“Hello, Leo,” I said. “What a surprise. I’m studying here, at the academy of art.”

I could feel his hand shaking as I stepped down into the boat. He turned mechanically to assist the boys down. “Studying? Here? For how long?”

“A year,” I said.

“This young lady is a friend of yours, Leo?” the count asked.

“We met last year at the Biennale,” Leo said smoothly. “When I was escorting that party of rich donors, remember?”

“Ah yes. You enjoyed the Biennale, Miss Browning?”

“I thought it was wonderful. And the setting in the gardens is magnificent.”

“It’s not what you English would call ‘my cup of tea,’” he said. “Although my son keeps trying to drag me there. But so much rubbish is being called art these days.”

“My father would like the whole Biennale to be full of old masters,” Leo said.

“Of course. That was real art. You should see the painting that I’m sure Gabriella Fiorito paid a large sum for,” he went on jovially. “Hideous. Great daubs of colour. Nothing soothing about it. Apparently done by some up-and-coming Jewish painter still working secretly in Germany.”

“Well, that is Contessa Fiorito for you,” Leo said. “She sees herself as the great benefactor—the Medici of our century. And she likes to rescue people, the way that others rescue stray cats.” He glanced up from the wheel, and our eyes met.

He pulled down to full throttle, and the boat sped across the lagoon, the wind fresh and salty in our faces. My heart was beating so loudly I was sure that those squashed beside me on the back seat could hear it. How had I fooled myself into thinking that I could handle this? Being so close to him was torture. Why had I not realized how small Venice was, that I was bound to run into him whatever I did?

“Where should we drop you young people off?” the count asked. “Are you all living close to the accademia?”

“Close enough, I think,” Gaston said. “Please stop wherever it is convenient. We appreciate this kindness so much. Without you, we would have been standing on a dock for another hour and a half and we might not even have found room on the last boat.”

“Pull into the dock at the accademia, then, Leo,” his father said.

Leo manoeuvred the boat, jumped out smoothly and secured a rope. Then he held out his hand to help us disembark. I let Imelda disembark first, then it was my turn. Leo’s hand held firmly on to mine.

“Thank you for the ride,” I said.

“It was my pleasure,” he replied. “I am delighted to know that you have the chance to study here. Now perhaps you will become a great painter after all.”

“Hardly,” I said. “But at least I shall improve.”

“You live near the school?”