When we come out on to the Grand Canal a crowd is gathering along thefondamenta, all facing the same direction, like they’re waiting for something.
We find a spot, our legs dangling over the water, just as the first boats glide into view.
They’re different to the ones we saw at thecorteo acqueo. That was a procession. This is a show. A barge draped in a silk canopy is lit from within like a lantern. Inside, marionette figures move in time to the music. More performers follow on other boats.
‘So … is this kind of what we’ll be doing?’ I ask. ‘You know … minus the actual fun part?’
Leo laughs. ‘Pretty much.’
With his arm warm around my shoulders, I lose myself in the performance and the ever-moving reflections on the water – no pressure to impress anyone. No ticking clock. Just us, watching something beautiful.
We linger until the music fades and the crowdthins, then wind our way back towards the palazzo. But neither of us is ready for the night to end. There are only a handful left for us now, and sleeping feels like wasting them. So we spread out on the living room rug, him with a sketchbook, me with my iPad – finally doing what we always talked about: drawing together, in our true styles.
‘You have to let me draw you,’ I beg.
He rolls his eyes. ‘Any excuse to ogle me, huh, Nessie?’
‘Ha ha. Watch it or I’ll turn you into a skinless horse-demon from Orkney.’
‘Fine. But I get to draw you too.’
So we trade. And it’s nothing like that awful first time in the studio. I give him the faerie-prince touches I’ve been yearning for, and when he tilts his page towards me, it’s me, street style, in a stripy cardigan, iPad in hand and … oh, hair wisping out of my fishtail plaits. I reach a hand up to touch them and, yes, basically I’m a complete mess.
I’m about to undo them when footsteps approach from the hall.
Leo snaps his sketchbook shut, and I hit play on a Netflix series just as Martino Ballarin appears in the doorway.
‘Evening.’ He gives me a brief, uncertain smilebefore turning to Leo. ‘Just wanted to let you know you’ll be shadowing Signora Dalmasso at the gallery next week.’
‘OK.’ Leo’s thumb works at the edge of his nail.
‘After class, of course, perhaps until Easter.’ Martino taps his phone. ‘I’ll send you the details so you can introduce yourself.’
Leo nods, still picking.
That’s when my phone lights up: Griselda. I want to ignore it, but I know she’ll just keep calling. Martino takes it as his cue to leave and exchanges a few last words with Leo as I answer.
Griselda pounces straight away. ‘Who’s that in the background? Are you with a boy?’
‘A classmate,’ I say quickly. ‘We’re working some last-minute bits for the fair.’
The Netflix da-dum blasts so loudly I nearly jump.
‘Doesn’t sound like it to me,’ Griselda says, dry.
‘It’s late, Grace. I’m allowed to relax.’
Her long sigh crackles down the line. ‘Thanks for the photo of the science centre, by the way.’
I silently thank the free photo-editing app I found.
‘It’s almost identical to one of mine,’ she adds.
‘Yeah?’ My phone digs into my palm. ‘Guess I’m following in your footsteps, then.’
‘Mm. Remind me who your teacher is again? I’mtrying to work out if I had the same one.’
I freeze. ‘No, she’s new. I asked if she knew you. Thought I could get myself some sister kudos.’
