She tried not to let the worrying thoughts overwhelm her as she packed. She folded a few random garments and put them into a carry-on bag. She wouldn’t stay long. She added the keys and sketchbooks. Obviously, Great-Aunt Lettie had wanted her to do something with them, even if she had no idea what that was. She had taken to wearing her aunt’s ring, which fit perfectly on her ring finger. It felt good to replace the one Josh had chosen for her. And last, she put in the small vial containing some of Aunt Lettie’s ashes.

On October 8 she flew from Gatwick Airport to Marco Polo Airport in Venice. It had been a horrible day when they took off—swirling clouds, drizzling rain—and it was a joy to come out into brilliant sunshine at thirty thousand feet. But cloud had lain below them all the way across France, and they had bounced and juddered over the Alps. But then she had looked down and seen green hills below her. A long, shining lake. And the plane was making its descent.

“Please fasten your seat belts” came on the intercom. The plane dipped a wing, and there was her first view of the lagoon, although it was hardly a romantic one. Below them was some kind of fuel depot with great storage tanks and electric pylons.

They touched down, and soon she was standing in the entrance hall, trying to figure out how to get out to the island. There were water taxis, of course, if she didn’t mind paying over a hundred euros. There was a bus that cost almost nothing, or there was a boat, but it took over an hour, stopping at various points around the lagoon. Now that she was so close, she had no wish to dally and opted for the bus. It passed by smallholdings of dying maize, country cottages and new developments of flats before it turned on to the causeway and crossed the lagoon. Caroline found she was holding her breath.

In the distance she could see the campanile of St Mark’s rising above the rest of the buildings. But the area they passed was not known for its beauty: a giant parking garage, railway tracks, warehouses, cranes, large ships in a dock, and then they came to a halt in a small square where other buses were stationed. Caroline stepped into the warm sunshine and found herself wondering what to do next. Find a hotel, of course. She and Josh had stayed at an awful dump with a bathroom down the hall and a bed that squeaked when they moved, thus spoiling a good honeymoon night. She wanted better than that, but knew Venetian prices were high. There was an information booth in the square.

“Do you know of a Pensione Regina?” she asked. On the flight over, she had studied her aunt’s sketchbooks. Aunt Lettie had done a sketch of it in 1928, and it seemed fitting to stay there.