‘Yes, very much,’ she said. ‘We might think of holding something similar at Pemberley. It would be fun and I am sure Georgiana would like it.’

‘Whatever you wish,’ he said.

The evening was drawing to a close. Some of the guests were leaving, thanking Sophia and Giuseppe for a marvellous evening, and thanking Elizabeth too, for the ball had been in her honour. Elizabeth and Darcy added their thanks, and once the other guests had left, they too went down to the canal.

It was only as she was stepping into the gondola that Elizabeth realised she had not seen the strange man at the unmasking, but she forgot him as soon as she lay back in Darcy’s arms. The gondolier was singing as he began to ply his oar, moving the boat forward along the Grand Canal, and their way was lit by moonlight.

The romantic atmosphere exerted its charm: once back at the palazzo, when Darcy escorted Elizabeth to her door, and he kissed her on the lips: no tortured token this, but one of deep longing.

‘Good night, Lizzy,’ he said softly, and as he left her there, she shivered with anticipation, thinking: soon, soon.

She undressed slowly for she was tired, and when she had put on her nightgown, she gave a yawn and climbed into bed. She blew out the candle and lay for some time in a hazy state between sleeping and waking as she relived the evening, until at last the sound of the water lapping the stones beneath her window lulled her to sleep.

She moved from the waking world into the sleeping world with scarcely any boundary between them. Memories of Venice, with its exotic clothes, strange masks, narrow streets, dark canals, glittering palaces, and romantic gondolas, all whirled together in the landscape of her dreams. She dreamt she was with Darcy, dancing with him at the ball. Then the scene changed, and she was laughing and talking with him as they walked through St Mark’s Square. There were people all around them, laughing gaily and gesticulating with their hands as they talked in Italian, French, and English, their languages merging into one great murmur. Flocks of birds fluttered into the air as they passed and then settled down again when they had gone. The sun shone above, and from far off came the sound of the gondoliers’ song.

They crossed the square and turned down a narrow street, emerging into a smaller square with a fountain playing, and then entered another narrow street, still noisy, still happy. But as soon as they entered it, something changed. The noise stopped as though it had been cut off with a knife and the light altered, going from the golden light of sunshine to the cold, hard light of moonlight in the blink of an eye. Elizabeth felt a rising tide of panic and had to fight the urge to run. The world was no longer a reassuring place; it was ominous. The buildings towered above her like cliffs, and the narrow street made her feel trapped and shut in. The canals running at the side of the street no longer seemed romantic; they were dark and forbidding, their deep waters hiding dark and deadly secrets.

She reached out for Darcy’s arm but it was not there. She turned towards him and saw to her horror that he had gone. She ran down the street looking for him and calling his name but there was no reply. On she ran, through the maze of streets, until she knew she would have to turn back or become hopelessly lost. She began to retrace her steps, only to find that the streets had changed, and that she had changed with them. She was no longer dressed in her pale blue muslin, instead she was holding onto wide skirts made of scarlet silk which flowed around her like liquid flame.

‘Darcy?’ she called, afraid, but her voice dropped into the silence with the deadness of a stone. ‘Darcy!’ she called again.

But there was no reply.

And then, just as she was longing for the sound of another human voice, she heard something. It was at the very edge of her hearing and at first she could not tell what it was, but then she recognised it as music. Its faint strains were coming from somewhere in front of her. Violins were playing a jaunty tune.

It sounded strange in that dark and gloomy place, but she began to run towards it. As she drew closer, she could hear voices too, faint but unmistakable, and she followed them, running over the bridges and down the narrow passageways with her skirts flowing out behind her.

She saw light ahead, the brightness of many torches. She could see people in the square, dressed in brilliant costumes and friendly masks. She felt a rush of relief and began to run more quickly, seeing them turn towards her in surprise as she ran over the final bridge—and then they disappeared, the lights blinking out in a heartbeat, the voices abruptly silenced in mid-sentence, and with a feeling of horror, she found herself in the dark square and it was empty and she was alone.

