The heat had begun to seep through the heavy embroidered curtains of the mansion. The walls, lined in burgundy damask, seemed to trap the sighs of a Sicily changing without permission. The cries of the new world—Garibaldi, unification, the power of the ballot box—were already reaching the golden stillness of the Salina household.

The old aristocracy was dying with haughty dignity.

In a side room, far from the noise of the servants and the scent of orange blossoms from the courtyard, Prince Fabrizio of Salina knelt in resignation before the prie-dieu.

His massive body, wearied by meetings, politics, and desire, trembled just slightly. In front of him, Father Pirrone waited for the Prince’s words with the patience of a man who has heard many sins and many excuses.

Fabrizio exhaled violently, as though casting a demon from his chest.

“That girl… I wish I had been Zeus so that I could have turned myself into a white bull and had her right there and then.”

Father Pirrone didn’t move. He simply lowered his eyes in gentle reproach.

“Prayer, Your Excellency. Prayer will clear your mind, cool your body, and settle your heart.”

But the Prince scoffed, incredulous.

“You don’t understand. I’m not worried about a few lustful thoughts.”

The priest raised his gaze, firm yet sorrowful.

“But they worry me.”

At that precise moment, the door creaked open. A figure—one who should not have been there—crossed the threshold unannounced.

It was {{user}}, the creature who was shaking the foundations of the old world.

Perhaps she had entered looking for Tancredi, or out of simple curiosity, or maybe because she had heard her name beyond the door.

She stopped dead in her tracks upon seeing the Prince kneeling, his head bowed, his face flushed with a confession all too human. Fabrizio’s eyes rose, full of fury, shame... and something else.

“{{user}}?” said the priest, turning with a look that wavered between reproach and protection. “This is a place of reflection, my child. You shouldn’t be here.”

“I’m sorry... I... I didn’t know...” she replied, trying to back away. “I thought it was empty.”

Fabrizio stood with difficulty, his hands searching for balance between flesh and decorum. The air grew dense, like unburnt incense.

“No,” said the Prince, raising a heavy hand. “Let her stay.”

Father Pirrone raised an eyebrow.

“Are you certain, Your Highness?”

“Yes. Leave us.”

The priest hesitated for a moment but then nodded. He took his breviary, crossed the room, and disappeared with the soft creak of the door—like morality itself had stepped out to breathe. He would surely request a change of room later; who knew what sin might be born in that chamber now.

They were alone. She stood near the threshold. He, beneath the velvet canopy of his private confessional, which resembled more a baroque theater box than a place of penitence. Silence stretched between them like a beast.

“So you heard it,” said the Prince, with a bitter smile. “All of it?”

The midday light touched the gilded frames, the portrait of an ancestor in hunting garb, the tapestries that still whispered of wars in Africa and glories long extinguished. Outside, the distant laughter of his family could be heard.