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Head up. Smile.” When I do, they dip their heads and curtsy. My father bows to them and we move on to the next cluster of guests. “You’re causing quite a stir! Keep it up,” he says.
    I’m not exactly sure what he’s praising, but somehow I don’t even have to try to be sociable. There is a festive air that makes me want to smile and nod and greet people. Some of the men run their eyes down me as though there’s a message scrawled from the top of my head to the tips of my shoes and they’re trying to read it. I imagine the Abbess’s disapproving stare and tingle with pleasure.
    A tall woman in a silvery dress stands talking to a large group. Her hair is coiled around her head, its gray streaks gleaming like the steely fabric of her gown. The skin on her face and neck is etched with delicate lines, but it’s as clear and soft as a young girl’s. And although she laughs and chatters with her companions, her green eyes are fixed on me.
    I dip my head in greeting and she smiles, a mixture of bemusement and approval. I smile back, and she takes this as a signal, excusing herself and moving through the other guests towards me. My composure leaves me at once. I look to my father, but suddenly he is no longer at my side and I turn to see him with a group of men. What should I do? I’m not ready to—
    “Hello, Laura,” says the woman, her voice clear and deep. She takes my hand, her movements graceful. I wonder how she knows my name.
    “I’m Allegreza di Rocco. And you, Laura, are a della Scala, are you not? Poor Beatrice’s sister.”
    “Yes,” I say. “I am—I mean—I was. I mean—I always will be.” A surge of blood sets fire to my cheek.
    “You’re quite right.” Allegreza’s elegant face softens. “Alive or dead, once a sister, always a sister.”
    An old woman steps close to her, her face pinched with worry. She mutters quietly to Allegreza, who nods.
    “Excuse me, Laura. We will talk again—soon,” she says. She puts her arm around the old woman and gently maneuvers her away.
    I stand alone for a moment. This woman, Allegreza; she knew me. Or of me, at least. But what does she wish to speak to me about? Surely a girl just released from a convent couldn’t be of interest to her.
    “Signorina?” A servant with a tray of glasses appears at my side.
    I take one, cradling it carefully so as not to spill the clear golden liquid. I hear my father shout with laughter. He’s still huddled with other men at the far side of the ballroom, and the task of reaching him, of negotiating the other guests without being detained, seems as impossible as crossing the Hellespont on foot; I might be caught up in the undercurrents of innuendo, or dashed on the rocks of jokes I can’t understand. So I stay where I am, and take a sip of wine. It tastes of syrup and summer, and, after the plain water of the convent, like ambrosia slipping down my throat. Almost immediately, the sweetness seems to rush to my head. Annalena once told me the Abbess kept a bottle of wine, fermented by the monks on the island of San Michele, in her chamber; she’d disturbed her once and heard the bottle clinking as the Abbess hurriedly hid it away. I can’t believe it was true, for how could her face always have been so sour?
    The musicians lower their instruments and the roomhushes. One by one, I notice the heads of the guests turning in the direction of the main doors, their faces concerned. A couple around the same age as my father stand there—both handsome, upright, solemn. Their clothes are black, and, among the gaudy costumes and luxurious materials of the revelers, seem like some sort of reproach. The man looks straight ahead while holding his wife’s arm firmly, like someone holding a tiller to steer a boat. Her eyes are on the floor, and she’s rubbing the beads of a black rosary between her long white fingers. They walk slowly but deliberately through the guests.
    “Is that who I think it is?” I hear a man hiss