Venice, 1554 – Three Days After the Arsenal Fire
Morning came without sunlight. The city was draped in a cold gray mist that muted every bell, every call from the canals. The smoke from the Arsenal still hung low, refusing to disperse.
Elena sat by the worktable, the compass open before her, the needle trembling faintly with each draft that moved through the room. Beside it lay the fragment of her father's oath map, pressed flat between two panes of glass.
The ink shimmered faintly in the dim light — the words that refused to die: Draw so that no tyrant may find what he seeks.
From upstairs came footsteps — measured, deliberate. Luca descended, already dressed in his best coat, the one he wore when summoned to official business.
"They've called me to the Doge's Palace," he said quietly.
Elena stood at once. "I'm coming with you."
"No." His tone left no room for argument. "You'll stay here."
"But why? You said—"
"I said we protect what matters," he interrupted, fastening his cuffs with steady hands. "That means one of us must remain free."
She stepped forward, her voice trembling. "Papa, they'll question you."
He smiled faintly. "Of course they will. I've drawn too many lines for too many men. Eventually, someone wants to know where they meet."
When she didn't answer, he reached out, cupped her cheek. "Listen to me. If I don't return by sunset, take the compass. Take the fragment. Go to Mestre. There's a merchant there — Niccolò Da Costa. He owes me a debt. Tell him my name. He'll help you."
She shook her head. "I won't leave you."
"You must," he said softly. "There's no map for what's coming. You'll have to draw it yourself."
Then he kissed her forehead and was gone, the echo of his footsteps fading down the stairwell.
The house felt emptier than death.
Elena waited. An hour passed, then two. Outside, the city went on as it always did — merchants shouting, children laughing, the clang of hammers from distant docks. But beneath it all, something had changed. The canals felt watchful, the air too still.
By late afternoon, when she finally saw the gondola turn into their narrow street again, her heart leapt — until she saw that it carried two guards, not her father.
They did not knock.
"Elena Valenti," one said flatly. "Your father has been detained for inquiry. By order of the Council."
Her voice caught. "Where is he?"
"In custody."
"For how long?"
"That depends on his answers."
The other guard's gaze drifted past her into the workshop. "We are to search the premises."
Elena stepped aside, numb. They moved through the room with mechanical precision, opening drawers, unrolling maps, snapping shut boxes. Each time they unrolled a parchment, she braced herself, praying they would not find the hidden compartment behind the old globe — the one where she had placed the oath fragment.
After an eternity, they finished. "Nothing unusual," one muttered.
The taller guard paused at the doorway. "If he's guilty, girl, best to forget his name. Venice does not forgive her heretics."
Then they were gone.
Elena closed the door and locked it, her hands shaking. The silence afterward was unbearable.
That night, she couldn't stay still. The house was too full of ghosts — her father's voice in every echo, his scent in the air, the faint imprint of his hand on the chair's worn armrest.
When the bells of San Zaccaria struck midnight, she made her choice.
She gathered what little she could: a change of clothes, a pouch of coins, a loaf of bread. She wrapped the compass in cloth and tucked it against her heart. The map fragment she hid inside her sleeve.
Then she approached the worktable one last time.
The silver lamp still stood there, unlit. The tools of her father's trade — dividers, brushes, rulers — lay exactly as he had left them. She touched each one in turn, memorizing their weight, their texture, as if by touch she could hold onto him.
Finally, she whispered, "I'll find you."
Then she stepped out into the night.
Venice slept uneasily.
The canals shimmered under the half-moon, each ripple catching the reflection of darkened palaces and shuttered windows. She moved silently through the alleys, her steps muffled by damp stone. Once, she thought she heard the faint splash of oars behind her, but when she turned, the water lay empty.
At the edge of the city, near the quiet docks of San Pietro, she found a fisherman mooring his skiff.
"Going across the lagoon?" she asked.
He eyed her warily. "Depends who's asking."
"Elena Valenti," she said, lifting a coin between her fingers. "To Mestre."
He hesitated. "Rough waters tonight."
"I don't mind."
He studied her face — the determination in her eyes, the bundle in her arms — and nodded. "Get in, then. But keep low."
The skiff pushed off, oars slicing through black water. The city receded behind them, its spires and domes dissolving into fog. Elena looked back only once — at the faint glow of the workshop window, the last light of her father's world.
Then Venice disappeared into the mist.
By dawn, they reached the marshy banks of the mainland. The air smelled of reeds and rain.
"You're far from home, signorina," the fisherman said as she stepped ashore. "Best not tell anyone where you're from."
She pressed a coin into his hand. "Thank you."
He tipped his hat and rowed away, his boat vanishing into the fog like a ghost.
Elena stood alone on the muddy shore. The land before her was unfamiliar — wide, silent, endless.
She took out the compass. The needle wavered, then steadied, pointing not north, but east — toward the distant hills.
She smiled faintly. "So that's where we go."
She began walking.
By midday, she found the small trading post where Niccolò Da Costa kept his warehouse — a crooked building leaning toward the riverbank. The air inside smelled of spice and damp parchment.
A man emerged from behind a counter, wiping his hands on a rag. He was older than she expected, gray at the temples, eyes quick and cautious.
"Yes?" he asked.
"My name is Elena Valenti," she said. "My father—"
His face changed instantly. "Luca's daughter?"
"Yes."
He came around the counter, lowering his voice. "Where is he?"
"They took him," she whispered. "The Council."
He swore softly in Portuguese. "I told him they would."
She reached into her sleeve and produced the fragment of the oath map. "He said you could help."
Niccolò's eyes widened as he saw the silver ink glint in the dim light. "Dio mio. He kept it?"
She nodded. "He burned the rest."
The merchant's voice trembled. "Then this… this is the last true map in Venice."
He looked at her for a long moment. "You can't stay here. The Council will send men to Mestre by tomorrow. You'll go farther east — to Ragusa. There's a ship leaving at dawn. I can get you aboard."
Her throat tightened. "Alone?"
"You won't be for long," he said gently. "There are others who still believe truth belongs to those who draw it, not those who buy it."
That night, she slept in the corner of the warehouse beneath a tattered sail. Through the cracks in the boards, she could see the stars.
She took out the compass one last time. The needle glowed faintly in the moonlight, steady now, pointing toward the unknown.
She whispered, "If you can hear me, Papa… I'm following the line."
Outside, the river whispered softly, carrying her words out to sea.