Alessandra’s in the middle of it, in a white lace gown I wasn’t prepared for. The paper-lace mask she made at the workshop is in her hand, and when she lifts it to her face it’s as if the two were always meant to go together.
‘Wow,’ I breathe. ‘How did you even get that to match so perfectly?’
‘I told you. It’s my nonna’s pattern … same as her wedding dress.’ She slips a hand under the top layer of lace to show me, then laughs at my shocked expression. ‘Relax. She made a better one when she married the man she really loved.’
I smile awkwardly. ‘Right. Well … you look beautiful.’
‘Which is why I brought this,’ she says, pulling on a short tailored jacket. ‘Beautiful is nice. But I don’t like being only one thing.’
Nadia tugs my backpack from my shoulders.
‘Come on. Show us yours!’
They gasp as I pull it free, the black and silver silk pooling like water at our feet.
The fabric flashes iridescent under the light as Nadia picks it up and shakes it out. ‘Where did you find it?’
‘Near the station,’ I say. ‘Jacopo knew a place.’
Alessandra nudges her, and I don’t miss Nadia’s blush.
‘You should ask him out,’ I say. ‘He’d totally say yes.’
‘I see him always joking with other girls. But never with me.’ She shrugs as if to say he’s probably not into her.
I suspect the opposite’s true. Jacopo’s serious about things that matter to him, like Venice and its people and traditions. And I bet he came to get me at the studio just so he could see her. Maybe he puts the dating manual away when he genuinely likes someone.
Now I need to concentrate on this dress. I try to put it on, but I’m so confused by the layers and ties I eventually give in and beg for help. Turns out my skirt is on backwards. I feel like an idiot until Nadia does the exact same thing with hers.
I do a slow twirl in front of the mirrored wardrobe. Even with my usual plaits and zero make-up, the dress transforms me. I’ve never worn anything likeit. But it’s still more of a starting point, not the finished thing.
I pluck at the dark fabric. It already has the sheen of something wet. It just needs …
I find Nadia in the mirror. ‘Don’t suppose you have any reeds?’
‘Reeds?’ she repeats. ‘Like … plants?’
OK. This is going to be harder than I thought. I hesitate, then grab my phone from my bag, pull up my Art Exchange avatar and hand it to Nadia before I can change my mind.
‘You drew this?’ she asks, zooming in on my wild kelpie girl.
I’m still not used to showing anyone my work in real life, not without a username or a screen to hide behind. But the hairspray fumes must be clouding my judgement because I nod.
‘I just mess around, really.’
‘Mess around?’ Alessandra, who paints perfect Renaissance faces in the studio, studies the image. ‘Procreate?’
I nod. ‘You know it?’
‘Sì. I sketch on it before I paint. But this – this is …’ She trails off, tilting the screen at a different angle. ‘Like sculpture. Only digital.’
Nadia claps her hands. ‘OK. We try.’
She drops to her knees and drags a cardboard box out from under her bed. Feathers, sequins and ribbons spill over the sides.
‘I rescue scraps from my parents’ tourist shops,’ she explains, half-apologetic. ‘They create so much waste, I try to recycle.’
We sift through the contents. Plastic beads clack against shells and glitter sticks to my fingers, but I can already see useful bits.
