Agnola has walked me around, introducing me to every group of women and girls. They ask the same questions and I give the same answers.

“Where are you visiting from?”

“Not far.”

“How do you know the Cornaro family?”

I smile slyly. “Better all the time.”

“But how did you come to know them in the first place?”

“We met on the island of the brothers—San Francesco del Deserto.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Retreats don’t lend themselves to conversation.”

“But, come now, tell us a little about yourself, won’t you? What’s your family name?”

We had no family names on Torcello. That’s what startled Marin when he introduced me to his household: he realized in that moment that he didn’t know my family name. Agnola has prepared me for this question, of course. “Speaking of the dead saddens me.” Which is true. This question makes Mamma linger in the back of my mind. I miss her more as time passes. How I wish she could know that a man might marry me.

Questions keep coming, and my answers remain evasive. Before long, the girls and women turn to asking each other questions, as though I’m not there. I can’t blame them. They talk mostly of what they know about other Venetian families that have no one at this party. Mamma would have called it nothing but gossip. Druda often tried to draw her into talking about the others, but Mamma said our island was too small for that sort of nonsense.

Venezia is huge, and gossip appears to be a favorite pastime.

I am standing silent in a small group of women, wondering where Agnola has gone off to, when someone brings up the name Francesca. Suddenly, nearby groups come to join ours and listen.

“Do you mean the merchant’s daughter?”

“What other Francesca is on everyone’s lips?”

“That’s exactly it—on everyone’s lips—you’re so clever.”

They laugh.

“How do you know a merchant’s daughter?” I ask.

They all look at me, startled.

“Well, we certainly don’t go into shops,” says one.

“But our brothers do.”

They laugh again.

“Oh, don’t look so baffled. Francesca is a loose one. They say she gives kisses.”

“And more.”

“My brother Sizzo says she’s so beautiful that she’ll wind up on the arm of a noble.”

“Or on some other limb.”

The women laugh. It feels like some sort of ritual.

“We should have a yellow gown made and sent to her as a gift.”

“How kind,” I say in surprise.

They laugh.

“Silly, yellow is the mark of the courtesan.”

I just look at them.

“Of the prostitute,” one whispers. “By law, women who sell themselves have to wear yellow.”

“Just like Jews. It marks them.”

I know about Jews. “Gesù was a Jew before he started his own religion.”

“That was a long time ago. Jews are different now,” says one girl.

The girl beside her looks askance. “Really, Martina, watch how you talk. My father says Jews bring good business to Venezia and we should all be grateful for them.”

“Grateful doesn’t mean we have to like them.”

A smiling girl comes up. “Baicoli!” And everyone follows her out to the table, where piles of oval cookies are surrounded by bowls of fruit floating in water.

I take a fig in each hand and go back inside to sit by myself on a chest-bench.

The smiling girl sits down beside me. She takes a big bite of pear, and juice runs down her chin. She must be around eight or nine. Her hair is curled and pinned in place with pearls. “Don’t you like baicoli?”

“I do. But right now I prefer figs,” I say. “Don’t you like baicoli?”

“I do. But right now I prefer a pear!” She laughs.

“Everyone here laughs a lot.”

“You don’t.”

I laugh. “You have pear juice all over your dress.”

“And figs are staining your gloves.”

I laugh again. “I wish Bianca had come along. Do you know her?”

“Of course. But little girls weren’t invited.”

“Aren’t you little?”

“Yes.” She sits up tall. “But I’m Patrizia Ghisi. This is my palace.”

I lean back against the wall and let Patrizia talk, opening my eyes to this new world.