Caroline reached into her pocket and drew out the big key. “I wonder if this might help?” she said.

“What is this key?” he demanded. “Where did you get it?”

“My aunt left it to me.” Her heart beating rapidly, she put the key into the lock and turned it. After a moment of resistance, she heard a satisfying click. The door opened slowly, with an ominous creaking sound. Ahead of her a steep, narrow staircase rose into complete darkness.

“To the roof, you see,” the man said. “I don’t think you should go up. These old roof terraces are dangerous.”

But she had already started to climb the stairs. “Signora, it is not wise. I cannot be responsible . . . ,” he called before he came after her, putting a restraining hand on her arm. Caroline shook herself free. There was a second door at the top. Caroline fumbled in the darkness but managed to find a keyhole. The key turned, the door opened, and instead of stepping out on to a roof, she was in a lovely room. Windows looked out across the island and St Mark’s Basin. The furniture was covered in sheets, and a fine layer of dust lay on the window ledges.

The man had come into the room behind her. “Madonna!” he muttered.

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 13

Juliet, Venice, July 2, 1939

I am back in Venice! I can hardly write the words, my heart is so full. Part of me feels that this is another dream come true, but again there is a nagging sliver of doubt as to whether I am doing the right thing by coming here. Of course I want to be here, and a whole year painting and learning and experiencing life? I can’t imagine anything better. But to know he is here, to know he is married to someone else—I will have to learn to handle that.

I tell myself it is a big city. My chances of running into him are small. I am sure I will not move in the same circles as his family, certainly not shop in the same boutiques as his wife. And if I do meet him, I shall be polite and friendly and distant. I am a grown woman, no longer that naive and emotional girl. I have learned to shut away my feelings. I can handle this! When I think of it logically, I realize I only met the man twice. I don’t really know him at all. He might be a wife beater, an alcoholic, a drug fiend, a womanizer. So to harbour feelings as if it was love between us is stupidly naive of me. Two pleasant but brief encounters, nothing more.

I still can’t quite believe I’m here. As I write, I hear bells, echoing across the water. Pigeons are cooing on the rooftop opposite. Voices echo up from the narrow street below. It is as if I’ve never been away.