“Of course,” he said, “in any other family. But this marriage is a business transaction. Mutually beneficial to two powerful companies. If the marriage were annulled, our partnership with Bianca’s father would end. He is a proud and vindictive man. He’d ruin us. And not only that, but I fear his ties with the Mafia. If I let down his daughter, I suspect I would wind up floating face down in the lagoon.”

“Oh gosh,” I said. “How complicated.”

“It is,” he said. “I do not think you understand family obligations in the way that we do here. It is a sacred duty to put family first.”

He glanced at his watch and stood up. “I’m so sorry. I must leave you now. Run all the way. At least there is no aqua alta to wade through to midnight Mass. God bless you, cara mia. Buon Natale.” He blew me a kiss and was gone, leaving me with whirling thoughts and a knot of anguish in the pit of my stomach.

Henry came on Christmas morning, bearing a bottle of Prosecco and a beautiful leather portfolio “to carry and store your artwork.” I was touched and a little embarrassed. I felt my cheeks burning.

“Henry, how very kind of you,” I said. “And I have a small gift for you, too.”

When he saw the glass dog, he laughed. “What a sad face. A real hangdog!”

“I wanted to cheer you up when you felt homesick,” I said. “But I think the Christmas dinner will cheer us both up.”

We had a glass of Campari with some olives, then the roast chicken with roast potatoes and Brussels sprouts and carrots, and then the Christmas pudding. Henry had not tried one before, and I’m not sure he really liked it, but he was polite and appreciative. To walk off our meal, we strolled along the Zattere. It was quite deserted, and from inside homes came the sound of music and laughter, reminding me strongly that it was a day for families. We wound up with tea and cake, again a new experience for Henry.

“Thank you for this,” he said. “I was dreading the holiday alone, frankly, and now I’ve enjoyed myself.”

I had, too. And the next day, we took the boat together over to the Lido and the Contessa Fiorito’s villa. The house was decorated with greenery and glass ornaments, and chandeliers sparkled from the ceiling. Professor Corsetti and his wife were there, as was the British consul, the smiling priest and other people I had met before. No sign of Josef, however. I asked the contessa about him.

“I have found him a safe haven amongst other artists in Florence. Now I am working on bringing a young woman. One at a time, I’m afraid, and there are so many I can’t help.”