With the same spirit that had encouraged her to accept the invitation to the ball in the first place, she pinned her shoulders back and breathed. She cast her faith out into the universe.
L’universo.
She repeated the word a number of times before succumbing to the quiet once again.
Suddenly stealing her attention, the bells of the Campanile burst to life in choral song. With each deeply rich chime – the force of which reverberated across the piazzetta and underneath the u-shaped portico – Lucia’s heart counted.
Uno. Due. Tre . . .
Closing her eyes, she let the vibrations of each note pulse through her.
Sette. Otto. Nove . . .
Part of her hoped that when she opened her eyes, he would be there. Perhaps standing right in front of her, ready to soothe her weary heart and put at ease the worry of her racing mind.
‘Undici. Dodici. . .’ she murmured.
And then, the silence which flooded Piazza San Marco left her soul gasping for air. Drawing in a deep breath she slowly opened her eyes, but all that met her was the same unobstructed view of the empty piazzetta.
Nothing.
Andno one.
Her shoulders dropped a little as she exhaled dejectedly.
Really? He’s not here?
She blinked several times, trying to see things in the piazzetta she knew were not there. Her disappointment grew. She caught her face in her hands, pressing her fingertips into her scalp. The pressure was grounding.
I really thought he would . . .
After a moment Lucia shook her hands out by her sides and cast her eyes to the ink-black sky. There was nothing more she could do. She accepted that now. Nodding into the dark canopy above, she bit her lip pensively. To the stars, she said, ‘I tried. Thank you for the kiss.’
‘You’re welcome,’ came a voice from behind her.
Lucia’s legs turned to jelly.
That voice.
She knew that voice.
Lucia turned to find the broad-shouldered figure she had met on the eve of Valentine’s Day, draped in the same hooded cape, wearing the same black half-mask.
The breeze flicking off the open waters from Lido seemed to intensify, whipping the loose strands of hair around her face.
He started walking towards her and Lucia’s heart began to pound in time with his footsteps. Eventually, he stopped at arm’s-length in front of her and his eyes, barely visible through the mask’s narrow slits, looked down on her.
Lucia noted how he opened his mouth, as if wanting to speak, but she quickly raised a hand to silence him. Shaking her head, she said, ‘No. Please. Not yet.’
Dropping ‘Nicolò’s’ mask to the grey pavers, she inched her way closer to him and rose on the balls of her feet. Looking up at him, she saw that his height and physique matched what she remembered. She laid both hands on the top of his chest and turned her head ever so slightly, welcoming him to her. Her grasp ran the length of his forearms, eventually finding his hands. She turned them over and traced his palms with her fingers.
Rough. Calloused.
And she felt awash with relief.
He moved closer then and, feeling the warmth of his breath against the tender skin of her lips, a familiar yearning returned to Lucia’s core. Even before she felt him upon her, Lucia knew it washim.
Suddenly, his mouth was there.
