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music you suggested. I’ll need time to find copies.”
    “I have them in my personal library. I’ll give them to your grandfather tomorrow, at the college, so you can practice before you come. I have other music at my house, if these pieces don’t appeal to you. I’m sure you and Laura can agree on something you both like.”
    “And if we can’t? If we find we’re not well matched as musical partners?”
    His grandfather gave him a smile of reassurance. “This isn’t set in stone. Why don’t you meet the girl first?” he suggested. “Then you can decide if you want to go ahead with this.”
    —
    Shortly before four o’clock on the following Wednesday, Lorenzo carried his violin across the bridge into Dorsoduro. It was a neighborhood favored by professors and academics, and the buildings here were far grander than his own modest home in Cannaregio. He came to the Balbonis’ address on Fondamenta Bragadin and halted, intimidated by the massive door with the brass lion’s head knocker. Behind him, water slapped in the canal and boats growled past. On the San Vio footbridge, two men stood arguing about which one of them should pay for a damaged wall. Through their agitated voices, he heard a cello playing. The notes seemed to echo from everywhere at once, bounced from brick and stone and water. Did the music come from within the amber-hued walls of Professor Balboni’s residence?
    He swung the brass knocker and heard the impact reverberate like thunder throughout the house. The door swung open and a woman wearing a scowl and a housekeeper’s uniform looked him up and down.
    “Excuse me, but I was told to come at four o’clock.”
    “You’re Alberto’s grandson?”
    “Yes, ma’am. I’m here to rehearse with Miss Balboni.”
    The woman eyed his violin case and gave a curt nod. “Come with me.”
    He followed her down a dim hallway, past portraits of men and women whose fleshy features told him they must be Balbonis. In this grand home he felt like an intruder, his leather shoes squeaking across the polished marble.
    Timidly he asked the housekeeper: “Is the professor at home?”
    “He should be here shortly.” The cello music grew louder and the air itself seemed to hum with sonorous notes. “He asked that you two begin the rehearsal without him.”
    “Miss Balboni and I haven’t been introduced yet.”
    “She’s expecting you. There’s no need for introductions.” The housekeeper swung open double doors and cello music poured out like sweet honey.
    Laura Balboni sat near a window, her back turned to him. Against the glare of sunlight all he could see was her silhouette, head bent, shoulders folded forward to embrace her instrument. She played unaware that he stood listening, critically assessing every note that she coaxed from her cello. Her technique was not perfect. Here and there he heard an off-pitch note, and her run of sixteenths was uneven. But her attack was fierce, her bow digging into the strings with such confidence that even her mistakes sounded intentional, every note played without apology. At that moment he did not care what she looked like. She could have the face of a donkey or the hips of a cow. All that mattered was the music that flew from her strings, conjured forth with such passion that the cello seemed at risk of bursting into flame.
    “Miss Balboni? The young man is here,” announced the housekeeper.
    The bow suddenly fell silent. For a moment the girl remained bowed over her instrument, as if reluctant to end the embrace. Then she straightened in her chair and turned to look at him.
    “Well,” she said after a pause. “You’re not the ogre I expected.”
    “Is that how your father described me?”
    “Papa didn’t describe you at all. Which is why I expected the worst.” She nodded to the housekeeper. “Thank you, Alda. You can shut the door, so we won’t disturb you.”
    The housekeeper withdrew, and Lorenzo was left alone with this strange creature. He