I lay down the shovel and rest on the lip of one of the enormous urns, my breath short. I used to think that the way the Mocenigo family boasts about their garden was pure silliness. How could it have taken me so long to realize a garden in Venezia is special? It’s a labor of love. When I see the Mocenigo mamma and girls, I will praise their garden lavishly. Let us each be proud of something. After all, none of them is anywhere near as fair as me. Marin tells me that because he thinks I need to hear it. But Mirror tells me that, too—Mirror tells me what Marin most believes.

Agnola took up the shovel after I dropped it, and now she stumbles over and rests beside me.

We watch Bianca dig. The girl is hardworking, and strong, for the hole grows deeper. I was once that strong.

All the while Antonin scratches his head and paces. I should have called on Carlo for assistance; he’s the one who does this sort of physical labor. But Antonin’s name popped into my mouth. Too bad. He feels pressure from Marin to watch out for me while Marin travels. “Don’t worry, Antonin. Messer Marin will not fault you. We will tell him we insisted on digging it ourselves. He knows how strongly we can insist.”

Antonin bows with a nervous smile. But I haven’t said anything crazy. Have I? His eyes shouldn’t twitch like that.

We place the wrapped body of Ribolin in the grave, the three of us, working together. He looks tucked away for the night. The eternal night.

“He was a good companion,” says Agnola. She looks at me meaningfully.

“And a quiet, peaceful thinker,” I say. I look at Bianca.

“And he didn’t stink like some dogs do,” says Bianca.

“Silent prayer now,” commands Agnola.

I pray for…what? Dogs have no soul. That’s what the church teaches. So I pray for Marin, for his safety and good health, for his cheer and success. And most of all, for his swift return. He’s traveling in the north country, beyond the mountains, where they speak German on the streets. Marin can manage some German, and once he arrives at a monastery, he’ll be fine, because everyone there speaks Latin.

A library is important; a library is a cornerstone of civilization. This is his duty to self and to the Republic.

That’s what he says, at least.

He travels more than most husbands, and for longer periods. And when he’s home, he asks Bianca to help him in the library more than he asks me.

So I know I am losing him.

I shake my head hard. I will not torture myself with that fear.

Bianca puts her arms around me. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“Antonin,” she says, “would you cover him up now?”

“Of course,” Antonin replies.

And so Ribolin disappears. Antonin levels the earth; then he and Bianca go inside. Agnola and I stay.

“Shall we sing?” I ask at last.

Agnola smiles and begins. We sing the songs she has taught me. When I first came, I tried to teach her a song of Mamma’s. She told me that song was beneath my station in life now.

When we finish, we sit in silence.

We stay there for who knows how long, when a vision appears before me. Is it me, in my youth? I hallucinate these days. I blink.

It is Bianca. Of course. I knew that. “Aunt Agnola, you have a visitor.”

“I do?” Agnola tries to look past her, but Bianca moves to block her view.

“I wouldn’t let him step out of the gondola yet, because…” Bianca looks me up and down.

What? Oh, I’m still in my shift! “I’ll get dressed immediately. Then I’ll greet your guest, Agnola.”

“Aunt Agnola can greet him herself. Let me help you dress, Mamma.”

“I don’t need help. But what I would love is to hear that harp. Please. And go tell Lucia La Rotonda to prepare liver and lungs.”

“You and your liver and lungs.”

“They help, Bianca. They can fix anything. They can soothe Agnola’s broken heart. My mamma—”

“Taught you. I know, I know. Liver and lungs are to you what apples are to me.” Bianca goes off to find Lucia La Rotonda.

I go up the rear staircase, pick out my clothes, and spread them on the bed. A visitor. Marin likes us to look fine when visitors come. I put on the pearls he bought me in Murano seven years ago. They are still my favorite gift from him. Well, besides Mirror, of course.

I think about bringing down jewelry for Agnola. But the visitor has undoubtedly entered already. I should have suggested jewelry in the first place. I should have made everyone delay until I had ornamented Agnola properly, with rings and bracelets.

Finally I hear the harp. Good. Bianca is at the other end of the palace.

She cannot see what I do.

What I do is stand at the rear window and look down into the courtyard. The many small, uneven squares of blue-green glass distort my view, and the lead that binds the glass together cuts that view into so many pieces.

But I can still see enough. The man in the courtyard with Agnola is a dwarf. My hand goes to my throat, though the burst of emotion that hits me every time I see a dwarf in a passing gondola is much less powerful now. I no longer expect to happen upon Venerio or Francesco or a grown-up version of Bini or Tonso or Tommaso. None of them ever come to Venezia; they go only to Murano. And how could they recognize me after all these years, especially with me high in a balcony and them on the canal?

I think of Zitta. So far as I know, there are no more dwarf slaves in Venezia, but I have one mirror ready, just in case. I make two at the same time so that I don’t have to touch the quicksilver so often. It soothes me to know one remains.

Up here, I can hear nothing from the courtyard through the glass, of course. What would they have to talk about so energetically?

The man’s hands fly through the air expressively and in such a familiar way that I choke up. How I still miss Mamma. Did that man grow up among tall people or small people? Does he find us strange and funny? Are we monsters?

But he’d never show his feelings, of course. In the land of monsters, you pay homage.

Agnola listens without condescension. A rush of love for her makes me sit a moment on the bed. I rest there till my blood calms again. Agnola was raised with Marin; her mind is as open and free as his and Bianca’s.

Slowly, I dress. Then I walk along the hall to the music room. Between that door and the facade windows is the long glass chest-bench. Hortensia are scattered inside it—big balls of blue flowers. Bianca picked the perfect color.

I close my eyes and listen to my angel.