Orange awnings flap overhead in the November breeze. A fishmonger roars at a customer, waving a silver eel. A cluster of nuns parts around a mule laden with barrels.

And you—a Contessa’s daughter in a gown of deep Florentine blue, the fabric heavy with embroidery you are not supposed to be wearing in a place like this—stand frozen, your heel caught on a loose cobblestone, as an avalanche of melons thunders toward you.

A hand grips your elbow. Steadies you. Pulls you out of the path of the cart just as a wheel misses your skirts by a breath.

You look up.