“One of the most holy days of our year,” she said. “Will you be making the pilgrimage with me? I go to Mass this evening. It is beautiful when it is dark.”

“Where is it?” I asked.

She looked at me as if I was completely stupid. “The church of the Salute, of course. You know it. The big church with the white dome at the tip of Dorsoduro. They build a special bridge for the day. A bridge of boats across the Canal Grande. And everyone carries a candle. It is a feast day to thank the Madonna for sparing the city from the plague.”

The words “bridge of boats” had made my decision for me. I was not going to risk crossing that way again, even though this would be a narrower crossing than the expanse to Giudecca last summer. But I knew where bridges of boats could lead.

“Thank you, but I will not come to Mass with you,” I said. “I will observe from the Accademia Bridge.”

She sighed. “Am I never going to make a good Catholic of you? My confessor says I do not try hard enough to save your soul.”

“I’m sure you set a fine example, signora,” I said. “It’s just that I have my own religion.”

“Church of England, you call it?” She gave me a withering stare. “A renegade religion that defied the true pope.”

“At least we are both Christians,” I said.

She gave a derogatory sniff. “And about supper tonight—I have been invited to dine at the home of my friend, the widow Francetti across the street. I can leave you—”

“No need,” I replied before she could finish. “I will find something to eat. I’m sure if it’s a feast day, there will be stalls selling food.”

“Plenty of those,” she replied, again looking disapproving. “There are people who think of it as a carnival, not a holy day.”

Since it seemed few of my fellow students were planning to attend class, I didn’t want to find myself as the only one. I thought I might take a boat out to one of the islands, but the weather did not cooperate. It rained relentlessly all morning, making my landlady peer out of the window, sigh, then cross herself. “Such rain on the Feast of the Madonna. Never have I seen it like this. It is a bad sign, is it not?”

“Maybe it will pass before nightfall,” I said.

“Let us just pray there is no aqua alta while we are at Mass,” she said. “People will be in their best clothes. They will not want to wade home through high water.”

“Wade?” I asked, not quite understanding the word in Italian.