“Very distant,” Livia answered truthfully.

“This is my aunt, Dowager Lady Eliot,” James said.

Livia returned the curtsey. “Ah! You are a widow like me?” Livia tipped her head on one side to convey sympathy and smiled tenderly.

“Indeed,” her ladyship said, immune both to sympathy and the smile.

“And you have children?”

“Four: Sir Charles my son, my daughter Lady Bellamy, and my daughter Lady de Vere, and another daughter.”

“Not married?” Livia was as fast as a hound on the scent of the sole disappointment in this list of social triumph.

“Married but not to a nobleman; she is Mrs. Winters.”

“I am surprised you do not live with them?”

“A glass of wine?” James interposed. “Before dinner?”

“I live at Northside Manor. To keep James company after his loss.”

“And now I will be able to comfort him,” Livia assured her. “And you can be released to their ladyships and the little Mrs.”

“I expect I will stay at Northside,” her ladyship said firmly. “I lived very happily with dear Agatha.”

“White or red?”

“Agatha?” Livia’s laugh tinkled out. “Ah, forgive me, this I cannot say at all. Who is dear Athaga? Agatta?”

“Lady Agatha Avery, James’s late wife, as dear as a daughter to me.”

Livia’s head tilted to the side again. “And at last you can return to your own daughters,” she said. “How they must have missed you, while you were staying on and on in my dear Sir James’s house!”

“When you are settled in, and you know how things go on, in one of the great homes of Yorkshire, I shall perhaps move; but only to the Dower House nearby,” her ladyship said firmly. “I have agreed it with Sir James.”

“My fidanzato cannot be wrong,” Livia declared with a little smile at him. “His judgment is perfect. If that is what he prefers I am sure it should take place at once. Perhaps you had better go to the Dower House now?”

“Surely, they will serve dinner soon!” James remarked.

“It is delayed?” Livia was all concern. She smiled at Lady Eliot. “Is this how you keep order in the great house of Yorkshire? I shall have to learn your patience! In my home, in the Palazzo Fiori, I was very strict.”

DECEMBER 1670, VENICE

The Doge’s Palace was like a warren of stone. Felipe and Sarah took a small stone staircase at the side of the building that climbed up and up with unending little passages running off to one side and another. Felipe followed the official, Sarah behind him, and a guard brought up the rear. The official turned into a set of rooms and they followed a twisting corridor paneled with wood, which went past one tiny office and another. All of them had open fanlights so every office could eavesdrop on the talk in the corridor; all of them had windows set at an angle so they could observe who went past, without the visitors seeing inside the offices. All of them had double doors so that no one loitering outside could listen to a quiet conversation in the room.

They came to a double doorway; Felipe tapped and confidently led Sarah through the first door into the tiny lobby and then through the second. It was a small room, with space only for a fireplace and a desk. A clerk sat behind a table, pen poised; he rose as Felipe entered and greeted him as a friend. Briefly, Felipe explained that his accusation had been incorrect, that Roberto Reekie was innocent and here was his niece come to beg for his release. Sarah apologized for giving a false name on arrival in Venice and said that she was seeking her uncle who had been wrongly arrested. The clerk made her sign the document in triplicate and then Felipe Russo opened the door and she waited outside in the twilight, a narrow slit of a window far above her head. She could hear nothing through the thick double doors but inside the room Felipe explained to the clerk that Roberto Ricci was innocent and should be released. He was in there for more than an hour and when he came out his face was grave.

“My uncle?” she demanded, her hand against the carved paneling, to keep her steady. “He’s not… he’s not…”

“He’s not dead yet,” he said flatly. “But I’m sorry, we’re not in time to save him.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry…”

“Please tell me,” she whispered. “Please tell me what’s happened.”

He took her arm and started down the winding corridor, his voice very low. “They knew he was a doctor, they knew that he worked with patients with quatrain fever, studied old documents with the Jewish doctors and translators of the Arab physicians.”

“Is that wrong?”

“No, that’s allowed—you have to have a license—but he had one. But since he was an expert, accused of a crime and formally denounced by witnesses, they sent him to the Isola del Lazzaretto Nuovo—the quarantine island for people suspected of the plague or sick with other fevers. You’ll have come past it when you sailed in—did you see the ships flying a yellow flag to show infection?”

Sarah was still stunned. “Yes, yes.”

“The ships’ masters fear the island worse than the plague itself. If your ship is suspected of disease you have to moor up, and go ashore and live there until the doctor clears you.”

“The doctor?”

“Now the doctor is your uncle Roberto.”

“But how long do you have to stay in quarantine?”

“For forty days—more than a month.”

“Then Rob will be able to leave?”

“No, it is the foreign crew that can leave; but Roberto is appointed as doctor, permanent doctor. He will have to stay there, checking the food, checking for disease.”

“For how long?” she asked. “How long does he have to stay?”

He looked at her with sympathy and he paused in his reply as if he could not think how to tell her. “This is a death sentence,” he said gently. “Though they don’t strangle him as a murderer, he will stay there for the rest of his life, till he takes the plague and dies. You must think of him as a dead man now. He may be dead already.”

He watched her curiously. First, she took in the shock of the news, that the terrible risk they had taken—entering the Doge’s Palace and confessing a deceit—had been for nothing, that her uncle would die on a tiny island, within sight of the shore. He saw her color come and go, and then he saw her eyes slide out of focus and she looked dreamy, as if she were listening to music from far away or thinking intently of something else. When her dark gaze returned to his face, it was as if she had returned from the other world to this one.

“No,” she said with sudden clarity. “No, he’s not dead.”

He took her arm and led her down the stairs, thinking she was too shocked by the news to speak sense. “You’re upset,” he said. “But this is the truth. I’ve withdrawn my evidence but they won’t change the sentence. There’s nothing we can do for Rob, now he’s been sent there. No one escapes. And if he gets the plague”—he corrected himself—“when he gets it, or cholera, or yellow fever, or whatever the sailors happen to have, they will send him to the Lazzaretto Vecchio—the old death island—and he will die there.”