“You said an hour.”

“The bells of St. Mark’s don’t toll in the night. Pretend it’s an hour.”

“You’re not here to shag Portia, are you?” asked the dim boatman.

I put a stack of coins on the raised deck where the gondolier stood. “Half your payment. The other half when you’ve returned me to La Giudecca.”

“I’ll wait,” said the boatman.

I hopped out of the boat, scampered across the rocks, and across a wide strip of gravel into the gardens. Of course, Brabantio had a manicured garden, land being so dear in Venice, he would show the extravagance of having ornamental shrubberies, while the poor would paddle out to the most desolate of scrub islands in the marsh to dig out a root vegetable or harvest a few wild berries.

Belmont was Gothic in architecture, with pointed arabesque arches above the doors and windows, and little evidence that it ever had to be defended, as did most of the grand estates I had seen. With the exception of Arsenal, which was a formidable fortress, the Venetians seem to have always seen the sea and their barrier islands as their defense. Made it a piece of piss for even an out-of-practice thief possessed of inspiration.

The tower with the locked portico atop it jutted into the garden, with great carved marble railings that begged for the velvet thread of my padded grappling hook. Without so much as a clank, I had hooked the rope through the railings and was up the two stories to the portico in two ticks. A high, round marble table stood in the center of the portico, the three caskets—one lead, one silver, and one gold—each big enough to contain a deposed king’s head, were set around the table.

While the fingernail moon was fine to creep and climb by, I’d need more light to do the delicate work of razoring the seals, so first I found my way to the double doors that led into the palazzo, and with a lever and the goldsmith’s picks, soon I was inside. I found a small brass lantern with a candle near the still burning hearth of the great hall. With my lantern lit, I spied one of Brabantio’s crests carved above the doorway that led to the central gallery and rage rose in me until I began to shake. That pompous prick and his cohorts had taken my heart from me—forget what they had done to me, or what lives they would ruin with their war—they had killed my Cordelia.