Bassanio unlocked the casket and looked in, the lid obscuring the contents to all others except Gratiano, who stood beside him.

“What find I here?” Confusion.

“The picture is flawed,” said Portia. “The artist had been drinking, I’m sure of it. I told Father we should do another—”

“A fool’s head,” said Bassanio. “A puppet.” He lifted it from the chest with both hands, holding it as delicately as if he were cradling a baby bird.

“Look, there’s a scroll,” said Gratiano, who plucked it from the casket and read aloud.

“ ‘The lesson of this cask of lead.

Taught by greed of a father dead.

Turns a lover into merchant’s tool.

Who plays for love, but is made a fool.’ ”

“Oh, well played, fool,” whispered Nerissa. “Well played, indeed.” She left Portia to weep and followed them out to their gondola to make sure Gratiano knew that he, in particular, was not forbidden from returning to Belmont.

“Lady, I forgot to give you this,” said I, handing Desdemona the tiny portrait of her sister, which had been painted on a marble amulet. We stood at the dock, ready to board our ship to Genoa, a small merchantman fitted for only eight oars, and a crew of twelve. It was the fastest, lightest vessel that Othello would trust to the journey.

“Oh, how kind,” said Desdemona. “I shall treasure it. I do miss my sister. She must be terribly sad with Father’s passing.”

“Despite his being a wicked old scalawag, eh?” said Jessica. The Jewess had somewhere procured a pair of high leather boots, turned down on the thighs, and a wide belt with a brass buckle.

“Stop being piratey,” said I.

“Arrrrrr,” she arrrrrred.

“Fathers and daughters do often love with barbed embrace,” said Desdemona. “The love is true, if sometimes untender.”

Jessica swallowed hard. “That is well true, lady. Apologies.”

“It’s nothing,” said Desdemona, patting Jessica’s hand. “And we have a gift for you, Pocket.” Desdemona stepped aside and Emilia came forward with a cloth bundle, tied with string. I dropped it to the dock and released the bow. Inside lay a black silk jester’s hat with silver bells, and below it a doublet and tights of black satin and velvet argyle. It had been some time since I’d seen the all-black motley.

“It is as you were when you arrived in Venice,” said Othello. “The black fool you said they had called you before you came to us. We had it made. Wearing your motley again should be enough to remind everyone of your incurable silliness.”

“Well, I’ll need a cracking big codpiece to be true to form.”

“We’ve forgotten that, but a pair of soft boots with curled toes and bells are being made as well; they will be ready by your return. I am sorry, a puppet maker we were not able to find on the island.”