Daughter of Venice Read Online Free Page B

Venetian is to be practical.” He leaves.
    I wonder where he’s going. It could be anywhere. Anywhere at all. That’s his right.
    We are silent.
    Finally, Laura picks up her bobbin. “Shall we be practical, my Venetian sisters?”

C HAPTER T HREE
    THE XILOGRAFIA
    I t’s late afternoon and I’ve finished my lessons—dance and music. Laura remains in the conservatory, practicing violin. She’s good at it. I, on the other hand, have a stone ear; I’ll never make anything but screeches with my violin, no matter how many years I practice. So I’m standing in the bedchamber I share with Laura, picking up the bronze statues of animals that Uncle Leonardo has given us. Every time he returns from his travels, he brings us another. The boar with the real bone tusks is my favorite. But the bumpy toad and the wide, scuttling crab are almost as precious.
    The canals of Venice teem with crabs. Small boys crab all the time. I know that because of my brothers.
    And I have a secret. Once, when I was Maria’s age, I overheard my older brothers as they went down the stairs, talking about which baits they’d use to lure the crabs and who would get to swoop down with the net at the just the right moment. I snuck into their bedchambers and searched through their clothes until I found the shirt I wanted. I was such a little fool, I picked one that had long sleeves with red lace at the cuffs and collar. I even put on a red cummerbund with lace, too. Somehow my four-year-old brain thought the boys would take me in as another brother if I wore boys’ clothes—and I chose the clothes I loved the best.
    I raced down the stairs and found the boys on our
fondamenta
—our bank on the canal—squatting in a huddle. They laughed when I came up decked out in party clothes. All but Antonio. He handed me a string and told me to try crabbing. And he called me “little brother.” I actually believed he thought I was a boy. And, to everyone’s amazement, within minutes a monster-sized crab tugged on my string. But then Cook came outside and shooed me back upstairs with the threat of telling Mother if I ever tried that again.
    What fun it was. What fun, just to go crabbing.
    I glance out over the balcony at the canal below. A small boat, a
sandalo,
carries four young men, standing tall. It turns onto a side canal.
    I don’t know the name of that canal. I’ve never been down it. And there it is, opening to my eyes, then disappearing behind the buildings.
    Everything disappears behind buildings, around bends. Everything teases.
    I think of the map in Cristina Brandolini’s home, the one that shows every alley and canal of my dear Venice.
    And now I’m rushing down a flight of stairs to our map room. I pass the library, where the door is ajar, and I can hear Messer Zonico, the boys’ tutor, talking with Father. So the lessons must be over—the boys are gone, and Father is there. It’s odd that Father’s home this early.
    I step closer and listen.
    “Piero, at twenty years old,” says Messer Zonico, “is the most persistent at his afternoon studies, though Vincenzo is the most brilliant.”
    He doesn’t mention Francesco. That’s not surprising. Francesco recently refused to study anymore with this tutor. He’s too busy having fun.
    But Messer Zonico doesn’t mention Antonio, either. Antonio is seventeen—two years older than Vincenzo. If the tutor is talking about Piero and Vincenzo, he should mention my sweetest brother Antonio, as well.
    Messer Zonico bids farewell. He’ll come out the door any moment now.
    I run to the map room and duck inside. The afternoon light hangs heavy. Maps are mounted on the top half of every wall, reaching practically to the ceiling. I see large land masses with mountain ranges, and lots of seas, and one vast ocean. Where in all this is the Venetian Empire?
    My uncles could tell me. They have been almost everywhere.
    Our only uncle who stays home with us is Mother’s brother Umberto—because he is