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"You deal with it," the Conte said, wrapping the blanket around the wing.
Silently, the woman handed Scipio an old bag. "Take this," she said, "and use the money to find yourself another occupation. How old are you? Eleven? Twelve?"
"With this kind of money I can be as grown-up as I want to be," Scipio answered. He took the bag and put it on the floor between him and Mosca.
"Did you hear that, Renzo?" The woman leaned against the deck rail and eyed Scipio with puzzled amusement. "He wants to be grown-up. How different dreams can be!"
"Nature will soon grant your wish," the Conte replied. He was wrapping the wing in a tarpaulin. "We wish the opposite to be true. Do you want to count the money, Thief Lord?"
Scipio put the bag on Mosca's lap and opened it.
"Wow!" Mosca whispered. He took a bundle of bills and began to count them with an expression of utter disbelief. Even Riccio forgot his fear of the water and got up. However, as the boat began to rock, he hurriedly sat down again. "Has anyone ever seen so much money?" he wondered.
Scipio held a note in front of his flashlight, counted the wad, and then he gave Mosca a satisfied nod.
"Seems to be all there," he called up to the Conte and his companion.
The gray-haired lady bowed her head and said, "Buonritorno!"
The Conte stood next to her. Prosper threw him the rope and the Conte caught it. "Safe return -- and the best of luck for the future," he said. Then he pushed off.
Prosper and Mosca took the oars and pulled away from the Conte's boat. The mouth of the canal where Ida was waiting for them seemed very far away. Prosper could see quite clearly that behind them the Conte had already pointed the bow of his boat toward where the Sacca della Misericordia opened into the lagoon.
But Scipio had been right. The wind was on their side. It barely rippled the water and when they reached Ida's boat they could still make out the Conte's sails.
"Go on, tell me: How did it go?" Ida asked impatiently as soon as the four of them had climbed aboard. "I could only see that he's got a sailing boat, but you were too far out."
"Everything's sorted. We've got the money and he's got the wing." Scipio wedged the bag with the money between his legs. "There was a woman with him. And you were right: They're sailing out to the lagoon."
"I thought so!" Ida gave Giaco a sign, but he had already started the engine and soon they were heading out into the bay.
"He's turned off the red lantern," Mosca shouted above the din of the engine, "but I can still see the boat."
Giaco grumbled something unintelligible. He held his course as if there were nothing easier than to follow a strange boat in the moonlight.
"Have you counted the money?" Ida asked.
"Sort of," Scipio answered. "There's definitely a lot of it."
"Can I have a look through your binoculars?" Mosca asked.
Ida handed them to him and wrapped her scarf tighter around her head.
"He's making very slow progress, but he'll be out of the bay soon," said Mosca.
"Don't get too close, Giaco!" Ida called forward.
"Don't worry, Signora."
They left the city behind. Soon there was nothing but water and darkness around them. Even though it felt as if they were the only people on the lagoon, they knew they couldn't be. They kept seeing lights appear and disappear in the blackness -- green and red navigation lights, just as on Ida's boat.
But even if the Conte had seen their boat, why would he suspect that they were following him? After all, he had already paid them.
Prosper looked across the water nervously. He and Bo had never been out here, although the others had told them a lot about the lagoon and its islands. Little specks of land hemmed with reeds. Here were the ruins of long-abandoned villages and fortresses, and the fruit and vegetable fields that supplied the city. Some were home to the monasteries and hospitals where the city's sick used to be brought.
The silent Giaco deftly steered the boat past the bricole -- the wooden posts that poked out of the water everywhere. Their sides were painted white to mark the route around the shallows. But they were quite hard to see in the moonlight.
At one point, Mosca whispered, "That's San Michele!"
They slowly cruised past the walls that surround the island where, for hundreds of years, the Venetians have buried their dead. As soon as he had passed this cemetery island, the Conte set a northeasterly course. They left Murano -- the glassmakers' island -- behind them and cruised on, deeper into the maze of islands and grassy islets.
Prosper felt as if the boat were going to sail on forever. He just hoped that Bo would still be asleep when they got back. Bo would kick up a diabolical fuss if he found out that the others were meeting the Conte, and that Hornet had lulled him to sleep with hot milk and a book so they could sneak away.
"Let me have a look, Mosca." Riccio reached for the binoculars. "How far is that man going to sail? If we go on like this, we'll soon be in Burano and as stiff as deep-frozen chickens."
They went on and on through the darkness. They could all feel themselves getting sleepy, despite the cold. Then Mosca suddenly whistled through his teeth. He knelt down to get a better look. "I think he's heaving to!" he whispered breathlessly. "There! He's sailing toward that island. I have no idea which one it is. Do you recognize it, Signora?"
Ida Spavento took the glasses and peered through them. Prosper looked over her shoulder. Even without the binoculars he could make out two lanterns on the shore, a high wall, and further back, through a maze of black branches, the outline of a house.
"Madonna, I think I know which island this is!" Ida sounded startled. "Giaco, don't go any closer! Switch off the engine. And the lights."
As the engine died down everything was suddenly very still. Prosper felt like an invisible animal lurking in the dark. He heard the water slapping against the hull and Mosca breathing next to him. And there were voices drifting across the water.
"Yes, that's the one!" Ida whispered. "Isola Segreta, the Secret Isle. There are some really spooky stories about this place. The Valaresso, one of the oldest families of Venice, used to have an estate here, but that was a long time ago. I thought the family had moved away years ago and that the island was deserted. It seems I was wrong."
"Isola Segreta?" Mosca stared at the distant lights. "That's the island where nobody ever goes."
"That's right. It's not easy to find a boatman who will bring you there," Ida answered, not taking the binoculars from her eyes. "The island's supposed to be bewitched. Terrible things happen there. It's said nobody who's ever visited the Isola Segreta has lived to tell about it. So that's where the merry-go-round of the Merciful Sisters has ended up, is it?"
"Listen!" Riccio whispered.
The baying of dogs sounded across the water. Loud and threatening.
"That sounds like two dogs!" Mosca whispered. "Big ones."
"Haven't you seen enough yet, Signora?" Riccio's voice sounded shrill. "We've followed the Conte all the way to this darned island. That was our deal. So please tell that silent man there to take us home."
