Behind the heavy velvet draperies, the deafening music of Vivaldi and the chatter of the masquerade ball vanished, replaced by the tomb-like silence of the Palazzo Contarini's private upper gallery. The hallway was lined with dark walnut paneling and Renaissance oil portraits whose gilded frames gleamed faintly under sparse brass sconces. Isla gathered the skirts of her emerald gown in her left hand, moving with feather-light steps over the thick…
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