A flash of lightning, a clap of thunder. The whole Serpentine flashed white, and Giacinta ran, ran, in deepening gloom, until a low place in the walk stopped her in utter doubt. The walk had flooded there. Another band of storm was coming on.

"Bella!" a young man called out, behind her, and another, joining him in rushing toward her, called something rude. They rushed down on her, picked her up by the elbows and carried her across, splashing through the shallow water. And did not let her go.

"Let me down!" she cried. "Let me down!" They reeked of wine, and one swept her entirely up in his arms. "Let go!" She kicked, she struggled. A huge gondola nosed close to the shore here, and she thought they meant to carry her off in it. "Let me down!"

"Citizen," another man said. A young gold-and-white harlequin in a white bauta stood in the path of her abductors, like a prince of the fairy tales, and two strong black and white harlequins stood behind him. "Set the lady down."

The man did, laughing—set her down in the edge of the puddle before he took the better part of valor and ran.

"Fools!" the white harlequin said, and offered his hand and pulled her to dry pavement. Both fools fled, splashing, down a narrow calle. "Madonna."

"Sir." She was not easily frightened, but she had been so close to disaster, so close to losing everything. She pulled away from his hand and went to the shelter of an awning, not so far from other traffic, within sight of it, at least.

He stayed, he and his two companions. He made no pursuit of her.

"Would you have us deliver you to your house, madonna?"

She was not sure. She hesitated. Another man might have left in disgust, his kind offer rejected. But he stayed, and held out his hand.

She turned her back, hidden in the shadows. She pulled off the bauta and assumed instead the moretta, the silent mask, that, held by a button behind the teeth, would not let her betray herself.

"Ah," he said. "La moretta. But you must somehow tell me where you lodge." There was an unfortunate fact she had not thought of. She felt foolish. But she grandly gestured down the walk before them, and he took her hand and stayed beside her. The two black harlequins stepped lightly back into the gondola and the boat began to turn, to pace them along the Serpentine, while lightnings danced and whitened the water.

His hand was warm and comforting. Her heart still beat hard and her hands trembled from the fright she had had.

"Such a fine hand," the young harlequin said, in possession of that hand, "it must belong to a beautiful young lady."

La moretta must say nothing—could say nothing. They simply walked, and he held that hand ever so gently, seeing her safely along. She gestured that they should turn aside from the Grand, and they did, though his young men wanted otherwise. He bade them stay with the gondola—a very grand one, it was, with curtains, more a nobleman's barge than not.

And, oh, why could Nonna not be content with this young gentleman, whose clothing was satin and brocade, whose hand was warm and strong and gentle, and whose chin beneath the bauta, was very fine? She would bring home her young knight of the festival and say to Nonna, Forget il duco—I have found my own young gentleman. I shall marry him, not di Verona. Never di Verona, so long as I live!

They walked through the calles. He delayed by a sweet-vendor, but of course, he seemed to recall mid-offer, la moretta could no more eat or drink than she could speak. He mimed realization to her, as if her silence was catching, and she took his arm, miming laughter. They walked on together, across the Ponte Vela, and on to her very door.

"Ah," he said, looking at the house, and at her, as if he knew, then, everything there was to know. Her heart sank. She was not among the highest of the city.

She turned to go inside, to end her fantasy, to be done with adventures for all her life, forever. But he caught her hand, and pulled her about, lifting her hand to his lips.

"Madonna, when shall I see you again? Tomorrow? Please say tomorrow." She was caught unable to speak, between longing and knowledge of her fate. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, her heart said. One more adventure. One more time, to see the sights of the festival—this time safer than before, escorted. Surely it was her best, her last chance in her life. And his voice was so kind, so persuasive. He, and not di Verona, was a gentleman. She turned away, her face to the door, let fall the moretta and snatched the bauta to her face, holding it in place with her hand. Then she faced him.

"At afternoon." That was her best chance to get away. Nonna napped then, and might not come out of her bedroom for hours. "I shall be here after noon, about one. By the water-stairs, on the Racheta."

"I shall be there," he said, her harlequin, flashing a broad grin, and kissed her hand before she slipped into her own front doorway and dropped the mask.

All that night she courted sleep, thinking of him, and not of di Verona, but she found no rest until late, and did not wake until the sunlight came full through her window. Then the servants brought her breakfast, since she had not come down, and she dressed in light fabric, and wrapped up in a shawl, and walked in Nonna's precious garden, thinking, building cloud-castles far more pleasant than any of Nonna's plans for her life—though she knew Nonna's plans would win, after all. Di Verona was her fate. Her harlequin was the fantasy. Nonna came out to sit in the noon sun, and said not a word. They shared a light luncheon out in the sun, and Nonna remarked how, when they had money again, she would make a fountain in the garden.

"If there is not money soon," said Nonna, "I shall tell you the bitter truth. We shall lose this garden. We shall lose the house."

Her dreams all faltered and trembled. "What about the gold, Nonna?" But when she asked that question, she knew there had been no property in Milano. Everything was a deception, all Nonna's stories, if she had been taking gifts from di Verona.

"Never worry," Nonna said. "You will win di Verona's heart. And very soon after, you will live in the Palazzo Ducale, where you belong, and I shall have title to this house. You will give it to me, will you not, my darling, my precious girl? I am too old to find another fortune. I've taken care of you; now you must take care of me."

It was the softest and saddest and most desperate she had ever heard her Nonna. It struck her heart. And she had the most dire feeling that Montefiori's will had not, as Nonna had said, granted the house to them. Nothing else of Nonna's assurances seemed to have been the truth. And amid Nonna's deceptions, weighed against greater lies, it was only a little rebellion she intended. Only one evening.

So, after noon, when all the city abandoned its business for an hour or so, when young and old took to their rooms for naps, and when the more energetic went out to enjoy the cafes, she put on her finery and the white bauta and tiptoed down the stairs to the canalside door, to the little steps where the water lapped.

Just as soon as she stood there, a sleek, curtained gondola, waiting silently down by the intersection of the Racheta with the Caterina, came to life. Its gondolier poled softly up, and a fine masculine hand drew back the curtain, and invited her aboard.

Her white harlequin was alone this time, but for his gondolier. He settled her onto the cushions opposite him, and smiled at her.

"My lady keeps her word," he said.

"So do you," she said. She had never seen a gondola so fine as this, with its black leather and red brocade cushions, nothing of faded splendor like Nonna's house, but all bright and new. Her harlequin was no poor man, not at all. He had such fine hands, carefully kept. His hair was dark, and curled beside his white half-mask. His smile was very kind.