Agnola always speaks in a quiet voice. I have been here a month and have never heard her raise it. Our eyes meet often throughout the day, as we find ourselves side by side in a task. But we have talked little.

This morning I open my eyes in our wide bed when she asks in her warm, gentle way, “Are you awake?”

“Yes.” I roll on my side without touching her.

Agnola is staring up at the ceiling through the gray air before dawn. As usual, Ribolin sleeps on her ample chest, which exaggerates the rise and fall of her breathing under the linen sheet. “It’s going to be a busy day, Dolce. Meeting these people…Let me prepare you.”

My cheeks heat up. “I am prepared for anything.”

She turns her head toward me. “Thank you for saying that. I know you guard your privacy. But without help, the rules of Venezia will elude you, and the nobility will trample you in the end.”

Marin fears this too. I have seen the way he frowns, then tries to smile when we talk of my being introduced into society. “Why would you care?”

Ribolin stretches, all four legs stiff, and grunts. Agnola gets out of bed and sets the dog in the basket on the floor beside the open window that faces the rear courtyard. Then, hand over hand on the rope, she lowers the basket down to the courtyard. She secures the end of the rope under a slab of marble and comes back to sit on the edge of our bed. “Dolce, listen well. There’s value in understanding what you mean to others. And I hate it that you don’t see it yourself. You deserve to.

“First, you comfort Bianca. You comfort Marin, too. He was bereft after five deaths in a row. Our parents, in a boating accident. Then our older sister, Moderata, in childbirth, like his wife, Veronica. Marin and Veronica’s son survived but one day.”

“How awful.”

She sighs. “And third, you remove my fear of being reduced to nothing. There you have it.” She rises and uses the chamber pot in the corner, while I look the other way.

“What do you mean, reduced to nothing?”

“It’s what would happen if Marin married anyone from the nobility. My life will be far better if he marries you.”

“Marries me?” I sit up in shock.

“Marin hasn’t let himself understand it yet. That’s how he is. But I can see what’s happening to him. And I’m glad he wants you. You don’t look down on me—the maiden aunt, spared life in a convent only because her brother had mercy and claimed her to look after his child.” She shakes her head. “Marin saved me because we’ve always been close. We see things the same way, even if I realize it before he does. He’s been glad to have me help with Bianca. But others don’t understand that.” Agnola opens the doors of the large wooden wardrobe, selects a dress, and spreads it over the top of the painted chest at the foot of the bed. She opens a drawer in the bottom of the wardrobe and takes out underclothes. She stops and smiles at me. “I like how you think, Dolce. Get out of bed. We can talk as we dress. I need to explain what the morning will be like.”

I’m not ready to dress. I run my hands down my torso and suddenly feel self-conscious. There was never a chance before that how I looked might matter to a man. But now…I allow all the vague hopes I had not let myself acknowledge to flood me. Marin is good. Marin is wonderful! Is it possible he’d marry me? He’d have to be mad.

High-pitched yips snap me back to the moment. They come from the courtyard. Agnola pulls up the rope and carefully wipes off Ribolin’s muddy paws with a towel. Then the pup goes flying around the room, jumping on and off every bit of furniture. I anticipate a headache and perch on the edge of the bed so that if it blinds me, I won’t fall. But it doesn’t come. And I realize I haven’t had a headache, or any sudden weakness, in days. My hands—I hold my palms before my face and spread the fingers—they’re steady. The pink is still there, but my hands don’t shake. I’m healthy. Oh, Lord, please keep me healthy. Please make me worthy of Marin.

Agnola talks as she arranges her hair. Her eyes follow herself in the silver mirror.

“You’re so rich,” I say. “Yet you look in a silver mirror instead of a glass one.”

Agnola gives a little laugh as she pats her hair into place. “Glass mirrors the size of this one cost as much as a room’s worth of furniture.”

I’m astonished. I’ve made mirrors larger than the silver one.

Lord, that means the glassblowers got rich while they paid us hardly anything. I have the terrible sensation that it’s easy to get cheated in the larger world.

I’m so lucky to have been found by this family and no other.

Agnola rouges her cheeks and lips. She darkens her brows with a pencil. I watch, fascinated, as she makes me repeat greetings after her, in exactly her way of speaking. We’ve been practicing for weeks. Agnola tells me to let her answer everyone’s questions. She tells me to pay attention, and if I have to speak, I must try to mimic the way the other women talk. Their speech is refined. Mine is not. But I’ll be all right, she says, because I’m a good mimic. She tells me I must allow the servants to serve me, not to help them as she and I do at home. I must laugh when she laughs, listen closely when she listens closely. I must smile at everyone, and she makes me practice that special smile: never big—not a grin, just a thin, small smile, as if I know something others don’t. She says they’ll be judging me. “You’ll do well.” She stands and puts her hands around my upper arms. “And if you don’t know what to say, just stay silent.”

I’m less nervous than she is, I can see that. “Whatever happens today can’t be harder than what I’m used to. If they make me feel left out, I’ll just think about my mamma. She used to say I was…things that gave me confidence.”

“Surely you can find confidence in other sources, too.”

“You’re right. I can think about the fact that I am the master of mirrors, the best there is. In fact, I’m going to make you a mirror.”

“Mirrors.” Agnola’s brow furrows. “Bianca said that you told her you make mirrors.”