She sped across the square, looking for the revellers, but they had gone. She looked down every narrow street, hoping to see some sign of them, but there was nothing—except, at the end of the last one, a man in costume, wearing a mask that was shaped into a curiously distorted grin. He turned to face her and she felt the power slipping out of her, as though her will was leaking out through holes in her side and flowing into him.

He beckoned and she moved forward, like a puppet with no control. She felt a brief stirring of her will as the last dregs of it resisted, and for a moment, she remained motionless, fighting his pull. But then he beckoned again and her legs began to move of their own accord.

‘No,’ she said, and then, ruthlessly,’ No.’

And suddenly the streets were full of people again, running past her wildly, shouting, ‘Incendio! Incendio!’

There was panic in the air and a red glow on the horizon, growing brighter and brighter by the minute, and looking up she saw that the Palazzo Ducale was burning. The wickedly triumphant flames were leaping high into the sky where they crackled and burned across the nightmare black. She ran forward to help but before she could reach the palazzo, everything changed again and she stood still, bewildered and uncertain, not knowing which way to go. Without the fire, she could see nothing save a dark silhouette of buildings.

And then the hairs rose on the back of her neck. She felt her flesh crawl with horror as she knew with all her senses that there was someone—some thing—behind her. It was waiting in the shadows, biding its time, taunting her, playing with her like a cat with a mouse. It was a frightening thing, a glorious thing, a wonderful thing, a terrifying thing. And old. She was drawn to it, but she mustn’t go to it, she mustn’t, she mustn’t…

She resisted its pull and backed away, crying, ‘No!’ as she did so.

She felt it laugh and then grow stronger, exerting more pressure, bending her will.

‘No!’ she cried again.

She picked up her skirts and turned and ran, through the streets, across the canals, pursued by its relentless force, dark and malign.

On she went, past the Doge’s palace, with the ghosts who haunted its bridge clutching at her. She put her hands to her ears in an effort to stop the sound of their sighing, their terrible sighing.

‘No! No! No!’ she cried.

‘Yes,’ came a whisper in the wind. ‘You are mine, my love, my bride, my Serenissima.’

On she ran, with the waters rising all around her, creeping out of the canals, oozing and alive, crawling into the streets, following her, pursuing her, and giving chase.

‘Acque alte!’ she called.

‘Elizabeth!’

‘Acque alte! Acque alte!’

‘Elizabeth,’ said Darcy again, shaking her. ‘Elizabeth, wake up. It’s a dream, my love, it’s nothing but a dream.’

The waters stopped and listened to him, and then slunk back, slithering into the canals like supple snakes, and Darcy was there beside her, a gateway back to the real world. He was bending over her and shaking her gently, his tousled hair falling into his eyes and onto the white fabric of his ruffled nightshirt. As she emerged from the strange dream world, he sank into a chair and pulled her onto his lap, cradling her to him, and she was in her bedroom once more, where the candles blazed and the fire glowed and all was peaceful and secure.

‘Ssshh,’ he said soothingly, his arms around her and his warmth wrapping her round.

‘Oh, it’s you, it’s you!’ she sobbed in relief. ‘I was so frightened! The streets were awash, the Palazzo Ducale was burning, and I had lost you, I had lost you… I looked and looked but I couldn’t find you anywhere.’

‘Hush, my love, it was nothing. Nothing but a dream.’

She put her arms round his neck and rested her cheek against his shoulder. Her heart began to slow and to resume its steady beating. She rubbed her cheek against the soft fabric of his nightshirt and gave a sigh as the last of the dream flowed out of her, then turned her face up to his. She was surprised to see that he looked troubled.

‘What is it?’ she asked, lifting her hand and stroking its back across his cheek.

Now that she was safe, the dream was receding and she felt foolish for having been so frightened.

‘Nothing,’ he said, taking her hand and kissing it, then turning it over and kissing her palm and then her wrist. ‘It is just that I am surprised, that’s all. How did you know about the floods? And how did you know that the Venetians called them the acque alte?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Someone must have told me, Giuseppe perhaps,’ although she could not recall his having done so.

‘And the fire? How did you know about the Palazzo Ducale catching fire?’