Click.
The same iridescent green of the Venetian lagoon, her eyes seemed bottomless, possessed.
Click.Click.Flash.
From that moment on, she would always be referred to as the Orphan Girl with the lagoon-green eyes. Or simply,l’Orfana.
This was a fate she could never have foreseen, nor would have ever wanted for herself.
Or for anyone, for that matter.
Oggi, 2026
uno
The early-morning fog which had enveloped Venice was beginning to recede, allowing the city’s muted pastel tones to emerge in the breaking sunlight. It was time for Venice to rise and face a new day.
The familiar clack of a particular pair of heeled boots on the slate-grey pavers set in motion a routine chain of events. At the point where the Cannaregio, Castello and San Marcosestierimet, blinds and shutters were unlatched on cue, aluminium awnings were thrown open and doors left ajar as ears strained to discern her approach. Secret signals and whistles rang out, and faces appeared at the windows above, hoping to catch a glimpse of her and her four-legged companion as they passed by on thecallibelow.
She strode with a confident grace. Rounding the corner of Calle dei Bombaseri, her steps, keeping time with the beat of her heart, echoed between the palazzi, giving notice of her arrival.
They still called herl’Orfana.
Her journey led her to Campo San Bortolomio, and she was thankful for the first kiss of morning light, which radiated a comforting warmth that cleared the final remnants of damp mist. Up the Ponte di Rialto she went, keeping her steady rhythm, but she stopped at the bridge’s peak, setting down her wicker shopping basket and hoping to catch the final moments of the breaking dawn over the Grand Canal. Hues of orange and red spilled across the façades of the opulent residences and hotels lining the banks of the lagoon. No matter how many times she had witnessed the scene, she never tired of its unpredictable beauty.
A stiff wintry breeze blew along the canal, and she nuzzled into her mottled grey cashmere scarf, comforted by its gentle caress. Despite the nerves she felt this morning, she smiled into the beams of dawn breaking over the water and adjusted her black leather gloves, tucking the folds deeper into the creases between her fingers. Reaching down, she patted her short-haired dachshund on the top of his head and adjusted his fleecy doggy coat. Then she gathered her basket once again and set off in the direction of the open-air Mercato del Pesce di Rialto, hoping to find something irresistible in the morning’s haul.
The irony was that she had no appetite whatsoever.
She found the market unusually quiet for a Friday, as locals – irrespective of religious persuasion – usually marked the day with a meal, or two, of freshly caughtfrutti di mare. The stalls were mostly already open, with the last few still unloading the morning’s catch. Bundled up in jackets and scarves, fishermen were hard at work pulling crates of fresh fish, shellfish and other sea treasures from dinghies which bobbed gently on the canal. Some whistled while they worked, many smoked, others shouted and gossiped among themselves. With only locals up and about at this early hour, it was indeed the moment to catch up with friends and colleagues before the nosy tourists swarmed in.
Browsing the stalls, she paused here and there to inspect what was on offer, her tiny four-legged companion mirroring her every step. Curious eyes followed her wherever she went.
Biting her bottom lip in thought, as she often did – though many said she did it to tease – she tried to piece together the ideal menu from the seafood that lay before her. What would go well with a side of the unknown, a sprinkling of fear, and a bottle of pinot grigio?
Quickly scanning the rest of the stalls from where she stood, she sighed, disappointed that her favourite stallholder was nowhere to be seen. This only compounded her worry.
She darted between trolleys stacked high with pearlescent blue prawns and silvery eels, careful not to step in the shallow puddles that had formed in the main walkway. A few boisterous whistles were aimed in her direction, but she ignored them. Not finding herself particularly inspired, she turned on one fine pointed heel of her best pair of black leather boots, prepared to scratch fish from her menu.
She ran her emerald-green eyes over the stalls one last time, then gathered her glossy dark tresses into a ponytail, which cascaded down her back. She decided to call it a morning, and signalled their exit to her furry shadow with a flick of her head towards thefondamenta.
They passed through themercato, emerging along the waterfront, and the kiss of the breeze which waltzed in off the Grand Canal was comfortingly familiar. She was ready to make her way to thesupermercatoinstead when a hand on her shoulder made her turn, startled.
‘Lucia!’ The voice was loud and cheerful in the cold, quiet morning air. ‘Leaving so soon?’ The man peered into her empty basket. ‘And empty-handed?’ He tutted, then turned his attention to her companion, who was pawing at his wellingtons for attention. ‘Foscari,buongiornoto you, too!’ He fished through his pocket and dropped a morsel of salt-cured meat he used for bait to the pavers, which the dachshund immediately pounced upon.
‘Miro, Ididlook for you.’ She rested her gloved hand gently on his as he held on to the handle of her basket. ‘How are you? You look well.’
Miro was dressed in his usual salt-encrusted layers of wool and his black PVC fisherman’s wader; completely inadequate for the northern Italian winter, but sixty-eight-year-old Miro had the lagoon running through his veins, so was near-impervious to the cold. For as long as Lucia could remember, two things had remained constant: his bristly beard, which had simply whitened with the passing years, and his love of that knitted greyberretto, displaying his now completely bald head through its many holes.
‘I’m well, Lucia. Very w—’ His pleasantries dried up upon noting the darkened rings beneath her eyes. ‘What’s wrong?’ He reached across and caressed her pale cheek.
‘Wrong?’ She cleared her throat and drew her shoulders higher. Foscari yapped at her feet.
‘You’re worried about something.’
‘Nothing is wrong. Just a poor night’s sleep. The rain . . .’
Miro raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you thinking about Jacopo?’
