Friday. This made sense. Ian had a lot of unresolved anger issues from his parents’ marriage break-up and his father’s Machiavellian business practices.

  ‘No, not that kind of someone,’ said Uncle Bernie, kindly. He didn’t want to see Friday break down into tears again so he was trying to say this to her as gently as possible. ‘He’s seeing a girl.’

  Friday’s face still didn’t register any understanding.

  ‘A girlfriend,’ Bernie clarified.

  ‘Oh,’ said Friday.

  ‘That rat!’ said Melanie.

  ‘No,’ said Friday, looking at her hands as she clenched and unclenched them. ‘It’s to be expected. Ian is very good-looking.’

  ‘No, it’s not!’ protested Melanie. ‘You are his true love!’

  ‘I’m fifteen, he’s sixteen,’ said Friday, turning to look out the window. ‘We’re too young for that sort of thing.’

  ‘Romeo and Juliet were younger,’ protested Melanie.

  ‘Romeo and Juliet were fictional,’ said Friday.

  ‘True,’ conceded Melanie. ‘Fictional characters get all the fun.’

  Uncle Bernie did not get a chance to explain any further because the bus pulled into the courtyard of a convent. Two nuns were standing on the paving stones waiting for them.

  The convent was a beautiful old building with traditional Tuscan architecture. The stone was a golden colour and the roof tiles were a faded red. It all managed to look old and worn and yet beautiful at the same time. A tall thin tower stretched up high above the main body of the building. It looked slightly askew. Friday tilted her head, trying to figure out if it really was leaning or if she just had benign positional proximal vertigo.

  The sight of the nuns seemed to make Uncle Bernie nervous. As soon as he stepped off the bus he was making his excuses to get out of there. ‘I’ll leave you here, girls,’ he said, while edging away. ‘You’ll want to settle in. Come over for dinner later if you can get away. Helena always makes plenty. It’ll be vegetables. But don’t let that put you off.’ He practically ran away as one of the nuns glowered at him.

  ‘Welcome to Santa Anna, my name is Sister Benedetta,’ said the sister. She glanced at her watch. ‘We were expecting you twenty minutes ago.’

  ‘I do apologise,’ said Mrs Cannon. ‘We were delayed in customs. The lovely man in uniform got upset when some of the girls took a selfie with him.’

  ‘We must hurry now,’ said Sister Benedetta. ‘You have twenty minutes to get to your rooms before the hour of silence commences.’

  ‘Hour of silence?!’ exclaimed Mirabella Peterson. ‘You can’t be for real.’

  ‘The sisters of Santa Anna have an hour of silence every day from three until four,’ said Sister Benedetta. ‘It is strictly observed. We cherish it as an opportunity to self reflect and examine our sins.’

  Parker put his hand up. ‘But what if we haven’t sinned today? Can we talk then?’

  ‘If you think you haven’t sinned,’ said Sister Benedetta, ‘then you have at the very least committed the sin of vanity and you should reflect on that.’

  Melanie put her hand up. ‘Are we allowed to lie down and rest our eyes during this hour of silence?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sister Benedetta.

  Melanie squeezed Friday’s hand excitedly. ‘I love this place already.’

  ‘The girls will go with Sister Immaculata,’ said Sister Benedetta. ‘The boys come with me.’

  Mr Maclean and Mr Nestor went to follow with the boys. But Sister Benedetta blocked their way. ‘No men in the convent, ever,’ she snapped.

  ‘What?’ said Mr Maclean. He was a good-looking, if now aging, man and he wasn’t used to women being so openly hostile to him.

  ‘The men’s accommodation is across the road,’ said Sister Benedetta. ‘Above the pickling shop. In the old servants’ quarters.’

  The two men turned to look at the weather-beaten old shop across the street. Even from this distance it looked mouldy.

  ‘Signore Bruno is expecting you,’ said Sister Benedetta.

  Mr Maclean looked like he wanted to cry. The convent was a beautiful 600-year-old stone building surrounded by gardens. It was a Tuscan idyll. The type of thing you expect to see on postcards from Italy. The pickle shop was not.

