Max stared out the window as the plane descended through a patch of clouds into Leonardo da Vinci–Fiumicino Airport, some sixteen miles from the centre of Rome. It was strange to think that only a couple of days ago they were in full training mode at Alexandria and now they were back to being regular kids on a school trip, with not a word of the past week to be uttered aloud. Max wondered how the others never slipped up, but supposed that the longer one led a double life, the easier it might become to lie. He hoped he wouldn’t make any mistakes. Granted, it was more likely that Kensy would blurt out something. Indeed, several rows in front, his sister had tried everything she could to extract information about the Christmas mission from Autumn. Each time, Autumn managed to steer the conversation in a different direction. That girl was effortlessly polite and a seasoned professional.

In no time flat, the children, along with Mrs Vanden Boom, Mr Frizzle, Miss Ziegler and Mr Reffell, had disembarked, cleared immigration and boarded a minibus. Mr Reffell sat at the front, commentating their journey into the city and pointing out various landmarks. It was a noisy ride among the beeping horns as cars and scooters darted in and out of the traffic. Their driver, Franco, cheerfully bore the brunt of much abuse, to the children’s great amusement – particularly among those who knew an Italian swear word or two.

‘Are we going to the Colosseum this afternoon, sir?’ Alfie called out.

‘If you care to consult your itinerary, you’ll see that we have a half-day tour there tomorrow.’ The man raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s going to be amazing – just wait until you see what I have planned.’

Romilly Vanden Boom blanched. A statement like that from Monty set her teeth on edge – heaven knew what the man had up his sleeve.

‘When are we going to the Vatican?’ Lola asked. ‘I want a blessing from the Pope.’

Autumn looked at Kensy and whispered, ‘She needs more than a blessing.’

Kensy snorted with laughter, garnering a glare from the girl.

Monty Reffell sighed audibly. ‘Might I suggest that you all have a read of the detailed pages that were included in the folder that I gave out to each and every one of you before we boarded the plane?’

‘But I left mine in my seat pocket,’ moaned Graham Churchill. He was always forgetting things and quite literally scratching his head.

‘Good heavens, man, we’ve only been here a minute. How could you have lost something already?’ Monty frowned. ‘It’s just as well I made extras, although I’m not giving you another one until tomorrow. You can share with someone else for now. Actually, share with Lola – she doesn’t seem to know what’s going on either. I’m sure you two will love being buddies for the afternoon.’

Lola Lemmler looked as if she might throw up. ‘But Graham’s gross! I’m not sharing with him. Misha’s my buddy.’

Eyes widened around the bus and there was a flurry of whispers.

‘Lola, you will apologise to Graham at once and you will be his buddy for the rest of the day,’ Monty declared.

‘It’s okay, sir. I’d rather not. Lola’s a nasty cow,’ Graham retorted, to the muffled guffaws of his classmates.

Lola leapt up, almost strangling herself with the seatbelt in the process. She wrestled free, then marched over to the lad, who was sitting across the aisle two rows back. ‘What did you say?’ she demanded. Although small in stature, Lola possessed an intimidating air and had been known to reduce senior students and even teachers to tears.

‘You heard me,’ the boy said, jutting out his chin. ‘Unless those dainty ears of yours are full of wax.’

Mr Reffell yawned theatrically. ‘Lola, sit down before I instruct the driver to turn around and deposit you back at the airport.’

‘But he called me a cow.’ The girl’s long lashes fluttered as her eyes filled with tears.

The man sighed again. ‘And you said he was gross.’

‘So? He is,’ Lola sulked. ‘Everyone knows he’s got nits!’

At the mention of the critters, half the bus scratched their heads. Kensy and Max hated to indulge the upstart, but they couldn’t help themselves and began itching their scalps too. Mr Reffell was no exception, much to his own annoyance.

‘Right,’ Romilly Vanden Boom barked, standing up from her seat in the middle of the bus. ‘You will both apologise or I’ll gladly send you both home. This is hardly an auspicious start to what should be a wonderful week.’ The woman’s voice reverberated through the bus, causing even the driver to shiver in fear.

‘But my parents are here in Italy,’ Lola grouched under her breath.

Misha looked over at the girl. This was news to her. Lola hadn’t mentioned a thing about it before and she was usually quite the open book.

‘Well, in that case,’ Mrs Vanden Boom replied, arching an eyebrow, ‘I’d imagine they’d be very happy to collect you right away.’

Lola gulped, knowing that wouldn’t be the case at all. Her father had spent Christmas away and her mother had flown out yesterday evening to join him. She had been left at home with her nonna, who had accompanied her to the airport.

Lottie Ziegler and Elliot Frizzle, who were sitting at the back of the bus, snickered like schoolchildren. Truth be told, neither of them would have minded the girl being sent home. Misha had her work cut out for her, that was for sure, and the girl pulled it off with poise. At times it was difficult to discern where her undercover persona ended and the real Misha began, which earned her the respect of her teachers as well as her Pharos peers.

‘She’d do it, you know,’ Carlos whispered to Max. ‘Mrs VB would send them home in a heartbeat. She takes no prisoners.’

Graham caved first. ‘Sorry, Lola, I didn’t mean to call you a cow. You’re probably not.’

Everyone turned and stared in Lola’s direction to see what she’d do next. Given no one on the bus could remember her ever apologising for anything, it must have been killing her.

