Mariella’s neck craned around the doorframe. ‘Just as well, I don’t have enoughrisi e bisifor a fourth stomach!’ Foscari yapped defensively. ‘You don’t count,Piccolo! Now, inside, Lucia.’
With her curiosity now properly piqued, Lucia looked back at the footbridge which crossed the end of Calle del Leone. Seeing the man had brought some sense of relief. If he were a reporter or journalist incognito, he would never have allowed himself to be seen so casually in the open leaving the building, she reasoned. He hadn’t even glanced at La Scuola Rosa.
Where the worry had begun to recede, a desperate desire to meet her new neighbour had taken up residency.
‘Welcome to Calle del Leone,’ she said under her breath, and then turned back inside.
Once Mariella had gone home, and sensing that Lucia needed to keep busy, Francesco suggested they go for an eveningpasseggiatathrough Cannaregio. Thankful for the distraction, Lucia rugged up and they strolled arm in arm along the wide bustling streets.
They paused in front of many illuminated shop windows, taking in the intricately decorated displays Venetian retail is famous for. Perfectly poised mannequins displaying folds of silk and handspun Italian threads; locally cobbled footwear and leather accessories, all polished to a glistening shine; waves of faux gloved hands, modelled in unison, as if partaking in a chorus line of Venetian style. Polka dots. Stripes. Block colours. Then there were the windows that made one gasp, among them those featuring hundreds of tiny hand-blown glass figures: flowers, animals and scenes, each meticulously placed and which threatened mass collapse should one so much as blink in their vicinity.
There were also the windows ofpasticcerie– the pastry shops – all bursting at the seams with crispy sugary treats of all colours, textures and sizes. Some were dotted with toasted nuts, others rolled in other gluttonous toppings.
Lucia pressed a gloved hand against the window of onepasticceriaand practically moaned at the sight of the long tray ofgalani, Venice’s most iconic Carnevale sweet. The twisted lengths of golden fried, icing sugar–dusted pastries seemed to call to her.
‘Those. Any one of those would make the last few days just evaporate from my memory. Poof!’
Francesco smiled, happy to see some of the usual Lucia restored. ‘Just one?’
Having Carnevale on the horizon meant thatQuaresima, Lent, would soon be upon them.
‘What will you be giving up forQuaresima?’ Francesco asked, eyeing off thecastagnole, the sugar-drenched doughnut balls mounded in one delicious heap on the tray next to thegalani.
‘My sanity?’ The reply slipped out before Lucia could stop it.
Francesco threw his head back and chuckled. ‘Was that a joke?’
Despite the past few difficult days, Lucia let herself share the lighter moment. ‘I hope so.’
Francesco laughed again, only louder. ‘Signore, Signori, Lucia has attempted some humour! The world shall be right once more.’ He feigned gesticulating to a crowd, but she pounced on him and muffled his mouth with her hand.
‘Zitto, tu!’ Linking arms again, she drew Francesco back into the swelling masses of Venetians and tourists along Rio Terà Lista di Spagna. ‘Now is as good a time as any to tell me something about the man you’ve been seeing.’
Francesco gave her a sly side-eye. ‘That wasn’t even remotely subtle.’
‘I have learned from the best.’ She grinned at him. ‘Please . . .’
‘I don’t know yet, Lucia.’
‘Dai. Ti prego. Let me live vicariously through you.’
‘Youchooseto live this way. You are a wanted woman in this city. You could have any man your heart desires.’
She scowled. ‘And where has that got me in the past,eh? It’s too hard for me to trust people. To open up to men. They just burn me.’
‘I know.Scusami.’ He squeezed her arm a little tighter. ‘And about my situation . . . I’m just notsureyet.’
‘Sure about what?’
‘Him.’
‘In che senso?’
It took a moment for Francesco to register that Lucia had him right where she wanted him. He drew in a hesitant breath, then said, ‘It’s Stefano.’
Lucia’s mind circled. ‘OurStefano? From school?’
He nodded. ‘What do you think?’
