‘Suits you,’ she said, grinning. ‘Are you surewedidn’t kiss that night?’
Francesco exaggerated a wince of disgust for comic effect, earning him an elbow to the ribs. Foscari yipped in support from the foot of the bed.
‘You should be so lucky,’ she teased back.
Laying the mask facedown on the bedcovers, Francesco assessed the underside. He tilted it slightly to catch the light from Lucia’s bedside lamp, and that was when he saw it.
‘Eh?’ he said, bringing the mask closer. ‘What’s this?’ His finger traced a fine outline of a face pressed into the raw leather, almost debossed. He turned it over in his hand, noting how the stamp had left no counter-mark on the other side. ‘That’s a face,no?’
Lucia peered over his shoulder and nodded. ‘Most definitely. Even if it is small.’ Lucia took it from him and squinted. ‘Is that an “M”? Sitting just below the chin.’
‘It is.’ Francesco began furiously googling all manner of combinations to try to place the mask’s maker. He searched descriptions of the mask, the M-face symbol, the address – such as it was – that Nicolò had given them. Yet somehow, it all amounted to nothing.
‘There’s only one thing I can do now,’ Lucia said, sighing.
‘And what’s that?’ Francesco asked, dropping his head back on the pillow.
‘I’ll go tomorrow to find that warehouse. The artisan might know who else bought this mask.’
Perhaps sensing Lucia was on a mission, Foscari let out a moan, scurried to his basket, and cowered under his little blanket for shelter.
‘I can’t join you tomorrow, Lucia, I promised I’d have lunch with Stefano and his family, and then in the afternoon we are preparing and posting content forVenezia, Ovunque!’
‘It’s fine and thank you. I appreciate that.ThisI can do alone.’
Early on Sunday morning, dressed casually in full-length black leggings, a sweat top and her oversized hooded navy puffer jacket, Lucia slipped out under the cover of dark with Foscari – also wearing hiscappottino.
By the time dawn broke over the lagoon, washing the cream and marble façades of the city in tones of gold and yellow, they had arrived in the Dorsodurosestiere.
Despite the creeping fog which blanketed and disguised the narrow canals, Lucia found the intersection of thefondamenteBonlini and Ognissanti. Just where Nicolò had said the artisan’s mask workshop could be found.
Where should I even start to look?
Lucia craned her neck to assess both directions along thefondamentabefore the end curved from view. The angle was unforgiving and the low morning light did little to help. Turning, she decided that the peak of the peach-painted rendered bridge that crossed over the canal would provide her the greatest vantage point.
She gave Foscari’s leash a little tug and he followed along, keeping unusually quiet in the morning cold.
They headed over together, crossing paths with an elderly couple walking hand in hand. They exchanged morning pleasantries and Lucia came to lean on the bridge’s flat metal railing, facing east. Below the bridge the water lapped gently against the embankment, the surface broken only by the many iconic blue and white mooring poles patiently awaiting the next gondola.
Many of the palazzi lining that end of the canal seemed to be residential; three or four storeys high, dotted with poky windows framed with white sills and pine-green shutters. She turned around, ready to take in what the view to the west had to offer.
She was thrown, however, by the sight of the bridge’s name plaque mounted to the palazzo by the end of its steps.
Ponte Trevisan. Trevisan Bridge.
Setting eyes on it caused her skin to prickle under her many layers. ‘Dio. . .’ she eventually exhaled, and her breath clouded before her.
Seeing her name there, engraved in the marble of the plaque, steeled Lucia. It was both reassuring and somewhat serendipitous, and it was all she needed to assure her thatsomeTrevisan control remained in Venice.
And I thought the universe had forgotten about me . . .
A sweet smile graced her lips, and she couldn’t help but wonder if she had been sentthissign as a message to push back against her many challenges.
‘Come on, up this way.’ Lucia led Foscari off the bridge and along the northernfondamenta, heading west.
She checked each palazzo they passed for signs that an artisan might work there. While there were many housing blocks, a few commercial properties, a bar and a few shops, they did eventually come across one nondescript building that, from the outside at least, seemed to be disused.
Lucia wiped the murky glass of a ground-floor window with the outer edge of her hand and pressed her nose to the glass. ‘It looks empty,’ she said, but Foscari wasn’t listening.
