Giovanna didn't know how to answer her friend's painfully blunt question, but it was no doubt meant to be rhetorical. After all, Ottavia's views on the merits of the opposite sex had been defined for some time, unabashedly revealed after her mother died birthing what would have been her youngest sibling. As not only her father's first male heir, but also potentially the only one to carry on the Michiel family name, the baby was highly anticipated, greatly celebrated, and bravely sustained, yet he also did not survive childbed. It was then that Giovanna—barely pubescent herself—had first noticed that her friend looked upon men with obvious disregard. On a night similar to this, as they cuddled while sharing their thoughts, she finally asked about it. Ottavia's answer was surprisingly unsurprising.

Ottavia did not scorn boys because she disapproved of sword playing at sunset in the courtyard of the Accademia, disfavored langoustine catching at dawn under the long pier at the Arsenale, or disliked wine drinking with foreign dignitaries after supper at Ca' Fortuny. She would have rather just done any of it herself—or even better yet, with a pretty girl—instead of relegating the opportunity to a pompous, useless boy.

After all, in Ottavia's eyes girls were just as capable, if not more so than their masculine peers. And the traits that men liked to bring up as evidence of girls' weakness? Why, those were the true indicators of their strength, leadership, and wisdom. Because girls did not dismiss crying as something reserved merely for infants, and girls listened—truly listened—instead of talking over each other. They also did not demand, but rather requested. Nor did they assume, but instead asked. And, as Ottavia happily pointed out, never did girls argue, but alternatively, they persuaded. Yet while all of these justifications should have been reason enough, Ottavia still had her most straightforward, and therefore strongest, argument to make.

"Honestly, girls are just less tiresome," she had said with a laugh, but Giovanna knew from the dour expression that consequently befell her friend that there was pain behind the lighthearted words. For it was plainly evident that Ottavia's heart favored a mistress, not a master. And in their world, she could never live openly with whom she ultimately loved. Never had that been clearer than now—when at the whim of men—Ottavia's future was once again decided for her.

"I'm sure it all won't be terribly bad," Giovanna said in a lame attempt at consolation, trying to find any positives in the bleak situation. "The Grimanis occupy one of the finest palazzos in all of Venice, and you'll likely have the grandest wedding the city has seen in decades."

Ottavia scoffed. "And what thereafter? It has been bad enough with Nicco's spies keeping track of my every move, but now I'll have the whole city's tongues wagging any time I set foot outside. Not all of us can be so lucky as to have our husbands sent off to war from which they'll most likely never return," she said.

Giovanna rolled onto her back and threaded her fingers together over her stomach. Lucky. It was an odd word to describe her predicament. Was she lucky to be legally and sacramentally bound to a man she barely knew at just sixteen years of age? Or was she lucky that her father had the foresight to choose a suitor to provide her with his name and pension if he were to fall in service to his homeland? Perhaps her luck came from having her husband around for just a few short weeks before he was called to the battlefield, effectively leaving her to do as she pleased in his absence? The distinction probably didn't matter in Ottavia's eyes. Only the prospect of having a few extra months of life as a carefree maiden had allowed her to accept her own matrimonial fate so readily.

Yet it mattered to Giovanna. She didn't consider herself lucky because of those reasons, but rather in spite of them. It was true that the relative freedom she currently enjoyed came at the price of her husband's absence, and even so, she had been responsible for her own prosperity and well-being.

She hadn't planned her future on a man's promises. She hadn't tied her aspirations to a man's limitations. And she hadn't measured her happiness with a man's affections. Instead, she had passed the most important test of her young life so far: she had survived when tens of thousands of others had perished. Better yet, she—along with her father, of course—had saved hundreds of others from the same fate.

While this thought was soothing enough to allow Giovanna to finally drift off into slumber, she didn't sleep for long. Or at least she didn't think she had. Although Ottavia was wealthy enough always to have the newest innovations, she saw no need for a chamber clock, which made it impossible for Giovanna to tell the time without listening for the next ringing of the church bell. But she couldn't wait. Whether it was an hour until sunrise or four, she needed to get back to her father's side.

Slipping out from under the warm blankets, Giovanna picked up her discarded shoes and cloak. After tiptoeing to the window, she opened the pane while taking care not to make too much noise and wake her sleeping friend. The climb down the facade went easier than the ascent earlier had, as both the weight of her garments and the natural affinity for most objects to go down rather than up now worked in her favor.

The ground was wet, and Giovanna nearly slipped as her feet hit the slick pavers. She hadn't heard it rain during the night; the dampness was likely from the fog still hanging low over the canals. The air's milky consistency was perfect for giving her cover as she hurried home along the silent alleys, and only when she crossed the last footbridge did she hear movement.

