Daughter of Venice by Donna Jo Napoli Read Free Book Online Page A

come, too.”
    San Trovaso is in the neighborhood called Dorsoduro. They’ll go in Giulia’s family’s gondola, directly to the steps of the
palazzo;
they won’t travel any intriguing alleys.
    Still, there are many things you can see from a gondola, even through a veil.
    And the Fiorazzo garden might be marvelous.
    But when Paolina gets home, she will describe every wide leaf of fig, all the white bells of japonica, the scent of laurel. I will shut my eyes and feel I’m walking through grass, and think I breathe the wisteria. I don’t need to actually be in the garden myself.
    Besides, if I went, I would watch the mothers’ faces as they beamed on their marriage-bound daughters, the way they’d insist the girls stay in shade to keep their skin perfect, the way they’d hover.
    “You’d get to miss violin lesson,” says Paolina, coaxingly. “I know you hate it.”
    Not even her slyness can bring a smile to my lips. “You go and enjoy yourself, Paolina.” I look over at Laura, who stands by our bedchamber balcony, just inside so that no one can see her from the outside. Her back is to us, and the curve of her shoulders carries the sadness I feel. “I need to talk with Laura, anyway.”
    “Both of you should come with me,” says Paolina.
    “We don’t love gardens the way you do,” says Laura softly, without turning.
    “You need to learn to love something,” says Paolina. “Something besides men.”
    Laura and I both look at our little sister.
    Paolina stands solemn-eyed. “A garden is a like a whole group of children. Very quiet children—but very beautiful children, too. If you take care of plants, they grow and bloom. And sometimes they grow in ways you don’t want them to; they can be naughty.”
    My silly little sister isn’t silly at all. I cup Paolina’s round face in my hands and press my cheek to her forehead.
    “How long have you known?” asks Laura.
    “Giulia’s mother told me two years ago. She explained why she allowed me to dig in the sun with her gardener when she wouldn’t allow Giulia.”
    “I’m sorry, Paolina,” says Laura. Tears roll down her cheeks. “I’m sorry for all three of us. And for Maria, too.”
    “Don’t be sorry for me.” Paolina goes to the door. “I’m going to spend my life in wonderful gardens—maybe even here in our
palazzo
. I could make the most fragrant garden ever if Father would let me.” She stops, her hand on the doorknob. “Do you want to come?”
    “Not today,” I say.
    Paolina leaves.
    I put my arm around Laura’s waist and she folds herself against me in sobs. Beyond her shoulder, I see the traffic on the Canal Grande. The nobles and citizens are like a sea of black gowns and
barete,
dotted here and there with the crimson of a senator. I watch the standing men sway with each movement of the gondola oar. From this angle, I don’t see a single woman in the boats. “In a few years our brothers will join the men in those boats.” I work to keep bitterness from my voice. “And they’ll get a wonderful education. All those years at the university. We should be glad for them, at least.” I swallow. “And especially glad for Antonio.”
    “Don’t be brave, Donata. I can’t bear it. It’s terrible enough that little Paolina has to be so stoic.” Laura rolls her forehead hard against my collarbone.
    I put my hand on her neck. “You’re right.” I pull the pins out of Laura’s bun and smooth her locks free down her back.
    And now a brush is passing through Laura’s hair. Mother has come in silently. She moves the brush rhythmically. How much did she hear?
    I step back, but Laura remains curved toward me, her torso forming a bereft hollow for her tears.
    I take the pins out of my own hair and shake it free. Mother is still brushing Laura’s hair. Laura is still crying. She cries double, for both of us.
    “Can’t we both stay here to care for Antonio’s children someday? Please, Mother,” says Laura.
    “Rooms will be needed