6
Venice, March 1720
It is still very cold on the water, despite the sun shining more
strongly than might be expected for the time of year. A brisk spring
breeze keeps the sails well filled, sending the vessel and her
passengers scudding across the foam at a good five miles per hour
towards her destination. Wind and sun have quickly dissolved the
fine mist that covered the lagoon this morning, and there ahead
shines the city – La Serenissima in all her shimmering splendour!
Annina has already forgotten Mantua. From the railings she strains
to make out the strange silhouettes of buildings mysteriously adrift
upon the green waters. She is enjoying the boat trip, completely
unperturbed by the rise and fall of the deck on the swell. How
thrilling to ride the waves so fast and soundlessly; no dust, no
hooves rattling over cobbles, and especially no stinking, sweating
travellers all packed together like sardines in a tiny carriage. The
only sound out here comes from the gulls swooping and crying in
the vessel’s wake, diving now and then into the spray to catch a
gleaming fish.
Antonio Vivaldi does not share her enthusiasm for the
voyage. He hates the pitch and roll that keeps his stomach churning
and he’ll be happy only once his feet are on dry land again.
Paolina gazes at the horizon with mounting excitement.
She is back! Home again in the city that she was forced secretly to
leave. With head held high she now proudly surveys the forest of
towers and masts growing nearer and taller with every moment.
She has always known she would return but never dared hope the
time would come so soon. And yet her future feels full of
uncertainty. She glances at the pale priest, staring grimly and silently
ahead. Poor Antonio, she thinks, and her heart goes out to him.
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