“Better not,” she said. “Anyway, I had planned to take us to Murano tomorrow, if I feel up to it.”

I could see I was not going to win this case. But I couldn’t bear the thought of Leo waiting for me and thinking I was the rude one for not showing up. Then I came to a decision: I tore a page from my sketchbook and wrote on it, Leo, I’m so sorry. My aunt is being beastly and won’t let me see you again. Thank you for saving my life. I’ll never forget you. Your Juliet

Then I rose early the next morning, crept out and pinned the note (inside an envelope I had snitched from the hotel stationery) on the wooden pole used to tie up gondolas in front of the pensione. Aunt Hortensia seemed restored to her former health. We breakfasted and then found a boat to take us to the island of Murano. All the way across I wondered if Leo had come, and read my note, and felt a pang of regret. The glass-blowing on the island was interesting, if rather hot, and Aunt H. and I were both red-faced when we emerged from the interior of the factory with its furnace glowing.

“That is enough for one day, I think,” Aunt H. said, bustling me towards the waiting motor vessel. I would like to have browsed in the shop and maybe bought myself a necklace of those exquisite glass beads, but Aunt H. declared the price to be exorbitant and told me I’d do better at the stalls beside the Rialto Bridge where one could bargain.

On the return journey we stopped at another island called San Michele.

“Ecco San Michele!” Aunt Hortensia proclaimed as we approached.

“Are we going to get off there, too?” I asked.

“Goodness no. It is the cemetery.”

And as we drew close, I could see that the whole island was composed of white marble tombs, some like little houses, some topped with angels. I thought it might be a good place to be buried.

“Now you can see why I always choose this pensione,” my aunt said when we finally returned from our jaunt and a glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade was brought to us. “So civilized to sit in the shade and recover.”

She then went for a little rest. I slipped away to the place where I had left my note and was relieved to find it gone. At least he knew I had not stood him up. But then it struck me with full force that I would never see him again. Never see the way his eyes sparkled and his face lit up when he laughed. It was almost too much to bear.

After Aunt H. had recovered sufficiently, we crossed the Accademia Bridge, all fifty-two steps up one side and fifty down the other, and visited the accademia.

“It is a teaching academy like the one you will be attending in September. It also houses one of the finest collections of paintings,” my aunt said. I looked around, hoping to get a glimpse of some students, but my aunt marched straight to the museum entrance. As in the Doge’s Palace, I was overwhelmed with the size and opulence of the paintings. So many virgins, suffering saints and popes being crowned. I was secretly sure I would have loved the modern art at the Biennale better! I had to admire Aunt H.’s fortitude. She marched on, admiring and commenting on each painting.