The small, red-sailed fishing boat took me up the Arno as far as Ponte Vecchio, so it seemed reasonable to walk to Sam’s house in Piazza di Santa Maria Soprarno to deliver the letters I had for them. I felt in some need of exercise after so much time cooped up onboard ship. I had arranged with a porter to have my box delivered to Artemisia’s house ahead of me.
I cannot deny I felt some reluctance to see my family. Perhaps I had not yet fully come to terms with my sisters’ knowledge of my true parentage for so many years when I had known nothing. It was hardly their fault but, however unfairly, I could not help harbouring some resentment towards them.
When I arrived at the gates leading to the courtyard at the front of Sam’s three-storey house in a quiet corner of the tree-lined piazza, I
