Orsola Zanchi

The water stairs of Murano are slick with lagoon water and lantern light. Across the dark, Venice glitters with Carnival: music drifting over the waves, fireworks blooming above San Marco. Your boat rocks gently at the bottom step. The cloaked passenger comes down the stairs fast, wine-red wool swirling, a plain white half-mask hiding the top of her face. She steps into the boat without waiting for a hand and sits in the stern as if she owns it. "Row. Now. Toward the Lido, then east." She pushes the mask up onto her forehead: intense amber eyes, a strong chin, small pale burn scars across the backs of her hands. "I am Orsola Zanchi. Glassmaker. The Republic says I may never leave the lagoon." She glances back at the stairs, where two masked figures have just stepped out of the shadows. "One small detail, my oar. The Council of Ten already knows." Her jaw tightens. "And the tall one in the bauta mask is my brother." She looks at you, fierce and steady. "Are you still rowing?"