And so I, the dark creeping thing I had become, did what needed doing, then slipped from Villa Belmont into the night and across the still Venetian lagoon as smooth and silent as a blade through milk.

Jessica met me at the dock the following dawn, dressed as a boy, and bouncing on her toes like an eager child before a sweets stand, a satchel slung over her shoulder and cradling a small wooden chest under her arm, filled, I presumed, with her father’s treasure.

“Well, that won’t work,” said I, pulling off her yellow hat, releasing her dark curls to cascade about her shoulders.

“What? You said to hide my hair under a hat.”

“Yes, but not a Jew hat, you ninny. We’re supposed to be in disguise.”

“I was in disguise. Now everyone will see I’m a girl.”

I tossed her yellow hat in the water and fit my own floppy Venetian hat of brown silk on her head. “Tuck in your hair. And give me a few coppers so I can buy a new hat.”

“Fuck off, rascal, you threw my hat in the water; get your own poxy hat.”

I stepped back from her, somewhat surprised, and she grinned. She reached into the chest, came out with some coins, and handed them to me. “Having you on,” she said. “My salty sea dog disguise, innit?” She bounced on the balls of her feet, looking for approval.

“Well done, then,” said I. “But you may want to calm down just a bit. It’s a long trip.”

“But I’m so excited. I’ve never been to sea.”

“Well then, close quarters on rough seas with you shall be a joy indeed.”

“You’re certain Papa will be taken care of?”

“Of course, I left him a pair of the new spectacles from Murano so he can see to do his own accounts, and I retained Tubal’s huge Jews to look after him. They took an oath. Now wait here while I go buy a new hat.”

Of course I had obtained no such oath from those huge Jews, and Shylock would be somewhat a wailing tragedy when he found his daughter and his treasure missing, but as the philosopher said, “When rent by diverging loyalties, best to bugger off to an island somewhere.”

An hour later I wore my new hat as we stood on the rear deck of the ship watching Venice recede into the horizon.

“Why do they call it a poop deck?” Jessica inquired.

“I’ll show you later,” said I.

“We are going to be so happy, Lorenzo and I.” She hugged herself and rolled her eyes dreamily.

“Don’t do that, love, it’s not manly.”

I felt a pang in my heart for her, for her hope, and her joy, and the potential of a future she would never find. How could I tell her?