It was the doll. Joanna’s sudden relief was mixed with slight irritation at the child’s whining. “What a drama,” she started to say, then stopped.

Next to her, Sara clutched the railing, ashen.

Joanna laid her hand on the still-tense wrist and said, “It’s all right. It was only the doll.”

“Yes, yes. I know. I just thought…for a moment…”

“We all did. Relax. I’m sure people drop things into the canal all the time. It’s no big deal.”

Sara nodded agreement and looked away.

Some twenty minutes later, they entered the final curve, which brought them within sight of the Piazzetta San Marco. The square was exactly as she had seen it on countless calendars and postcards and commercial advertisements. A wide plaza with two columns in the foreground, the doge’s palace on the right side, the corner of the basilica and the clock tower at the far end, and, on the left, the endless row of capitals of the National Library. Joanna allowed herself another moment of speechless admiration. This would be their “neighborhood” for the next three weeks.

The vaporetto disgorged its passengers in a steady stream. Joanna and Sara waited patiently at the rear, then hefted their baggage and strode out onto the wide Riva degli Schiavoni. Joanna noted the tourist kiosks, all filled with nearly identical souvenir trinkets, scarves, handbags, T-shirts, all stamped with Venetian scenes, plastic copies of the gondolas or the doge’s ceremonial galley, the Bucintoro, and thousands of ornamented plaster masks.

They walked along the embankment, too tired to circle around the cluster of tourists and the lake of birds they were feeding. Pigeons, sparrows, one crow. The birds scattered momentarily as they passed through them, all but the defiant crow, but most returned unfazed a moment later.

They turned left through an underpass to a network of streets that would bring them finally to their apartment. The restaurants along the way were already filled with breakfast crowds, giving them the sense they were joining an ongoing party. As they wound along the calli toward the Ponte dei Greci, Joanna memorized the shop names at each turn so she could find her way back later without a map. Some of the trattorias looked like good lunch possibilities as well. She laughed inwardly at herself for preparing the archetypal tourist agenda: look, buy, eat.

Finally they arrived. Their apartment building was on the embankment near the Ponte dei Greci bridge. An iron gate at the street held the building number. Behind the gate was a corridor leading to a two-story house with a massive double oak door. Several apartments took up the ground floor; theirs was the one at the back.

Once inside, they faced an L-shaped corridor that led on the long side to the living room and kitchen, and on the short side to the bathroom and bedroom. “I had no idea it would be so big,” Joanna said, surveying the exposed beams over the living room.

“Look, we’ve got a fireplace,” Sara said. “One of those gas ones. Very elegant with the bookshelves on both sides.”

“A nice reading selection too.” Joanna ran her finger along the backs of some of the books. “A History of Venice, Venice through the Ages, Venetian Baroque Art, Lives of the Doges, also biographies of Giorgione, Titian, Tintoretto, Veronese. Here’s a Bible, and a booklet on flora and fauna of the lagoon. Well chosen. For nights when there’s nothing good on television.”

“If I remember correctly, there’s always nothing good on television,” Sara said, wandering back down the corridor to the bedroom.

Joanna drew back the drapes and discovered a wide window opening to a small private garden with a lunch table and chairs. In the morning light, it looked inviting.

Sara called from the bedroom. “Hey, come look. It’s huge. Closets you could park a sports car in.”

Joanna followed the voice toward the bedroom and stood in the doorway. “Oh, nice. I like the carnival masks on the walls too. Very, um, Venetian.”

“I love costume masks. They’re one of the few things I remember from my childhood.”

“Since you’re in your element here, why don’t you take the bedroom? I’ll sleep on the sofa,” Joanna said.

Sara acquiesced with a cheerful shrug. “Bedroom’s fine.”

They both migrated to the kitchen and discovered the rental agent had left coffee and a small welcome package of cheese and pastry. “Why don’t I make us a pot while you unpack?” Sara suggested.

“Spontaneous domesticity. I’m going to like living with you,” Joanna said as she returned to deal with her rucksack.

“Yeah, but I don’t do windows,” Sara called after her.

