never made it across the lagoon alive. Elena had to persuade the sea captain to carry her husband home in a box. The penultimate chapter of On the Eve is the best thing I’ve read in months, Venice casting its not-quite-real spell of chalk-blue water, alleyway switches, churches and that lullaby symphony of drips and sea gurgles. Enchanter Death is always only a corner turn away. But today I’m far from the white stone walks, the swaying horizon and the mist hiding the mainland, all I’ve got is the fading text and the paper curl of my bedtime reading. There’s no espress with the workers coming in, no getting lost in the afternoons. I’ve concrete paths to break up, a square of dirt to level. I’m down at the sheds, buying my work boots, enjoying the vistas of modern British retail. But soon I’ll slip eastwards, out to the old empire and the lovers’ last stopping place before Venice, after their sleigh ride from Moscow. Insarov rested with his lungs in revolt, while Elena dreamed of the watery city and the uncertain land beyond. But none of us really know our next port of call.
