I refrained from pointing out I hadn’t seen a single locked door inside the Mews. “Is it so bad? They’ve given you every luxury. The people I saw on the way in looked happy.”

“Of course they’re happy. They were raised here. They don’t know any better. And,” Zaira added, glaring, “they can leave.”

“You can, too. Just not alone.”

Zaira snorted. “I’m sure you’ll be happy to take me out with you anytime I want. You’ll drop everything and head right over to the Mews whenever I call. Three times a day if I like.”

I didn’t need my mother to tell me that could never happen. “Well …”

Zaira adopted a prancing, limp-wristed stance. “You’ll come get me for all your fancy parties. We’ll have tea with the doge each Thursday. And when your mamma retires and you’re on the Council of Nine, you’ll gladly spend hours with me every day, following me around while I do my shopping.”

“That’s not realistic, and you know it!” I snapped.

“No,” Zaira agreed, dropping the foppish act. “What’s realistic is maybe once a day you’ll pause and wonder how I’m doing, and a couple times a month you’ll take me out for a horrible, awkward afternoon in town. And I’ll have to act like I love it. Because when you’re starving, you’ll eat shit like it was a feast.”

“I … I hope not.” I yearned to make promises. To tell her I would come every day, and we could go wherever she wished. But I could feel my mother watching me, from all the way across the lagoon. Never make promises, La Contessa always said, unless you are certain you can keep them. And even then, if you can, make the promise in your mind only, to yourself. “I would like to do better by you than that.”

“Good intentions don’t buy bread.”

“Well, what do you want to do so badly that you’re desperate to get out of here?” I asked. “Forgive me, but you didn’t seem very happy where you were.”

Zaira looked away, anger in the line of her shoulders. Her gaze fell on the room’s single window—and through it, across the lagoon to the city.

“There’s an old man,” she muttered, grudgingly.

“Who? Your grandfather?”

“Hells, no.” Zaira brushed the idea off like dust. “If I have any family, they don’t care enough to let me know it, so they can rot. No, just an old ragpicker. I owe him.”

“You want to see him?” I tried to imagine visiting a ragpicker. And explaining to my mother afterward.

“No, idiot.” Zaira shook her head. “I told you, I owe him. I want to pay him back.”

“Well”—I struggled to force out the words—“I suppose, if that’s what you truly wish, then when Lieutenant Verdi gives his permission …”