Numbed by the cold and rain, she didn’t so much as flinch when the loudest boom of thunder yet shook Venice, seeming to reach down even as far as its petrified alder-wood roots. Nor did she feel the razor blade–like flicks of the torrential rain on her face.
She walked back to the school and closed the door, making sure to lock it behind her.
Tap. Tap.
Lucia stirred, grumbling something into her sleeve.
Tap. Tap.
She turned over, grimacing as the morning light’s rays found her slitted eyes.
Bang!
Blinking her eyes open, it took Lucia a moment to register where she was. ‘Oddio. . .’ she breathed, as aches and pains suddenly registered up and down her body.
Francesco stood on the other side of the school’s front window, looking through the glass at Lucia who was now stretching out her limbs, still lying on the raised platform of the display area. His wide eyes and a gentle shake of the head said it all. ‘Lucia, what are you doing there?’
His voice was muffled by the thick double-glazed glass, but Lucia heard him. She moaned as she rolled over and sat up. Rubbing her tender temple, which had spent the night perched on a bilingual dictionary, Lucia wearily got to her feet, opened the door, and stepped onto thecalle.
Francesco raised his eyebrows. ‘What were you doing sleeping in the window?’
Her voice cracked as she found it. ‘I . . . I must have fallen asleep . . .’
‘But why?’
A mess of mascara-stained cheeks and rain-frizzed hair, Lucia’s blotchy red eyes returned to La Commedia’s window. ‘A light was on in there last night. After you left . . . I went to investigate, but there was nothing . . . I locked myself in and turned off the lights and just waited. I thought maybe . . .’
Francesco turned and examined the front of La Commedia. It looked just as it always did – locked and empty. ‘Have you been drinking?’
She knew it sounded ridiculous, but she pressed again all the same. ‘No! In there! Last night . . .’
‘Are you su—’
‘I’m . . . I’m almost sure.’
Francesco took both her hands in his and drew her closer. He hadn’t seen this version of Lucia, with the frantic darting eyes and unfinished sentences, in years. It filled him with dread that yesterday’s news had catapulted her back to the past. ‘You’ve had a terrible twenty-four hours, Lucia. Edoardo’s visit. The situation with Vittorio Gatti.’
Pointing to the middle window on the top floor of La Commedia, she said, ‘I thought maybe there were . . .’ Her eyes welled with tears.
‘Photographers? Journalists?’
‘Sì.’ She sniffed and nodded solemnly.
Foscari’s concerned barks from her apartment upstairs echoed down to the school’s bottom floor, stealing Lucia’s focus for a moment.
‘Oh, please don’t cry.’ He wiped a tear from her cheek and glanced at thecallebehind them. ‘Not here. You of all people don’t want an audience for this.’
Before coaxing her back through the door, Francesco shot a cautionary glare up at the windows of La Commedia, his forehead furrowed with concern.
With Lucia under the hot shower, Francesco assessed her apartment; it was just as they had left it after the post-lunch clean-up. Her bed was still made. The notes she had gathered to start work on fundraising for Jacopo’s half of the school were still on her nightstand. Nothing seemed amiss. But there was a strange energy in the air that Francesco couldn’t place. It was as if Lucia’s four walls were unsettled, restless somehow.
He grimaced, and despite the winter chill, opened both sets of windows at either end of the apartment, allowing the refreshing breeze to blow through from the Grand Canal across to Calle del Leone.
Foscari sensed something too. He was sitting on the window seat facing thecalle, his gaze fixed on La Commedia. He let a low growl simmer behind his teeth.
Francesco joined him, gave him a reassuring pat down the length of his spine, and took a moment to assess La Commedia for himself. His eyes landed on the top-floor windows. Dark within, as was to be expected. But something had shaken Lucia, and Foscari clearly sensed something, too. These factors made Francesco think twice about his quick judgement of the situation.
Hearing the water shut off, Francesco collected some fresh things for Lucia to wear: her black skinny jeans, which always hugged her long slender legs just right, and a white cotton long-sleeve top. He gave a gentle tap on the bathroom door and popped his head through the gap. ‘Leaving these for you.’
