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water to the next island. We arrive at a
fondamenta
—a stone wall wide enough to walk on that separates the land from the sea. Giordano sets the buckets on the wall, then jumps down into the water. It comes only to his hips. At high tide, he’d have to swim in this spot. He grabs one of the buckets and holds it above the water as he slogs off. After a few steps, he stops and looks back at me expectantly. I jump in. He keeps looking at me. I grab the other bucket. He nods.
    We wade slowly, with me several steps behind. The bottom grasses are spongy underfoot with a slight film of slime. Silver clouds of tiny fish bloom, and dart away to safety. I’m tempted to dunk my bucket to catch them. They’re delicious raw, soaked in lemon juice with onion and parsley chopped fine. But the bucket is heavy; I’d never be fast enough to catch them. And Giordano might get mad. He has a plan for these buckets.
    All at once the grasses end, and the half-muddy, half-sandy bottom shows starkly through the clear water, even in this weak light. Giordano holds up a hand: halt. I stop and look at the shells scattered here and there on the bottom. The best clams, the tiny ones with the stripes, are just below the surface. I could dig them up easily. They would be scrumptious with oil and pepper over long strands of pasta.
    I can’t seem to think of anything but food. I skipped the evening meal last night. My stomach was all ajitter over seeing Mella’s baby, even before I knew they were taking him away. I clutch the bucket to my chest so I can sort of hug myself.
    And I do the forbidden: I look out at the island directly ahead. A spire rises high. It looks like an ordinary place. Appearances can be so deceptive. Why did marsh fever plague our island but not the others, so that many people live there now, but only a few of us live here? Sometimes I wonder if the Lord is punishing us.
    But that’s wrong-minded. We’re here because it’s safe. That’s what everyone says. We’re here because nearly twenty years ago a group of us was smart enough to take over this island and make it ours.
    Suddenly, Giordano rips the bucket from my arms. Did he guess at my wrong thoughts? Will he tell Mamma where I was looking?
    He holds a bucket high in each hand and leaves me standing there. My arms hang empty, useless. I squat in the water till I’m chest-deep and let my hands glide through it like when I’m swimming. The air above the water turns rosy with dawn.
    It occurs to me that the grassy areas throughout the lagoon could hide any number of things. I don’t want to step on anything…anything tossed in the lagoon at night…anything dead. I swallow a lump of sadness.
    Giordano is clumping through the muddy sand. He stops, turns around, and points at me, then at the water. I look down. Crabs have emerged in his footprints. Ha! I hurry from footprint to footprint, snatching them and throwing them into his buckets. Foot-fishing!
    We work like that till both buckets teem with crabs. The water is now up to Giordano’s chest; the tide is rising fast. At last he nods and hands me a bucket. The buckets are so full, I have to keep pushing crab legs back inside, and still a few crabs escape,
plop, plop.
They slide through the water, scuttle under the sand, gone. We slog back to land and set the buckets on the
fondamenta
and I climb up.
    Giordano goes back out in the water. He fetches a net he must have set there yesterday evening. He slogs over to sit beside me.
    “Can I talk now?” I ask.
    Giordano picks seaweed from his net. He glances up, then goes back to work.
    “Did you live right near the king?” I ask.
    “You did a decent job this morning, Dolce.” He picks the seaweed fast. “Venerio says you’re a good worker at the mirrors, too. You’re strong.”
    “The king…?”
    “I complimented you. You’re supposed to say thank you.”
    “Thank you. I want to know about the king.”
    “What king? This is a republic.” Giordano gives a