Andrew awoke to the sight of Isabelle in one of his old shirts, the curve of her body silhouetted by late-morning sunlight through the open window. A gondola went by outside, passing in front of a decaying villa. It was an affectless display of pure beauty, the kind Andrew had come to expect of Venice.

Later at the Caffé Florian, he and Isabelle sat with the usual crowd of artists, expatriates and underemployed aristocrats. The conversation was lively, the food good, the wine plentiful. Andrew, utterly at ease, luxuriated in the sights and sounds and smells. The air was alive with a sense of grand events about to unfold. He didn’t know how the evening would end, but he knew it would end well.