Flasks of pear brandy were passed from hand to hand, and although I was offered mine in a cup—for my gorgio blood was unclean to them and would taint the shared bottle—it was kept full. There were stories told in a tongue I did not speak, but Brisbane murmured interpretations to me. There was dancing and music, violins scraping as skirts flew and feet stamped. Even the dancing bears came out, for Ludo brought them on gilded leather leashes, wearing their scarlet waistcoats and stepping as neatly as opera dancers at his commands. I longed to photograph them, and I was bitterly disappointed that I had come away without my camera. I wanted to capture them all, and I promised myself I would return as soon as possible to take photographs. In the meanwhile, I ate plateful after plateful of delicious things and drank a quantity of very good wine, which I suspected had been pilfered from a rather excellent cellar, and if anyone noticed that I occasionally passed little titbits inside my blouse they were polite enough not to remark upon it.
