She had a vague awareness of the motor-boat trip across the lagoon and down the Grand Canal to the Illyria Hotel, where hands assisted her from the boat. Once in her room she nibbled at the meal that was sent up, before climbing into bed and sinking into a heavy, jet-lagged sleep.

As the hours passed her sleep became lighter and she found that Antonio was there again in her dreams, cheerful, jokey, despite his impending death, because it was his way to ignore the future as long as he could enjoy the present.

Because he flourished in hot weather they had gone to live in Miami, where they spent long, lazy days together, in contented mutual devotion. To please him she’d learned to speak Italian, and then also learned the Venetian dialect because he’d bet her she couldn’t do it.

He’d tricked her about that. She’d thought it would be easy, imagining a dialect was little more than a change in pronunciation. Too late she’d discovered that Venetian was a whole different language.

Antonio had enjoyed the joke, laughing until he brought on a coughing fit and had to use his inhaler.

‘Fooled you!’ he gasped. ‘Bet you can’t do it.’

After that she had to try, and surprised herself and him by becoming good at both languages.

Antonio showed her pictures of his family, especially Salvatore, his cousin once removed, he told her, carefully stressing the ‘removed’, because he admired Salvatore only in a distant way, and tended to avoid him. He hadn’t invited him to the wedding, or even told him about it.

‘He’s a hard man,’ he said. ‘I was always the black sheep of the family, and he disapproved of me.’

‘But you’re more than twenty years older than he is,’ she pointed out. ‘Shouldn’t it be you disapproving of him?’

‘I wish!’ Antonio said ruefully. ‘I preferred to leave running the factory to my manager, so that I could enjoy myself.’