They crossed the cool silence of the inner court and came down the stone steps to the private quay. Again the slap and suck of the green water filled the air. From the shadows a white shirt materialised, and the white smile of Guido the chauffeur above it. Pansy explained what they wanted and he put two fingers to his mouth and whistled. At once a dark shape came dipping and bobbing towards them. Once under the arches the gondolier thrust his oar in to steady the boat while they climbed aboard. When he saw the three of them he answered Guido’s call with another, rising whistle. Guido gave rapid, curt instructions and the gondolier shrugged. Then there was the whisper of notes changing hands.

Helen sat squeezed in the middle, with the warmth of Chloe’s and Pansy’s arms against her own. In front of her the lantern swinging from the beaked prow sent wavering splashes of gold over the water. There was a lurch, and then they shot out under the arches of Palazzo Croce and into the Venetian night. The Canal was a forest of gondolas sliding under the Rialto Bridge, faster boats cutting through the water and swaying lights of every imaginable colour. Behind her Helen could hear their gondolier humming, and sometimes calling out to another as he passed. She closed her eyes to listen to the water and snatches of music drifting over it and told herself Venice. I’m in Venice.

On either side of her Chloe and Pansy were silent, busy with their own thoughts.

The route took the three of them through narrow, dark cuts where the yellow squares of windows were high up in the walls and where ancient lights flared against the stonework, under high-humped bridges and past little paved alleys that allowed glimpses into busy trattorie. Helen lay back against the cushions and thought of the precious days ahead that would give her the chance to wander over these bridges and in and out of the dim, inviting churches.

At length they came into a wide expanse of water where the lights of another island winked at them from the distance. The gondola skimmed forward and then swung to the left where a tangle of others swayed against their tall wooden mooring poles.

Helen looked up and saw that they were alongside San Marco. They scrambled out on to the wooden duckboards and then on to the firmness of the quay.

‘Quadri’s?’ Pansy asked.

‘Quadri’s,’ Chloe agreed.

Firmly linking Helen’s arms in theirs they guided her through the piazzetta and into St Mark’s Square. The great open-air drawing room was alive with people, music from the cafés and the swarming, fluttering pigeons.

Helen stopped dead. The Basilica dominated everything, floodlit, and crowned with its squat Byzantine domes.

‘Look,’ she breathed. ‘Just look.’

Pansy and Chloe smiled indulgently and steered her on.

‘Tomorrow,’ they promised.