My name is Francesca Strozzi.

My mother was the daughter of a former podesta from Patawa. I`d never seen my father. My grandfather, a widower, lost his fortune through unsuccessful speculation and settled on a small estate on the bank of the Brenta. He was a proud man, and with his wealth he chose to lose his friends too. He didn't want them to see his poverty. My mother, however, was quite content with such a cloistral life. Her days went one after the other, identical as the beads of the rosary, filled with lonely walks along the river and fussing with birds.

She had always been more interested in birds than in people.

She and my grandfather might have spent the rest of their lives in this sleepy, enchanted estate. But one day a young nobleman named Arsago broke into their measured life, like a stone dropped into the middle of a quiet lake. He was on his way from his estate to Venetta with a party of friends. My grandfather was flattered that such important gentlemen had given him the honor of staying for a few days in his house. And my mother…. Well, she must have been fascinated. Don Arsago could charm anyone when he wanted to.

Nine months later I was born. Grandfather, of course, got furious. He interrogated the mother by all means, until the nurse threatened that beatings could kill her and the child. My mother confessed to nothing and gave no names.

Clouds seemed to be gathering over the little estate on the banks of the Brenta. My grandfather dismissed almost all the servants, so that there were no witnesses to his «shame», as he saw it. He locked my mother and me up in the annex which people called the Gull Tower. The cries of seagulls accompanied me from the first days of my life. They mingled with my mother's soft songs, when she rocked my cradle. When I woke up in the morning, I saw the birds that looked like snow-white angels.

The mother became more and more withdrawn. She didn't mind being imprisoned at all. She smiled more often now, but for some reason I was afraid of her strange smile. As well as of my mother's forgetfulness, and her bird-like carelessness.

Once she woke up especially cheerful. She brushed my long hair and kissed me. She tidied our room, humming some melody. Then she opened the high window, letting in the delicious smells of the first greens, melted snow and a drop of spring easiness. Then, suddenly, she gave a light, relieved laugh and stepped outside.

I was sure she flew away. But since I was eight years old, I didn't check or look out the window.

For two days the house was in turmoil: the doors slammed, lamentations were heard, the long-oiled gate creaked painfully as it was opened to admit the funeral cart. Everyone forgot about me. On the third day, the maid found me in the tower. There were two seagulls perched on my shoulders, and a raw fish in my lap. My grandfather was called. He looked at me and his face darkened. He grabbed me roughly by the collar, dragged me downstairs, put me in a boat, and took me to the island Terra dei Miracolo. “Take it, it's yours,” he muttered, pushing me into my sister's arms. I squirmed like a trapped bird. “She's so young. She can`t learn!” the nun said. In response, my grandfather made it clear that he was not going to pay for my education or take any interest in my future life. The nuns allowed me to stay and become a grey novice.

In the convent, however, my life was even better than at home. The meal was good and the work in the garden was quite capable. It was even more fun when I found Pulcino. I thought little of the past. I just changed one cell to another, more comfortable. I didn't think about my father until Julia joined us. There was something familiar about her, something I'd sensed before I'd noticed our resemblance. By the way, no one else noticed that we looked like sisters. No one paid much attention to me, a grey novice. I was like an integral belonging of the grey walls of the convent. The white and grey novices rarely spoke to each other. It was not that we came from different backgrounds, but our interests and tasks were too different.

The first time I thought of my father was when I met Julia. Listening to her letters, I remembered the name of don Arsago, which my grandfather had shouted when quarrelling with my mother (it was the only quarrel I had overheard).

I didn't expect to see him again, however, until I went to Granacci's house for Julia…