“And who knows?” Miss Frobisher said with a sly nod. “Something might come of it.”

At seven o’clock I made my way across the Ponte degli Scalzi to the vaporetto stop at the station and managed to squeeze aboard a Number One. “Signorina.” A man in workman’s overalls stepped aside to let me stand in a corner, out of the wind, where I would not be crushed. I gave him an appreciative smile. The sun was setting across the lagoon, tingeing the water with a pink glow. Seagulls were whirling above. Bells rang out from a distant church. I took a deep breath, trying to take it all in—almost wanting to trap it in a bottle, to bring out on rainy days at home when I sat in the silence of my mother’s drawing room.

At San Zaccaria I alighted and walked cautiously over the cobbles, unaccustomed to high-heeled shoes, in the direction of the Danieli Hotel. When I approached the pink marble building and stood outside, I almost lost my nerve. The doormen in their smart uniforms, elegantly dressed couples going in. This was a realm where I clearly didn’t belong. But I reminded myself that Leo was there, waiting for me. I could hardly believe it.

“It was meant to be,” I whispered. Out of the whole of Venice, he was at the Biennale at the same moment I was. It had to be fate. I took a deep breath and went up to the doors.

“Signorina?” A doorman stepped forward to intercept me. “You stay here?”

“No, I’m meeting someone for dinner,” I said. “Signor Da Rossi.”

“Ah. Welcome.” His gaze implied that my dress didn’t measure up, but he couldn’t stand in the way of someone who was meeting Leo. As I entered the foyer, I tried not to gasp at my first impression of the hotel interior. It had formerly been a palace, and it still looked like one. Marble pillars supported the ceiling on one side of the room, while on the other side the atrium was several stories high with a red carpeted staircase that wound around the walls. It was luxury such as I had never seen before, and I hesitated, feeling like a country bumpkin, horribly out of place.

But then I saw Leo. He was standing at the bar, conversing with another man, but he spotted me instantly and came over.

“So the nuns let you escape?” He was giving me that so-well-remembered wicked smile.

“They did. And the other teacher was nice enough to agree to look after the girls.”

“Is it very primitive?”

“Not too bad. The food is simple, but good.”

He took my arm. “I can assure you that the food here will be a lot better. Come. We go upstairs.”

I allowed myself to be steered to a lift.

“Terrazzo,” he said to the lift operator, and we rode upwards in silence. I was conscious of the closeness of his presence, and as if he sensed my feelings, he gave me a little smile. We came out to the restaurant—a huge room with mirrored walls, velvet chairs, sparkling glass and silver. Leo muttered something to the maître d’, and we were led through the restaurant and out to the terrace beyond. Now I really did gasp. Before us was the most spectacular view of the lagoon, the waterfront, the island of San Giorgio, all glowing in the setting sun.