Hidden Voices by Pat Lowery Collins

be astonished.”
    “Or you. For being misinformed again. Your gossip can never be trusted. And, think of it, how often are we allowed out of this place during Carnival or at any other time?”
    “Judging from her actions of late, Rosalba has been counting on the loosening of some rules, I am certain. She’ll be livid to discover that we’re all being held by a tightly woven net with no possible holes. Beginning tomorrow.”
    “Tomorrow?”
    “The first day of Carnival.”
    Saint Stephen’s Day dawns gray and dismal, a heavy dark sky hanging low over the lagoon, the islands obscured by fog. Already, however, there are decorated
peote,
smaller gondolas, and other small craft plying the canals, songs and shouts leaping so high into the air we can hear them through slightly open windows. And there are already revelers dancing along the cobblestone streets and suitors throwing perfumed eggs at women in stark white
bautta
masks, which cover their forehead and eyes and nose and accentuate the elaborate layers of black clothing beneath. As intended, there is no way to tell the lower classes from the upper. Except with the wheelbarrow parade, where the pushers of barrows wear no masks at all and are clearly all manner of farmers come to town.
    At the risk of letting in damp, frigid air, many of the girls are already hanging out windows to view the festivities in the street. We are so close to the Piazza San Marco, where most of the performances will be, as to get the overflow of musicians and jugglers, the grotesque
gnaghe,
dressed as women, and a few harlequins on stilts.
    We all know that the Parade of the Doge is to begin in the afternoon and still nothing has been said to indicate that we may not attend in chaperoned groups, as we have in the past. We are just finishing the noon meal when Prioress rises from her chair and clears her throat, as she does habitually before any announcement. Silvia looks meaningfully at me, but I pretend not to notice her.
    “Signorine,” says Prioress, tapping her glass with a spoon for better attention. The room becomes suddenly quiet, for we are all expecting something by now.
    “As you know, this has been a very sad time for the Ospedale, a sad time indeed.” She clears her throat again, but has no need to tap on the glass. She clasps her hands together and loses them within the folds of her large sleeves. “We have had to consider a change in our usual lenient attitude toward the celebration of Carnival, one in keeping with the period of mourning that has been forced upon us.”
    There are small gasps of disappointment, but still no one speaks. Silvia tries desperately again to catch my eye.
    “In the past we have, as you know, allowed you to join the throngs of revelers for short periods when properly chaperoned. We have even encouraged a few chaperoned trips to the performances in the Piazza San Marco.”
    There are murmurs as girls agree and as they evidently remember some happy times.
    “The Board of Governors has thought long and hard about what to do during these days before the penitent ones of Lent, and has decided that, though you may all watch the revelers as much as you please from windows on the lagoon or even from the street of the Pietà if you stay in the shadows of the chapel, mixing with the crowd in any way will not be allowed.”
    There are a few audible objections, Rosalba’s low moan among them, but many of the girls remain silent.
    “However,” declares Prioress at length, “there will be one exception, a light in the darkness, so to speak, for, as you must understand, this is no punishment, and it has long been the Ospedale’s policy, in music as in everything else, to encourage the joy of living.” With great effort, she composes her stern features into something approaching pleasantness and continues, a tilt to her expression, almost a smile: “So, children, we have made another decision. And one that you will find quite delightful as the weeks of