The True Adventures of Nicolo Zen by Nicholas Christopher

was Adriana. But it was Prudenza.
    “What’s happened?” she whispered.
    “I don’t have time to tell you. You’ll find out soon enough. I’m leaving the Ospedale.”
    “What?”
    “Listen, Prudenza. You’re all in danger here, especially Adriana. Warn her for me. Tell her I went to the wine cellar, pretending to be her, and exposed Aldo for what he is.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “He abuses girls, and blackmails them—and maybe arranges for them to be kidnapped. I fear that’s what happened to Julietta. Signora Marta won’t listen to me. Promise me you’ll tell her what I just told you, even if she becomes angry with you.”
    Prudenza was frightened.
    “Promise me,” I repeated.
    “I promise. But why are you leaving, Nicolà?”
    I kissed her cheek and put my lips to her ear. “Because I’m a boy,” I whispered. “Tell Adriana that, too,” I added, without waiting for a reply.
    In the corridor, Marta’s anger seemed to have intensified greatly in the short time I was away. She looked me up and down, and I was sure she was going to slap me again. “How could you do this?” she sputtered. “You violated a trust.”
    “I—”
    “I don’t want to hear your excuses.” She yanked off my cloak. “Where do you think you’re going with this? It doesn’t belong to you.”
    “But it’s freezing outside.”
    “That’s your problem. You’ll have to deceive someone else to get what you want.”
    Luca rejoined us, and they led me down the main staircase. I was heartbroken. Being expelled like this—my worst fear—I regretted even more that I had not revealed myself to Adriana before taking the chance I did. Now she’ll find out I’m a boy, I thought, and never forgive me for deceiving her along with everyone else. It had been necessary for me to lie to Luca and Marta, but until that moment the true consequences of lying to my newfound friends hadn’t fully hit me. They, too, would view me as an impostor.
    We reached the lobby, and Carmine was not at his post. Luca called his name in vain, then went to look for him. Marta unlocked the front door and pushed me out into the night.
    “Don’t ever come back,” she said. “We’ve never had such a scandal.”
    Suddenly I got up my courage. “You have a worse scandal than this on your hands,” I said, and for an instant, before she slammed the door after me, I saw the surprise in her eyes.
    My days as Nicolà Vitale were over. For better or worse, I was Nicolò Zen again.

8
    I was shivering in the icy wind. My dress was so thin that I felt naked. I needed clothes—pants, a coat, whatever I could lay my hands on. From a cloudless sky the moon beamed down on the Grand Canal. The Riva degli Schiavoni was unusually empty, a few revellers on the footbridge, two priests boarding a traghetto, and a night watchman outside the money changers’ arcade who eyed me suspiciously.
    Clutching my bag, I turned up the alley beside the Ospedale. The high wall there was streaked with salt, from the sea winds. I passed through an iron gate with noisy hinges. Just beyond it, there was a blue door in the wall, which opened a few inches as I walked by.
    “Psst,” someone said. “Come here.”
    The kitchen’s courtyard had two doors: one onto the garden, and this one. It opened wider as I approached, and Bartolomeo Cattaglia stepped out, holding a lantern. He raised it, lighting up my face, peering with his one eye.
    “Nicolà? I thought it was you. My god, where are your clothes?”
    I shook my head.
    “Your teeth are chattering. Come in.”
    I felt ashamed in front of him, a man whom my father wouldhave respected. I respected him, too, and if I went in, I would have to tell him what a liar I was.
    “Come,” he said, putting his arm around me, and his wooden leg clicked on the stone tiles.
    He had a fire going that warmed the entire kitchen. The evening cooking smells—onions, garlic sausages, broiled eel—still hung in the air. On the table a candle