Nothing but silence. The school had been emptied of life for another day.
‘I’m going downstairs,’ she said to the dachshund. ‘Want to come?’
Foscari lapped at the water in his bowl by the en suite door, dropping his bottom to the floorboards.
‘I’ll just go alone, then.’
Gripping the banister tightly, Lucia made her way to the school below. Her feet, usually confident enough to take two stairs at a time, felt jittery and light. No matter how carefully she took each step, the jelly-like insecurity of her trembling legs threatened to topple her.
She stopped momentarily to peer around the edge of the lower staircase, checking to see that the coast was clear and that there wasn’t anyone gathered out the front of La Scuola Rosa.
There is a God.
Walking to the front window she looked up at La Commedia, then turned back inward. She would return to the classroom tomorrow with a renewed purpose, bolstered by ibuprofen and her usual trademark dedication.
She wouldn’t be able to see Tiziano about the ball’s profits until Saturday, per his request. So, she had to get on with day-to-day life as best as she could.
She withdrew her phone from her pocket and shot Stefano a speedy text.
Grazie mille for your extra help today. Your lessons sounded wonderful.
He replied immediately with,Prego. Feel better soon. X
For now, all she wanted to focus on was clearing theSan Valentinodressings from the window display. With her one good arm, she collected a box from the office space behind the welcome desk, and quite literally single-handedly pulled the hearts and love-inspired decorations from the window.
There was nothing to decide for the new display, as it always followed the same pattern.San Valentinowould melt into Carnevale, and Carnevale would morph intoPasqua. And once Venice had gorged itself beyond reason on chocolate eggs, it would finally be time to celebrateLa Primavera: spring.
Having stashedSan Valentinofrom sight for another year, Lucia collected the box of Carnevale decorations. Fanning open the cardboard flaps one at a time, the familiar vintage hand-made masks and string-laced wood puppets stared back at her. She felt a tug on her heartstrings, remembering how she and her mother had always used to dress the window together. Her father would stand outside on Calle del Leone, pointing and gesticulating to ensure the perfect balance of elements. Historically, he was never quite happy, though. With his usual spritely energy he would then take to the window himself, building mechanical contraptions with pulleys and levers that would move and animate the puppets.
Holding the Arlecchino puppet aloft so it caught a beam of sunlight, Lucia found space in her melancholic haze for a smile.
Some things I will never let change.
Lucia returned Arlecchino to the box and set it down on the edge of the window display. Then she turned back to face the glass, and her heart seized in her chest when she was immediately met by the figure of a blonde-haired woman standing on the other side of the window.
The woman removed her dark sunglasses and slipped them into her designer attaché. She gave Lucia a kindly wave and a smile, and gestured to the locked door with a nod of the head.
‘Tutto bene?’ The woman pressed a hand to the glass.
Lucia couldn’t find her voice. So she nodded.
Again, the woman gestured to the door.
Lucia scrutinised every inch of her. She held no camera, no microphone. She was well dressed in a camel-coloured trench, brown heeled boots and a long-line tan knitted dress. Nothing about her screamed foe, or flashed metaphorical hazard lights, so apprehensively, Lucia made her way to the door. She opened it just enough so that they could exchange a few words.
‘Signora Trevisan?’ The woman’s eyes were bright and meticulously outlined with kohl.
‘Signorina. And, Lucia, please.’ She planted her feet solidly on the wooden floor and tried to keep her voice even.
‘Mi scusi,’ the woman said, pressing an apologetic well-manicured hand to the designer silk scarf wound around her neck. ‘I do hope you are feeling better after the accident, Lucia. A terrible, horrible thing to have happened.’
Lucia read a certain sincerity in the way the woman’s head tilted to the left and her frown pinched between her brows. Her greying hair caught momentarily on the breeze which rustled down thecalle. Still, Lucia was not keen to open the door more than a few inches just yet.
‘Grazie. Sorry, have we met?’
‘Del Campo. Benedetta.’ The woman’s hand dipped into her coat pocket and retrieved a business card. She passed it through the opening. ‘I work for the publishing house, La Copertina.’ She nodded in the direction of the card. ‘I would like to talk to you—’
Really? Today? Ugh. Today’s not the day . . .