Steps other than her own echoed behind Giovanna; the accompanying clank of armor bouncing off the stuccoed walls like sharp claps of thunder. But unlike a heavenly din, these unmistakable sounds of the night patrol could pose a real danger if they reached her.

To make sure they didn't, Giovanna increased her pace. Her pursuers—because it was now clear there were several—followed suit. Rounding the corner, she was now just one block from home. Her heart raced as she passed under the second story balcony of Fernanda Sforza, but her apprehension turned to annoyance as the widow's large, black cat meowed down at her while precariously balancing along the stone railing.

Shush, you fool, Giovanna mentally chided the creature even as her destination came into view.

Across the square, a dark opening led into an interior courtyard. Without slowing, Giovanna bolted down the passageway, her gloved hands grazing the musty bricks on either side of the narrow space to keep her balance. After allowing herself a quick glance behind and seeing no one there, Giovanna burst into the private garden.

The lemon trees were bare, and the climbing rose was all, but a tangle of thorny vines this time of year. Their revival in a few months would be a welcome change of life and beauty emerging from what was once perceived as dead. There had been too much of the latter for one city to bear. Things had to get better. They just had to.

Giovanna had ample time to muse about the state of the landscaping—perhaps she could persuade Signor Contarini the building's owner to allow her to plant lavender or even jasmine in the spring—as she tackled the stone steps. The exterior stairwell with its open arches also allowed her to keep watch over the courtyard even as she breathlessly spiraled up to the attic loft. After opening the rusty lock with an iron key, she hurried inside and latched the door. She headed to her father's bed on the far end of the attic, hidden behind a curtain for both privacy and necessity.

Peeking inside, she saw him blissfully asleep. Relieved at the confirmation, Giovanna was equally grateful to get a moment to brew her special calendula tea before waking him. But even before she could shed her cloak, a harsh pounding against the wooden door made her jump.

"We are here for the Medico Della Peste," declared a man from the other side. "Open up."

Giovanna froze. Her father was in no condition to see anyone. At best, he'd pass on his illness to others, while at worst, he'd be hauled off to the lazaretto and Giovanna to jail for having hidden him. But how then should she deal with the strangers at her threshold? Would they simply go away if she ignored them as though the loft was vacant?

The rattling of the panel in its frame gave her the answer. Whatever business these men had with her father was urgent enough to break down a door. Balling her fists, Giovanna ran to the entry. "The doctor is unavailable!" she exclaimed, hoping the reply was adequate to keep her home in one piece. "There's no need for intrusion, I assure you."

"Agostino Rienzo has been personally summoned to Procurator Barozzi's residence, and we are to escort him there at once. Are you quite sure, Signora, that he is not presently at home?"

Giovanna placed her palm against the door and closed her eyes. They knew she was lying, she was sure of it. But she had to protect her father because if the plague doctor fell, all hope was lost. Raising her head, she looked up again.

"I . . . I said no such thing," she stammered, knowing that an all out-lie was the easiest to disprove. For now, she had to work with an altered version of the truth, if only to buy a little time. "My father has been treating patients for days on end, and he's simply too exhausted to leave his bed. He will send word in the morning—"

"Was that not Dottore Rienzo who had just moments ago returned to this very residence?" asked the man, still from the other side of the door. "Surely he couldn't already be fast asleep . . . unless of course it was someone else from his household who'd been outside during curfew."

Giovanna gasped. These men had followed her. While a plague doctor like her father had permission to freely roam Venice at any time day or night, his daughter had no such privilege. And if it hadn't been him out just now, it could have only been her. And that was an undisputed reason for imprisonment.

Tears flooded Giovanna's eyes in a cascading wave of hopelessness. Her illicit jaunt across the city to help Ottavia—no matter how noble its purpose—had endangered her only remaining family. Now she had a choice to make: give up her father or give up herself. Either way, he would suffer.

A groan from behind the curtain drew her attention. Rushing to her father's bedside, she crouched beside his increasingly restless body and stroked his forehead. "I'm sorry, Papa. I made a mistake, but I shall do my best—"

Thump. Thump. Thump. "What's taking so long?" The question from the hallway cut short the tearful apology.

"One moment, please," Giovanna implored to extend what could very well be her last exchange with her father. But as she leaned forward to kiss his temple in farewell, she caught sight of his discarded mask on a nearby stool.

Giovanna shuddered.

The namelessness invoked by the circular, opaque-glass eyes above the comically long nose had always frightened her, even after having grown up in the city where anonymity of disguise was not only accepted, but also encouraged. Perhaps this apprehension came from the knowledge that the wearer of this particular costume had an unquestionable authority that specifically derived from the garment. No matter who was behind the mask, they were treated according to the respect—and often reverence—due a plague doctor.

Giovanna paused. Then her thoughts began to race.

Surely, it couldn't work. No one would be fooled. 

She reached for the mask.

And yet, she had to try.