He reached across and held her steady. The diagnostic tests fell to the floor. ‘If you want one last chance, one final probe at the universe, we can try. Just say the word.’
It was at that precise moment that the students began to filter in, with Mariella behind them, ushering them with both hands. ‘Buongiorno!’ she sang out.
‘Buongiorno!’ Lucia and Francesco replied in unison, not breaking eye contact.
Lucia swallowed hard, and her alabaster skin grew even paler. ‘I think I do want one last shot.’
‘Fantastico,’ he said, squeezing her arms a little harder, then leading her out onto thecalleto talk in private.
Between the groups chatting and a few students smoking, Francesco led Lucia to La Commedia’s stoop for more privacy. They sat down and leaned their backs against the door.
‘I want to have one last shot. And if it all falls apart I will move on,’ said Lucia quietly.
‘Then let’s do it.’
‘How?’ Her eyes looked sullen and her cheeks were drawn.
Francesco scoured the clear Monday morning sky. ‘Ok. We put up one final post, something like, “She’s still looking for the masked kisser from the ball” . . .’
‘No.’ She shooed it away. ‘Mywords this time.’ She exhaled, quiet for a moment while she mulled over the phrasing. ‘How about, “If you really are the masked kisser from the ball, you will know where we kissed and when. Be there this Friday. And bring your mask.”’
Francesco was taking down a note on his phone. ‘Done.’
‘Ireallyhope he shows, Checco. That kiss was just . . . There’s no coming back from that kiss.’
‘You do realise that this Friday isVenerdì Santo? Good Friday.’
‘Well, let’s hope there is somethinggoodabout it, once all is said and done.’
‘Let’s go, classes are waiting. We can post the message to the school’s profile over lunch if you like.’
They left their perch by La Commedia’s door and headed back inside the school.
Alex stood still behind the door and closed his eyes, letting their words sink in.
trentotto
The week shot by like a bright flash of lightning.
Francesco’s latest post had stirred a whirlwind of interest. The vast majority of the hundreds of comments wished Lucia well, while others tried to guess when and where she would be waiting, and a few trolled her with hurtful quips about desperately seeking the limelight.
True to form, Lucia kept a wide berth from it all.
Head down, she pushed on at the school, introducing the future tense and ordinal numbers as they transitioned their focus to celebrating Easter. This brought with it another window-dressing change of hand-woven baskets, swathes of pastel fabrics and a collection of oversized, cellophane-wrapped chocolate eggs.
TheVenezia, Ovunque!project had gathered even more steam, with a playful Instagram Reel about Venetian Easter traditions going viral, in a positive way, which brought in a wave of new subscribers.
It all helped keep Lucia’s mind off the now fewer than thirty days remaining to meet Edoardo’s deadline – and her potential date with destiny onVenerdì Santo.
That Friday night, despite the nonsense of it all, Lucia made her way across Piazza San Marco to the piazzetta with the view out to Lido island. The cold night air was her greatest advantage. It kept her senses alert, and encouraged others to stay indoors.
As she landed on the spot where all the madness had begun, she checked the time on her phone – 23.59.
And there she waited, mask in hand by her side.
The piazzetta was quiet and still, except for a few seagulls mewing overhead as they made their way back to the mainland. The basilica looked lonely without its usual crowd of milling tourists, heightening the emptiness of the piazza’s expanse. The restaurants and bars were closed, their tables and chairs tucked out of sight, and the street vendors and carts were long gone.
For the moment, it was just Lucia and Venice. Andhermask, the one she had taken from ‘Nicolò’. Something about having it with her gave Lucia some sense of control; she had survived this before, and she could face it again.
