Heart of Glass (9 page)

Massimo, the man who commands Venice’s warships, has trimmed his beard back a little, I see. He heads a detachment of soldiers who form an escort to the Grand Council. The show of might is hardly subtle. I have no doubt of the importance of these talks, for they concern the trade routes across the sea that bring silk, grain and spices to our markets, and money into our purses. But my affection for Venice cannot override my love for Roberto, and the pain I feel is like an iron cage pressing my ribs tighter and tighter. I have asked Allegreza for another interview to discuss the mysterious woman at Murano. Surely, this
woman holds more clues. I was a fool to allow Allegreza’s empty words about wheels turning to keep me from asking more questions. There are secrets waiting to be unearthed, and I must do the digging.

For now, though, I have no choice but to play my part in this spectacle. The lead ship of the Ottoman fleet has three masts and is squat in the water. It is an imposing object, with none of the gilded beauty of our gondolas. If ships could speak, this one would say,
I fear nothing
.

“Are you nervous?” Emilia whispers to me as the breeze plays with the curls at her temples. Her eyes are fixed on the water, eating up the scene.

“No,” I tell her. I feel almost nothing. The rest of life dulls to gray beside the nightmarish color of the blood I saw on Roberto’s floor. I close my eyes and try to push that image from my mind, but it is branded behind my eyelids.

“You should be nervous!” Faustina’s voice protests. I dare not look round to face her; I must appear as a lady of Venice, entranced by the Ottomans’ arrival. “I’ve heard that all Turks are goblin-faced brutes. This Halim—their prince, as they call him—I’ve heard he can turn people to stone with his ugliness! Whatever you do, don’t gaze into his eyes, girls. I won’t be answerable for what happens.”

On the edge of my vision, I see Emilia’s shoulders shaking with contained mirth. A smile plays around my own lips, despite myself.

“You’re talking nonsense,” I murmur over my shoulder.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” is Faustina’s last shot. There’s no time left to speak. The ship has docked, and men are scrambling up the masts to let down the sails. A
gangplank has been set against the side of the vessel. Men walk down it, gazing around them with open curiosity. I wonder how Venice appears to eyes that have never seen it before; the canals and piazzas, the colorful market stalls and soaring spires.

A sudden blast of trumpets sounds, and the crowd swells forward as a solitary figure appears at the top of the gangplank. He wears an outfit of dazzling white that almost seems to glow in the Venice sunshine. A thick silk sash circles his waist and his head is decorated with a turban, the coils of linen gleaming as they snake around his brow. On all sides of me, the crowd gasps in delight. The clean simplicity of the man’s outfit is in stark contrast to the luxurious embellishments in which most Venetian men indulge. His skin shines golden, and his broad shoulders shift as he raises a hand in salutation, smiling so that his teeth sparkle white.

This is no goblin-faced brute.

He stands on the pier now, and one of the Grand Council introduces himself. Prince Halim listens politely, but his eyes travel along the formal row of Venetian ladies. As he looks at each young woman, she dips in a curtsy. Finally, his gaze comes to rest on me. His eyes are a deep brown, chestnut rich. I lower mine and bob from the knees, fingertips grasping my skirts as I curtsy. But the girl to the left of me does not move. When I straighten back up, Prince Halim is still looking right at me. The sound of giggling has broken out and my cheeks flame as I realize that I am being singled out for attention.

“Don’t look into his eyes!” Faustina hisses from behind me.

Finally, thank heavens, the Doge steps forward to greet the Turkish prince, and the moment is broken.

“Have you turned to stone yet?” Emilia teases, to my right. I shake my head, to prove Faustina’s theories wrong. But I can’t stop watching the men as the Grand Council gather around Prince Halim, their heads close together, talking. One of the prince’s servants has drawn near and seems to be eavesdropping shamelessly. The bald skin of his head gleams, and I notice a slight hunch to his shoulders. As he listens, he watches the crowd. When his glance catches mine, he turns away.

There’s another trumpet call to tell the crowd to disperse. People make their way through the streets, noisily eating snacks and discussing the scene that’s just played out.

“He’s very handsome!” says an older woman gleefully. “Not at all what I expected.”

“Did you see that ship?” a young man murmurs to his friend. “I’ve heard the Turkish vessels are the fastest on the seas.”

“Such insolence!” mutters Faustina. “I saw the way his eyes wandered.”

My father comes over to speak to us. “You did well,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “Prince Halim noticed you. Good girl.”