Unpacking went quickly, and soon they were seated at the table in the garden having their first Venetian meal. The sugary pastry and potent Italian coffee enlivened both of them, and Joanna saw no reason not to begin work. She fetched the packet of letters and her notebook and carried them to the table where Sara still sat.

“Do you feel up to doing a little more translating? We have a meeting with this Professor Alvise after lunch and I’d like to be well prepared.”

“Good idea. I also want to know as much as possible at the start.” Sara set aside her cup and cleared a space on the table. “Letter three tells us about the murder of Hakim. Let’s see what the fourth one says. Would be nice if it mentioned the name of the captain. That would certainly help.”

Sara pulled her chair alongside Joanna and, after carefully unfolding the centuries-old paper, she began to read again.

Tuesday, 17 June 1560

Cara mia,

The sun has set and I lie here in this stinking cabin, where odors penetrate but ne’er the ocean air. O’erhead, the calls of seamen about their duties, and those below, rude in their banter. Yet sailing is cruel labor, and I begrudge them not their brutishness if they but carry me to you.

I bethink myself how bless’d I am to have your love, and I summon memories of our sweet nights together and that you crept into my chamber when the household was asleep. What strange and secret love we had, rendered the more secret by the darkness that we dared not light, and the silence, which we dared not break. How much of our love-talk was in the language of hands and lips and flesh. Yet your soft moan into my neck when I brought you to the summit was all the speech I ever needed.

Would that I could send a dove ahead to London, to forewarn you that I come. The thought of you is all that sustains me on this murderous voyage.

The ship’s physician carried out his office and after scrutiny of Hakim’s body made official declaration of the cause of death. We were nigh to Durazzo and scarcely a day from Corfu. But the body was corrupting in the heat and the men made much of the odor it gave forth. Upon the wisdom of the physician (and to keep the peace, I’ll warrant) the captain commanded he be given to the sea.

Hakim, may his soul find the peace that mine has lost, was wrapped in canvas and given to the water with brief ceremony. The chaplain was loath to offer pious words o’er an unbaptized man, and Hakim himself would have mocked them. But the captain declared it behooved us all to pray for the salvation of a murdered man, and that God Himself would decide whether to receive his soul.

After the mortal part of Hakim was cast into the sea, the chaplain saw fit to insult him yet again, saying, “The fool was offered baptism in water, but he refused, and now he’s drowned in it.”

Reflecting on the man himself, I recalled the last words he breathed, of wife and children. He had ne’er spoken of his family ’til that moment, nor, with such a wall ’tween Christian and Jew, had I ever thought to ask. In my indifference, I saw but a short, wiry man who played with his beard when he thought. Though his translation was a heresy, which brought us only woe, there was no malice in him, and in our conversations, I found him thoughtful. Now, somewhere in Constantinople a woman named Naomi and her children wait for one who will never return. Nor will they ever know why.

The ship’s scribe has recorded the events and taken testimony from witnesses, excluding myself, who is deemed all but mute. The Jesuits are confined to quarters until Corfu, and their man, who has confessed to the murder, is held in irons. He justifies his act as defense of the faith, an argument that may carry weight if the smooth-talking Jesuits deliver it. Whate’er the outcome, I pray God I am in England, with you, by the time he hangs or is acquitted. I wager it will be the latter.

At eventime, we supped again, now seven of us at table. Only Morosini still attends. The pilot spoke everyone’s thoughts but mine: “Of what did the blasphemy consist, I wonder?”

“Heretical writings worse than Lutheranism,” Morosini said.

The navigator joined in. “What was it, then? Calvinism? Catharism? Anabaptism? The ravings of Socinius? Some Jewish perversion of scripture?” His tone was mocking. “There are so many possibilities for error, are there not? The mind reels.”

The chaplain squinted menace. “You know much about heresies, sir.”

“Yes, I do, and I know that the Inquisition is efficient at trying them. It does not need our assistance.” The navigator chewed his bread, unperturbed. “Did you see the contents of the book, Signor Morosini?”

“A portion of it. It was of unfathomable depravity.”