The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(42)

“Good idea,” I say. “My feet could use a break.”

Across the courtyard, a bedraggled Lucy plods past the buffet station. I wave and she works her way to our table.

“Is there a reason we start our days at the butt-crack of dawn?” she asks.

Poppy claps her hands. “We’re going to the Doge’s Palace today, one of the most famous landmarks in Venice. It has caught fire more than once, requiring restoration, but parts of the structure date back to the Middle Ages.”

“And I’m pretty sure it’d still be there this afternoon, if we’d chosen to wake at a humane hour.”

Poppy’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “How was your night?”

Lucy scans the small courtyard, as if she’s looking for someone. “It was okay.”

My heart wrenches. Where was she last night? What must it be like, to be on a relentless search for love?

Poppy spreads apricot preserves on her croissant. “Some people have a certain relish for heartbreak. I hope you’re not one of them, Luciana.”

Lucy cuts her a look that could boil an egg. “Trust me, I’m not.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Because that type of person chooses a partner the way they’d choose a designer purse. It looks good on the arm and garners much admiration. But quickly, they realize they’ve paid too dear a price. They have a fancy purse, when what they really wanted was a backpack.” She sets down her knife and smiles. “Just my two cents’ worth.”

Lucy looks just as puzzled as I am. What is Poppy trying to say?



* * *





I could refer to Piazza San Marco, Venice’s most popular gathering place, as Saint Mark’s Square, like most Americans do. Or La Piazza, like the Venetians. But the writer in me prefers Napoléon’s romantic description: the drawing room of Europe.

I step onto a field of gray rectangular stones inlaid with white parallel geometric designs, reminiscent of a dazzling oriental carpet. Facing the entire length of the piazza sits the famous Basilica di San Marco, or Saint Mark’s Basilica, all arches and marble and Romanesque carvings. It seems impossible not to feel small and young and insignificant in its domineering shadow.

“The four horses,” Poppy says, pointing to a magnificent quartet of bronze beasts. “A symbol of Venice’s pride and power, brought to Venice by the Crusaders in 1204. Napoléon looted the piazza in 1797 and had the sculptures shipped to Paris. They were returned eighteen years later. Sadly, air pollution was killing them. The original horses are now safely inside the basilica.”

Lucy moans and rubs her temples. “Just my luck. First time in Europe and I’m traveling with an art history teacher.”

We walk the Bridge of Sighs, which connects the palace’s interrogation room with the prison. “Imagine yourself a prisoner hundreds of years ago,” Poppy says, stepping to the side of the limestone bridge. “This may have been the last glimpse of the outside world you would ever see. Lord Byron gave this bridge its name, surmising that the prisoners would sigh as they viewed their beautiful Venice for the last time.”

I stop in front of a small block window and gaze out at the piazza below. People of all nationalities bustle across the square, darting into shops and restaurants and museums. No doubt they’re speaking languages from all over the world, each carrying secrets and scars, unspeakable tragedies and moments of bliss. I, Emilia Josephina Fontana Lucchesi Antonelli, am part of this crazy maze of humanity. Tears sting my eyes. I think of the prisoners, being pried away from these very windows, never to see this mad whirlwind of a world again. At once I feel like the luckiest woman alive. I’m not a prisoner—or at least I don’t have to be. I can roam freely, travel broadly, make mistakes, welcome adventures.

I startle when Lucy’s hand grips my arm. “You gonna spend all day looking out the window?”

“Nope,” I say, smiling as I continue across the bridge. “Most definitely not.”

It’s almost six o’clock when we head back to the hotel to get “gussied up,” as Aunt Poppy calls it. We’re two blocks from the hotel when Poppy suddenly stops. She backs up a few steps and peers into a store window, where a sign reads Occhiali da Vista. “Emilia,” she calls to me.

Thirty minutes later, I’m standing in front of a mirror, a dozen pairs of eyeglasses splayed on the counter in front of me. Once more, Poppy returns to the tortoiseshell frames and plants them on my face. They’re large and bold and chic—a completely different look from my small indestructible wire-frames.

“Perfect!” She turns to Lucy. “Don’t you agree?”

“Uh, ye-ah. About a hundred times better than those lame-ass glasses you’ve had since you were, like, six.”

I rise, rubbing a finger along my scar. “This is ridiculous. If you’re trying to make me beautiful, it’s not going to happen.”

Poppy scoffs. “Beauty is overrated. I’d choose interesting over beautiful any day.” She turns to the stylish optician who looks like she should be on a fashion runway. “How soon can we have these glasses made?”

“You can pick them up in the morning,” she says, her voice cool and aloof. “But without a prescription, we will need the original lenses.”

“Done.” Poppy hands her the new frames along with my old glasses.