A new day dawns in Venice, when morning light filters through the shutters and envelops the lives of the protagonists. Elisabetta awakens in a room scented with the sea and lavender, caught between the duties of nobility and the secret stirrings of her heart. In the quiet of the family palace, her thoughts intertwine with longings for freedom, while the city outside flows with the unmistakable rhythm of gondolas, markets, and the sounds of the water.
Lorenzo, immersed in the streets and encounters that mark his day, experiences a different kind of morning, filled with omens and duties that cannot be postponed. Between a popular tavern and the splendor of San Marco, his figure traverses a Venice teeming with life and mystery, carrying with it questions awaiting answers and inescapable challenges.
Love, destiny, and intrigue move like invisible threads across the unique backdrop of the Serenissima, creating a narrative where nothing ever seems fixed, and every choice seems to lead to a new frontier.
Between secret passions and perilous duties, Elisabetta and Lorenzo move through a luminous yet treacherous Venice
Tales. 1572 Blood Carnival. Chapter 9: Lorenzo’s Mission
The morning sun slipped delicately through the cracks of the wooden shutters, painting golden blades across the damask walls of Elisabetta’s room. The young woman awoke slowly, as if wishing to linger a moment longer between dream and reality. Sheets of white linen, faintly scented with lavender and olive soap, wrapped her in a fresh, familiar embrace. She stretched her arms above her head, languidly, while the light caressed her red hair, loose and unruly, spilling like a fiery cascade across the pillow.
The Mion palace, built with sober elegance along a central canal of Venice, enjoyed a privileged position: all day the sun kissed its facades, reflecting on the waters below, which carried echoes of boats, gondoliers’ calls, and the tang of the sea. Elisabetta’s room, facing east, was lit at dawn with a golden glow that made it shine like a small treasure chest. Through the colored glass filtered an amber light, igniting the embroidery of the coverlet and making the Murano mirrors on the walls sparkle.
The young woman lay there for a long while, eyes half-closed, breathing the crisp morning air that slipped through the shutters together with the distant scent of freshly baked bread.
She awaited the maid who, as every morning, would bring her breakfast: a cup of hot chocolate, when trade with the colonies allowed, or a bowl of fresh fruit and sweet bread soaked in milk and honey. Meanwhile, her mind raced, and her heart clung to a thought that had become increasingly insistent: Lorenzo.....
