The Tower Between Two Seas

Back in town, Polly stood at the foot of the bell tower beside the great church of Saint George on the hill. It is not attached to the church. It stands alone, a square shaft of stone with a belfry of arches and a pointed spire, built more than four hundred years ago as a smaller copy of the famous bell tower of Saint Mark in Venice. The original collapsed more than a hundred years ago and was rebuilt, so the copy in Piran is now older than the tower it copies.

Inside, one hundred and forty-six wooden steps wind up through the dusty light. Polly hopped them one at a time, past the ropes and the beams, until the great bells hung over her head, each one big enough to bathe in. Up here the wind came straight off the sea and smelled, unmistakably, of salt.

The whole town lay beneath her. Orange roofs tumbled down the hill to the water on both sides of the peninsula, and at the bottom the white oval of the square glowed in the sun like a small moon that had come down to rest. Boats drew white lines across the harbour. On one side of the tower there was nothing but blue, the open Adriatic going on toward Italy.

Polly turned to the other side. Far away to the south, past the curve of the bay, the coast flattened and a faint white shimmer lay on the land where the salt pans caught the afternoon light. Water on one hand, salt on the other, and the little town balanced on its rock between them, built from one and paid for by the other. The gull had told her the truth.