quattro
Lucia’s legs stiffened, as if turned to stone.
She blinked and looked again. There it was, the unmistakable glow of light emanating from the upstairs windows of La Commedia.
Lucia suddenly questioned her own eyes. Was it real? Or was she imagining things? Her mind baulked at the idea of what a presence in the building could mean.
Inevitably she thought of the anniversary scandal, and her memories taunted her, playing the noxious headlines on a loop.
Ten years on, but forever l’Orfana
L’Orfana: of age, but not of sound mind
Venice’s untouchable beauty
L’Orfana: single, desperate . . .
She shook her head to clear it. But then the images came.
Lucia brushing wisps of her hair from her cheek into the wind, but evidentlycryinguncontrollably in public.
Lucia catching a sneeze before it broke, but squinting througha decade of emotional turmoil.
Lucia waving down to Francesco from her apartment window, still in her pyjamas, butfarewelling her latest fling.
It would be beyond foolish for anyone in the modern day and age to be irresponsible enough to attempt a similar journalistic stunt, especially given how many high-profile Venetians had come out to support Lucia after the story was published. Then again, even something minor had the potential to throw her back into the public eye, to dredge up her past, and remind those who had perhaps forgotten: Lucia Trevisan was still alive; she was stilll’Orfanawith the lagoon-green eyes; but now, as an adult, Lucia could be tossed around like public property.
Another roll of thunder overhead released her from the moment. Again, she looked to the illuminated window. Yes, the light was real.
As she brought her hands to her cheeks to steady herself, a thought occurred to her. Something that Miro had mentioned in the market suddenly brought a fresh burst of adrenaline to her bloodstream.
‘. . . Despite how difficult every anniversary of your parents’ passing may be for you.’
Anniversary.
The anniversary of her parents’ passing was two weeks away. And for the first time it clicked. Twenty years . . . Their twentieth anniversa—
Before she could let her mind slot all the pieces into place, she had left the safe confines of the school and made her way to La Commedia’s front door. Determination had replaced her previous fear. Lucia wasn’t going to stand around and let an anniversary scandal 2.0 happen.
Standing up close, she pressed her ear to the door and strained to hear anything within. But between the howling wind and the increasing rumble of the thunder, it was near impossible to hear at all. Retreating a few paces, she cast her eyes back to the lit window, but there was no sign of movement within.
Just as the rain suddenly began to fall in earnest, Lucia scuttled across the front of the building and made her way to the water’s edge, right where La Commedia framed the end of Calle del Leone. She continued around the back, doing her best to keep her balance on the narrow footpath which skirted the building, leading to the hidden service canal behind.
Nothing.
Not so much as a dinghy.
No sign of life, or change.
Even the rear-entry door was securely shut with the same rusted lock that had clung there for decades. The narrow stairs which led to the top floor were still tied off with the original chain.
Her shoulders dropped. Perhaps, after the emotional and draining day she’d had, her mind really was playing tricks on her?
The sky above her lit up and she caught a glimpse of her reflection in one of the narrow newspaper-lined windows.
What are you doing?
Her long dark hair was plastered to her cheeks and her eyes showed no sign of their trademark spirit; she looked soulless.