  ‘Come along, girls,’ said Sister Immaculata.

  The girls were led through the cloisters of the convent with Sister Immaculata explaining what the various rooms were as they passed. ‘This is Mother Superior’s office,’ she said, pointing out a doorway to their left. ‘And on the other side of the courtyard is the laboratory.’

  ‘You have a laboratory?’ asked Friday. Her thoughts went to a university laboratory with bubbling test tubes and anxious scientists in white coats. She was used to that sort of thing.

  ‘For the gelateria,’ explained Sister Immaculata.

  ‘Gelateria?’ said Trea Babcock. ‘You mean, they make ice-cream here?’

  Sister Immaculata frowned. ‘No, at Santa Anna there is no ice-cream. We make gelato. This is Florence, the birthplace of gelato. Here at the convent we make the best gelato in the world!’

  ‘You’re nuns and you make gelato?’ asked Mirabella Peterson. She was incredulous.

  ‘It’s not so strange,’ said Friday. ‘In Europe it is traditional for religious orders to pursue manufacturing. Plenty of monks make wine or beer. Here in Florence, the Santa Croce produces leather goods, Santa Maria Novella makes perfume and apparently Santa Anna makes gelato.’

  The girls crowded around the window and peered into the laboratory. It was an amazing sight. Huge refrigerated vats sat in the middle of the room and along a long central table were several nuns hard at work preparing the ingredients. In this case, strawberries. They were cutting off the green tops and slicing them into smaller pieces.

  ‘The next window you can see into the shop,’ said Sister Immaculata.

  The girls went over and peered inside. It didn’t look like a shop, it was more like a museum or a church chapel. There was wood panelling with gold-leaf trim, crimson velvet armchairs for the customers to sit on and a beautiful mural of angels surrounded by spring fruit across the ceiling. Then all along one wall was a long refrigerated cabinet with dozens of different gelato flavours on display.

  ‘Can we have some?’ asked Mirabella. She was practically drooling.

  ‘No,’ said Sister Immaculata, as if this suggestion was shocking. ‘The shop shuts in six minutes for the hour of silence. We must hurry to get you to your rooms before then.’

  Suddenly a middle-aged nun burst out of the laboratory. Sister Immaculata jumped back to get out of her way. The angry nun strode across the courtyard to the Mother Superior’s office, she knocked once and barged straight in and started yelling. It was hard to be sure, because she was yelling in Italian in a closed room on the other side of the courtyard, but she seemed to be very upset about the reliability of her refrigeration units.

  ‘That is Sister Angelica,’ explained Sister Immaculata. ‘She is the head gelatista. A great woman. She has a great artistic gift for gelato.’

  ‘She’s very loud at yelling,’ observed Melanie.

  ‘She has to get all her feelings off her chest in just four minutes before the silence,’ explained Sister Immaculata. ‘It is a high-pressure job making gelato in a convent. We must hurry, this way.’

  Sister Immaculata led them down a staircase into a long corridor. The walls were stone. There was a small doorway every three metres.

  ‘Two girls to each cell, please,’ said Sister Immaculata.

  ‘Cell?’ said Friday. She did not like that word.

  ‘It is what we call the bedrooms,’ said Sister Immaculata.

  ‘Of course,’ said Friday. She knew that. She’d read about convents. She peered into the ‘cell’ she and Melanie would be sharing. It was just a coincidence that it looked a lot like a prison cell.

  Friday stepped inside and took a calming breath. The room was small and sparse, with two simple beds and one small bedside table to share. But the afternoon sun shone in through the window and it had a cosy feel. She could handle this.

  Melanie lay down immediately, without doing any unpacking. To be fair, there wasn’t any furniture to unpack her bag into. She was asleep in less than a minute.

  Friday looked out the window. The stone walls were two feet thick, so she had to lean right into the casement to get a good view of the garden below. It was worth the effort. The garden was magnificent. Not in the least ornamental. It was all vegetables and fruit plants. But Friday appreciated the geometry of the arrangement.