“I do. And—”

Agnola puts a finger on my lips. “Don’t. Don’t tell me anything more about what you used to do with mirrors. And don’t speak of making mirrors to anyone else, either. Noblewomen don’t do that kind of work, though we help in so many ways at home. Don’t mention it, ever. Or you’ll ruin everything for us right at the start.”

“But how do I explain my pink fingers?”

“You don’t.” Agnola goes back to the drawer and comes out with two pairs of gloves. I’ve never seen white gloves before. “We’ll keep them on all day,” she says, “even inside. Maybe we’ll start a new fashion.” She smiles conspiratorially. “With you, who knows what can happen?”

I have been slowly dressing all this while. I hope I look the way Agnola wants me to.

We go out and stand in the grand hall, the pian nobile—the noble floor, where everything important happens and Marin and Agnola receive guests. Marin’s room is across the hall from Agnola’s. I’ve never even peeked in. Agnola and I walk the hall from rear to front. On the left, we pass Bianca’s room; on the right, the sewing room. The facade of the palace is on the Canal Grande. It has five large windows on this floor and on the floor above. The windows are doors that open at the middle and lead to the balcony. The three middle ones offer light into this wonderful hall, while one end window lights Marin’s map room, which is becoming a library, and the other end window lights the music room where Agnola sings and Bianca has just started taking harp lessons. The servants live on the floor above, and there are rooms for additional children and bachelor uncles, if this house should ever hold any of those. The canal cuts through the narrow entrance underneath the pian nobile, where we entered the evening I arrived. There’s a stone foundation on both sides and at the rear. The rear holds the kitchen, and beyond it a gate that leads to the courtyard. The sides of the docking area are lined with storage rooms.

On Torcello we had the run of ruins that were just as grand as this palace once upon a time, some grander. The furnishings in this home are stupendous, but life here is impoverished, really. To eat a fig, Lucia La Rotonda has to run and buy them at a market. You can’t just search the tree for the one that’s bursting with such sweetness the ants are mad for it, and jam it all juicy into your mouth. Girls and women of the merchant and noble classes stay at home or visit other girls and women in their homes, always attended by servants. They never run or explore or swim or drop into the grasses exhausted and eat a fig.

So they can’t scare me, these ladies of Venezia, no matter how much Agnola warns me.

In the music room, Bianca stands at the window munching a sweet biscuit. She sees me and smiles. I rush to her and we hug.

“You should share my bed,” says Bianca. “Aunt Agnola doesn’t need you like I do.” She says this every morning.

Agnola enters behind me and runs a caressing hand around Bianca’s ear. “You know your father says no.”

“But I don’t know why. He won’t answer me.”

Agnola shrugs. “Maybe you’re old enough to figure it out for yourself.”

I blink. “I can’t figure it out, and I’m fifteen.”

“Exactly. You’re fifteen, Dolce. Do you want to be seen as a child, who shares a room with a man’s daughter? Or do you want to be seen as a woman, who shares a room with his sister? How do you think Marin wants to see you?”

Bianca squeezes my hand, but keeps her eyes on Agnola. “You should have said that sooner, Aunt Agnola.”

“We’re eating at the Ghisi palace this morning.” Agnola folds her hands across her belly. “Dolce’s finally going to meet a few people.”

“What’s to become of me?”

“Antonin is taking you to the Contarinis’. You can play there.”

“But who will take care of me there? Isn’t the mamma going to the Ghisi palace to meet Princess Dolce?”

“No. And I already told you, please stop calling her princess.”

“She is a princess.”

“Not outside this palace, she isn’t. If you keep it up, Bianca, you’re going to slip and call her princess in front of people and then everyone will have questions that make her look like a liar—they won’t understand. So stop it. Don’t ever call her princess.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. But why isn’t the Contarini mamma going today? She goes to every party.”

“Your father is one of the most eligible bachelors of Venezia. And Signora Contarini has a passel of daughters, the oldest of which is only a year younger than Dolce. She might block Dolce’s acceptance here. No one wants extra rivals.”

“Rivals?”

“For your papà. He’s a catch, don’t you think?”

“Oh.” Bianca stands tall. She clasps her hands in front of her chest and looks me up and down. “You’re better than the Contarini girls, on the outside and on the inside. Papà knows that.”

“We have to leave,” says Agnola. “Practice the harp until Antonin comes back for you.”

“I’m too young for these lessons. That’s what Signora Contarini says.”

“That’s because she’s judging by her own daughters. You’re smarter.”

Bianca protrudes her lips in thought for a moment.

“Find what pleases your ear.” Agnola ushers me out of the room and down to the dock, where Antonin waits with our gondola.

We climb in and the boat rocks. I sit quickly, thinking that there might be more to this game than I realized. I clutch at Agnola’s skirt. “What if I’m judged poorly?”

Agnola’s face goes soft and sweet. She links arms with me. “Well…it will matter to Marin, and to you. Because if he marries you and they decide to exclude you, Bianca will be left out. No more playing with the Contarini girls, that’s for sure. But Marin can provide a heavy dowry for her someday. She will definitely marry. Still, but that won’t make up for the years of loneliness as she grows.”

“Years of loneliness as she grows,” I say. I shiver and stare at Agnola.

She nods. She names each splendid palace along the canal and tells me about the families within, pausing often so I can repeat their names. Lord, let me learn quickly.