The man behind the counter checked his list and shook his head. “Nothing by that name, signora.”

“My aunt stayed there, long ago.”

“How long ago?”

“That was in 1928.”

This made him laugh. “Then I fear the proprietor would not still be alive.”

“It had a lovely garden, by the look of it.”

“Ah, then may I suggest the Pensione Accademia? It, too, has a lovely garden and is well situated.”

He mentioned a price that was higher than she wanted to pay, but she told herself it was only for a week at the most. And Aunt Lettie had left a thousand pounds. The man telephoned ahead for her, and she caught a water bus at the nearby stop, having been advised by the man at the tourist kiosk to get herself a weekly pass. As they pulled away from the dock and headed up the Grand Canal, she tried to remember what she could of her last time in Venice. Josh and Caroline had stayed in a pokey little place right behind St Mark’s Basilica. It had been horribly hot and muggy, with just a small fan in their room, and she and Josh had sweated as they made love. She shut off that memory rapidly, staring out of the boat. She had never travelled the length of the Grand Canal like this, watching it turning from mundane to glorious. It was late afternoon, and rosy sunlight turned the white marble to a delicate glowing pink. The Rialto Bridge appeared ahead of them, seeming to float above the water. Last time she had seen Venice, it had been crowded with tourists. Now, thanks to the time of year and the events in New York, the Grand Canal had an empty feel to it. In fact it took a while before she spotted her first gondola with two Chinese tourists taking photos. It rocked precariously as the water bus passed it, and the woman almost dropped her camera. Caroline caught snatches of the gondolier singing, slightly off-key, and found she was smiling. She was in Venice, it was lovely, and she was going to make the most of it, no matter how bad things had been lately. Then the thought crept into her head: Teddy would love to see this. I must buy him a toy gondola. He can float it on Granny’s goldfish pond. The smile faded. “If he comes back,” said the whisper in her head.

The pensione was more than perfect: a former palazzo, it had painted ceilings, there was a suit of armour in the salon, and her bedroom shutters opened on to a view of the Grand Canal. What’s more, the windows looked on to the garden with statues and a fountain and great umbrellas under which breakfast would be served if it was not too cold. Caroline unpacked and lay on her bed listening to the sounds of the city: the pop-popping of diesel motors echoing back from the high walls that bordered the canal, the cooing of pigeons in the garden outside, the screech of a seagull, a shouted exchange in Italian. Maybe Aunt Lettie wanted me to come here, she thought, because she wanted me to heal.