"I should never fail madonna," he said. "What misadventures might she take to, without me?"

"I would have escaped those two," she said, self-defensive.

"Of course you would," he said, ignoring truth. "You were well on your way. But you would have splashed that lovely gown."

She thought he mocked her. But she looked at him and thought not. It was a day as bright as yesterday had been stormy.

And they ran the bull. They ran the black bull through the walkways from the far northern section of Venezia, once having to pull it from the canal, and chased it to the great piazza, to the very front of the holy cathedral, where it met its fate.

Giacinta hid her eyes. "It's cruel," she said.

"The bulls pay the penalty," her harlequin said.

"What penalty?"

"For our sins. But listen," he said, slipping an arm about her as they walked, "I shall tell you the real reason for the bull-running, which not many know. Once upon a time, when the sun was much younger, when there were no storms and no need of sea gates, we were off fighting the Paduans. Our neighbor Ulric of Aquileia attacked us. We attacked him back, and we won. And instead of plundering his city, we were, of course, moderate. We fined him in cattle. And that year we held carnevalefor the first time, and slaughtered beef instead of our neighbors, and held festival instead of war. We were even then an enlightened city, you see. And every year since, we remember our civilized act, even when the Aquileians ceased paying us the thirteen sacrifices. Every year we hold carnevale. And we risk our lives only with the bulls, which feed the poorest of our citizens. We are merchants. The sacrifice reminds us that nothing comes free."

"You are no merchant."

"Would it matter to madonna if I were?"

She had never quite asked herself. She had assumed. Now she made up her mind. "No. Never." He kissed her fingers, held them close, and a tingle went up from them, right to her heart. They walked, the gondola long abandoned. They dodged the egg-throwers, whose porcelain eggs burst with petals and perfume. They ate savory pastries from a strolling peddler, and drank wine from the public barrel in the piazza, and danced, oh, they danced and skipped to the songs of strolling violins and flutes, among crowds well-gone with wine. Then the square began to glow with lights from unshuttered windows, and the canals to shimmer with light from lanterns on the gondolas, and all the city was alive with music and laughter, with pranks and simpering gnagas, with foolish pantalones and balanzones, and black and white harlequins less dignified than hers.

"I must get home," she said at last.

"No, stay," he said. "Carnevaleonly truly lives at night."

"My Nonna," she said, "will never forgive me. Please let me go."

"Then I shall walk you home," he said, and took her to the place where the curtained gondola waited.

So they glided in grand safety up the Serpentine, with its firefly glows, lit by their own lantern, and with the curtains drawn back, in the privacy of night.

Then he kissed her, gently, quietly, and touched her cheek below the mask. For a moment she could hardly breathe.

"Set me ashore," she said. "I mustn't."

"No, no, madonna. I beg your pardon. I'm taking you straight home." Don't, she thought, but held it secret. She caught her breath. "Tomorrow," she said. "Tomorrow I'll come out again."

He held her hand. He kissed it. "You have caught my heart, madonna."

"Tomorrow," was all she could say.

Nonna was, of course, cross with her, slipping in late. But by next noon Nonna took her nap, and she met her harlequin on the water-stairs. They went to watch the day's bull-chase, and to have crustata in the piazza, and to watch a puppet show, before the clouds darkened, and the whole afternoon became thunderous and lightning-shot. There were frightening rumors abroad, as there always were, in dark storms.

"The gates will hold," her harlequin assured her, as they sheltered in the gondola, rain beating on the canopy, and the gondolier quite drenched. "I saw them this morning."

"Are you a merchant, then?" The port was out there, and the ships. He ignored her question. "Pietro," he said to the gondolier, "The Ca d'Oro, if you please." Without a word the gondolier swung their bow over, and they tended toward the Grand.

"Why there?" Giacinta asked, grown anxious. It was a famous place, but shut, long shut, since the last owner gave it up, so the story was, two centuries ago.

"Why not there?" her harlequin said lightly. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes," she said, only a little lie, and the gondolier delivered them to the water-stairs of the Ca d'Oro, that ancient palace. The door there was bound with corroded brass, and eaten with moss and rot at its bottom, where the water lapped up against the wood. It looked entirely forbidding, desolate.

Thunder cracked as her harlequin skipped out onto the steps, and proved to have a large and ornate key. He opened the ancient water-stairs door, and held out a hand to her. Rain was falling by now. The gondolier had made fast to the ringbolt there, and pulled the storm-cover across the well. She was doubtful and afraid, but her harlequin had never been other than courteous and protective of her. It made sense to go somewhere out of the rain, and she gave him her hand, and carefully negotiated the water-stairs, up, through the mossy doors and into a stucco hall with an immediate upward stairs.

An aged candlestick sat dusty, in a nook. Her harlequin found a match somewhere about his person and lit the candle, which sent a wind-fluttered light up to a barrel vault above their heads, and to ancient ormolu on faded azure walls in the hall above. Cobwebs were much in evidence.

"I shall show you the ballroom," he said. "Few have seen this sight, this century." He ascended the stairs, holding his light carefully, so that she could see her way, and led her up to a chamber so vast their light did little but spark off an array of mirrors.

"Stand still," he said, and went the circuit of the hall, touching light to candles, indeed, many of them new candles.

Light glittered about them, reflecting their images in a hundred mirrors, across a well-swept and polished floor. At the side of the room stood a table, and on that table a sweating pitcher, and blown-glass goblets, and a platter of crusted bread and cheese and meat, with two chairs.

"Supper," he said. "I had it laid, and the floor swept, in hopes you would join me here." She feared he meant her to become his lover, and the whole tale wanted to burst from her lips, how she was to marry di Verona, how important it was to Nonna, how she had only just escaped for a last holiday, a last breath of freedom. But it did not rush out. She said nothing. She looked around her, stunned to silence.

"And now you are here," he said, and drew back a chair for her. "Do sit. Please." She sat, stiff and fearful. By degrees, by a cup of wine, a morsel of bread and cheese and sweet pastry, she accepted his strange hospitality while the storm raged and thundered. She was alone, and shut behind walls, and wished she were home.

But he asked no more than to kiss her hand, when all was done, and to hold it in his, and to say he hoped she would have no fear of him, or of this place.

"I know who you are," he said. "And I know di Verona has asked you to his ball. May I ask you to mine?"