Tonight, she won’t be Beatrix. She will be a ghost of Carnevale, just like all the others.
The sounds of revelry float through the cool night air, guiding Beatrix to the Piazza San Marco. She passes through a grand archway beneath an even grander clock tower, six stories tall, with an elaborate gilded face and terraces adorned with sculptures. White stone buildings—all arches and columns—surround the square, and a simple brick bell tower rises high above it all, ahead of her.
She edges her way out of the crowd and turns where she stands, taking in the piazza. The costumes are extravagant: a sea of colorful silk and jewels and masked faces. An orchestra of costumed men plays in perfect rhythm while dancing couples spin around them. A company of acrobats flips and balances in front of the basilica, a domed and gilt cathedral that rivals St. Paul’s. Across the way, a jester juggles to the enthusiastic cheers of the crowd, and a masked woman with hair the color of flame twirls fire in her hands. The way the woman looks at Beatrix unnerves her, as if she can see right through her mask. She dips her head and plunges into the crowd—
Straight into a man’s hard chest. She stumbles, and the gentleman catches her arm, steadying her. His grip falls away, and she bobs a low curtsy before she remembers she’s supposed to be a lady. “Pardon me, sir. I didn’t see you there.” Her gaze trails up his frame as she straightens.
The man is dressed in shades of silver and charcoal. The green buttons of his brocade coat shine like emeralds in the night, and she wonders if they really are emeralds. A black tricorn hat sits atop dark hair, and a fine porcelain mask hides his features from her, but not his sharp jawline or the glint in his eyes.
“Apology not accepted.”
“What?” Beatrix splutters, any semblance of ladylike manners gone.
The man smirks. “But a dance would make it up to me.”
Beatrix laughs. He’s shameless. “Is that so?”
The orchestra begins a new song, and the gentleman offers her his hand. Beatrix takes it. He pulls her close and she catches the scent of lavender as he lays his hand on her back. Probably the perfume of his last unsuspecting dance partner. He guides her into a waltz, his movements practiced and graceful, the steps easy to follow.
Visions of another dance drift to the surface of her mind. There were no masks, no fancy gowns, but if she closes her eyes, she could be back there, dancing in a tiny English village in a borrowed wedding dress with the man who gave her his love and promised her it would triumph over everything. She doesn’t close her eyes.
The man stares at her. Her cheeks flush with warmth, and she is silently grateful for the porcelain mask hiding her face.
“Where did you go?” There is no jest in the man’s tone, only a quiet curiosity.
“My mind wanders when I dance. A bad habit of mine,” she says. “One of many.”
“I find it difficult to believe a lady could have even a single bad habit,” he teases.
“You must not know many ladies.”
The man laughs, easy and bright, and turns her into the next steps. They glide across the piazza as if they have danced together a thousand times.
When the song ends, Beatrix dips into a polite curtsy. “Thank you for the dance. It was lovely.”
“How about another one, then?” the man asks.
Beatrix hesitates. She has rules. One meal. One dance. One night. Once is a fluke. Once is easy to forget.
The man offers Beatrix his hand. “It’s just a dance.”
Just a dance, wearing a dress that doesn’t belong to her, in a city she’ll leave behind, with a man who won’t be able to recognize her come morning. She doesn’t even know his name. What harm could it do?
She places her hand in his, and he pulls her close. His hand againsther back sends warmth blooming through her, and when she follows him, it is effortless. Two dances turn into three, into four, into five, until Beatrix has forgotten all about her rules and lost all track of time.
She spills from the crowd of dancers, breathless and laughing, the man following after. “I need a rest. And some food.”
He takes her hand. “I know just the thing.”
She follows him to a wooden stand tucked into the corner of the piazza. The scent of frying dough and oranges wafts across the crowd gathered around it. They reach the counter, and the man slides a coin across the smooth wood. The old woman standing behind it passes him a basket of fried pastries speckled with raisins and dusted with white sugar.
Beatrix sits with the man at a nearby table. “What is it? It smells divine.”
He offers her the basket.“Fritole.”
Beatrix selects a warm ball of fried dough and takes a bite. It’s crisp on the outside, chewy on the inside, and full of plump raisins. The icing sugar melts against her tongue, bright and sweet. She takes another bite.
“You’re an excellent dancer,” she says when she’s finished chewing. Not that she is an expert, but Lady DeSallowe is. She would be impressed by him.
