‘So why say all that stuff about blank canvases and him disappointing his dad?’
‘Because he comes out now you are here. First rowing, then the parade. He is less on his phone and more …’ He waves his hands around some more. ‘Here.’
‘Wait … You were trying to set us up?’
‘No, no,’ Jacopo says quickly. ‘Just … encourage a bit. Better a real girl than an online girlfriend.’
‘Girlfriend?’ There’s an unexpected pinch in my chest.
Jacopo catches it straight away. ‘Ai ai ai. Always the moody ones.’ He presses his palms together. ‘Look, I do not know if she is a girlfriend. They talk online. He smiles at his phone like this …’ Jacopo pulls a goofy grin. ‘But recently …’ He imitates the way Leo frowns and taps his screen, checking and checking again.
That’s when it clicks.
I’mthe girl. He was waiting for Sketchy, but I’d been frozen out of the app.
Relief floods in, quick and disorientating. And something else. Something I’m not ready to name.
‘Or maybe I am wrong,’ Jacopo says. ‘Maybe he is unhappy because he changed school.’
I stop walking. ‘But the school belongs to his parents.’
‘Exactly.’ Jacopo smiles like I’ve said something important. ‘And now he has to paint their way.’
This must be the school switch Rebel talked about. It’s the first time I’ve thought of Leo’s privilege as something that’s boxing him in. I want to ask Jacopo what else he knows, but he’s stopped belowa tiny balcony that’s more like a tall window with a railing across it. He cups a hand to his mouth and lets out a low, birdlike call.
A few seconds later, an unimpressed-looking girl leans out and tosses down a ring of keys. They clatter on to the stone.
‘Fai presto,’ she snaps, disappearing back inside.
I frown at Jacopo, uneasy. ‘Umm … why is she telling you to hurry?’
‘My cousin, Alice,’ he replies, like that’s an answer.
‘Does she know we’re here for a dress?’
‘Of course.’ He shakes his head, disappointed I even asked, and pushes the door open.
I take a deep breath. This is either going to be amazing … or a crime.
Inside, racks of dresses line the walls – feathers, sequins, beads – like something from a period drama. Some are as nice as the ones I’ve seen at the costume competitions in St Mark’s Square.
‘Jacopo,’ I hiss. ‘Are you sure we’re allowed in here?’
‘We have the key, no?’
Not a direct answer. ‘OK, but these won’t be cheap.’
‘Cheap? They are free. You said only borrow,sì?’
There’s barely room to turn without brushing a sleeve or an underskirt. I push my way to the back,trailing my fingers over the fancy fabrics, easing a couple free for closer inspection.
I’m not picky – I just want something that fits – but every single gown is cut for someone much shorter. I pull out a purple costume with ruffled sleeves, and a second one comes with it – wedged behind, out of sight. This one’s silver and black, like the dark coat of a horse glossed by moonlight. It feels like fate.
‘You look like you found your wedding dress,’ Jacopo says. ‘It is bad luck for me to see it before we marry,no?’
I laugh and shake my head. He’s impossible.
Then a girl’s voice calls from outside. ‘Jacopo! Papà sta tornando!’