Lola flicked her ponytail over her shoulder and inspected her painted fingernails. She glanced at Misha, who flashed a sympathetic smile. Lola took a deep, shaky breath. ‘Sorry, Graham,’ she said in a tiny voice.

Romilly looked at Monty, who shrugged. ‘Well, I suppose that will do,’ she said. ‘Now, I don’t want to hear another bad word from either of you for the rest of the trip or, mark my words, I will make good on my promise.’

‘Do you think they’ll still have to be buddies?’ Max asked Carlos.

The boy grinned. ‘Definitely. The teachers will take great pleasure in that. Might be some fireworks later.’

Lola sat back down with a thud and folded her arms while Graham scratched his head. The bus wound its way through the narrow streets into the heart of the city. They passed beautiful churches and ancient ruins alongside modern supermarkets and fast-food outlets that seemed completely at odds with the patina of a civilisation thousands of years old, yet at the same time it made perfect sense. There were traffic and people everywhere and lots of police on scooters and on horseback.

When their bus pulled up outside a hotel, Monty Refell stood up and clapped his hands to get the children’s attention. He waved an arm at the enormous fountain directly opposite them. ‘That’s the –’

‘Trevi Fountain!’ Inez squealed, jiggling up and down in her seat. Ever since she’d visited the Palace of Versailles in France, the girl had developed a fascination with baroque architecture and prided herself on being able to identify buildings and structures in that style.

Mr Reffell was delighted by her enthusiasm. ‘Yes, you’re absolutely right, Inez. It’s a beauty, isn’t it?’ he said wistfully. ‘We’ll take a proper look once we’re settled in. Our first activity will be a walk to acquaint ourselves with the area. Now, here’s a fun fact. Did you know that the ancient Romans actually invented concrete and, after the fall of the Roman Empire, the formula was lost for over a thousand years? Fascinating stuff.’

The children alighted the bus and several of them assisted the driver in unloading the luggage. Mr Reffell went ahead to organise the rooms and keys.

‘Frizzle!’ Franco called, holding up an old-fashioned suitcase.

‘It’s pronounced Friz-zel.’ Elliot sighed grabbing his bag. He really had to do something about changing that spelling.

Kensy and Autumn turned circles, taking it all in. In addition to the hotel opposite the fountain, the structure was surrounded by an assortment of buildings, many of them old and painted in traditional terracotta red with shutters and ornate plasterwork, as well as a wedding cake-like church called Santi Vincenzo e Anastasio a Trevi further along on the corner. There were open-air shops and hawkers peddling their wares to the tourists.

Max spotted a poster on the wall beside the hotel entrance. It was the front page of a newspaper with a photograph of a boy taking up most of the real estate. ‘Hey Carlos, check this out,’ he said, walking over to have a closer look. The masthead read ‘Scomparso’.

‘Do you know what it says?’ Carlos asked. ‘Italian isn’t my strong suit, but we could ask Dante to interpret.’

Kensy and Autumn had wandered over to see what the boys were looking at. Max scanned the page and, while his own Italian was far from perfect, he got the gist of the article. ‘The Prime Minister’s son is missing. It says that he ran away on Christmas Eve and hasn’t been seen since.’

‘That’s terrible,’ Autumn said, as they were joined by Harper and Dante. ‘How old is he?’

‘Twelve, and they say it’s as if he vanished into a puff of smoke,’ Kensy added.

Harper gasped. ‘His parents must be beside themselves.’

‘He might be a brat,’ Dante said, scanning the article to see if there was any hint of the boy’s personality.

‘Even still, I imagine his parents would be awfully upset,’ Harper replied.

‘Maybe that explains why there are so many poliziotti and carabinieri on the streets,’ Max mused. ‘Perhaps they’re looking for him.’

Dante shook his head. ‘No, they’re always around. My dad jokes that there are more police per person in Rome than anywhere else on the planet and yet thousands of tourists are pickpocketed each year.’

Mr Reffell stood at the hotel entrance and called to the children.

Autumn nudged Kensy and pointed to the far side of the fountain. ‘Now, that looks like a scene from a movie.’

A nun dressed in a traditional habit with a wimple on her head was leading a trail of a dozen children, ranging from five to twelve years of age, across the piazza. They were modestly dressed with neat hair and polished shoes. Kensy couldn’t help noticing the woman had a very large nose and a stoop. Two stern-faced men, with shirts buttoned all the way to the top, flanked either side of the line and another followed up at the rear. They were heading towards the church.

‘They are orphans,’ Franco told the group. ‘That is Sister Maria Regina, bless her soul. She is a saint – not technically, but she will surely be one day. She is a kind woman with a big heart and that is her orphanage there.’

Kensy’s eyes settled on a dark-haired boy with a fringe that skimmed the tops of his eyes. When he looked up, she smiled and waved. He raised his hand to wave back, but the man beside him said something that caused the boy’s gaze to drop to the ground. Kensy watched him walk away, his head bowed, and noticed a mark behind his ear – it almost looked like a tattoo. How could that be for a boy his age? Kensy wondered what the man had said to him. Maybe the children weren’t supposed to be friendly to strangers. But she was just a girl herself and hardly a threat to the lad.

‘Poor kid,’ Kensy mumbled as she followed her friends inside.