I turn my face away. He’s forgotten already that while people fawn over the visitor, Roberto sits in a filthy cell. Father notices my expression and draws his lips close to whisper in my ear.

“Don’t think you’re too good for all this, because you’re not. You were good only for the convent, until my eldest daughter’s death.”

Fortunately, Julius and Grazia de Ferrara draw near, before I forget myself and speak back to Father in public. Faustina has taken my hand and grips it gently, silently reassuring me.

“Ah, Julius!” Father says. He bows his head towards Grazia. “What news of Carina?” As if he cares about anyone but himself! I keep my glance firmly on the ground, unable to catch Grazia’s eye.

Julius sighs. “Still nothing. She always was a wayward girl. But we live in hope that one day soon she will turn up.” He tries to laugh lightheartedly, but the sound dries up in his throat. My heart goes out to him, a father’s grief still so fresh.

“I know what it is to lose a daughter,” my own father says. “When Beatrice died, I thought my world had ended.”

“Yes, but my daughter isn’t dead.” Julius throws him an angry glance, and I look up to see Father’s mouth open and close as he struggles to find something tactful to say.

“Let’s let the men talk, my dear,” Grazia murmurs to me, and the two of us draw away to one side. She turns her face from the sun, and it is almost impossible to see her expression. “The Segreta meet this evening to discuss the situation with Roberto. You will attend, of course?”

“Of course!” I say hurriedly. “It will be difficult at such short notice, but I’ll be there, certainly. I want to hear more about the girl at Murano also. Do you know if …”

I’m about to ask Grazia if she has any morsels of information to give me when the crowd suddenly heaves to one side and I stagger. Regaining my composure, I see a group of men rushing the harbor. Their fists strike the air and one of them is shouting, spittle flying from his mouth.

“Get the foreigner out!” he cries. “Go home, heathens!”

Before he can get near the ships, soldiers rush forward on a barked command and the group of men are driven back at the points of swords. Their leader stands firm, but is dragged back by his comrades. Another is wrestled to the ground. I see a knee jerk into a stomach, fists connect with skulls. The shouts die and the men are led away. I notice Prince Halim watching the group, his face serious.

“What was that?” I ask.

Grazia’s face is like stone. “Hatred, that’s what.” She shakes her head. “When will this city ever learn?” Then she gives a small nod. “I will see you later.” As I watch her move away from me across the docks, her skirts swaying, relief blossoms inside me. Tonight I will be with the Segreta, and one step closer to getting Roberto out of his stinking prison.

12

Dear Laura
,

Since we spoke, I have thrown caution to the wind. I shall not allow my boy to languish in that prison! I have requested house arrest for Roberto. I will let you know the instant he is free of that festering leaded prison. I know you love him as much as I do
.

In haste
,

Duchess Besina

The note was waiting for me upon our return to the villa. I hastily broke the wax seal in the privacy of the garden’s new greenhouse. Now, I look at the Duchess’s handwriting and hope that her impetuosity will work for Roberto, rather than against him. No other woman could earn him such a reprieve, not even one of the Segreta.

“Laura?” Faustina calls for me. “Laura!”

Hastily, I shove the note into my pocket and step out of the greenhouse. She spots me and comes bustling over,
carrying a large square of linen in her arms. “A picnic!” she calls. “Come and help.”

Emilia and I go to our rooms and quickly exchange our outfits for loose muslin dresses so we can work in the garden after we eat. I can’t stop thinking about the note and what it might mean for Roberto, but for now I must act as if everything were normal. I hastily tuck my dress, with the note in its pocket, into a blanket box and follow Emilia to the kitchens.

It’s not often that I’m allowed here—it’s not a noblewoman’s place—but this afternoon Faustina is more than happy to let me collect bowls of olives and take a knife to shave thin slices from the cured ham. Emilia carries out a basket of bread and a board of cheeses, and soon we are settled beneath the olive tree, enjoying a picnic for three, as Lysander is out visiting boyhood friends.

As the sun rises higher in the sky, we revel in the fresh tastes, scooping up small bunches of grapes and tearing hunks of bread to soak up glistening olive oil. For a time, I try to be cheerful for Emilia’s sake, and I’m surprised by my appetite. We talk of Bologna, where she grew up, of the beauty of the Tuscan hills, and of her family. We both laugh as Faustina reaches for a third slice of cake.

“You girls, you need to follow my example—get more meat on your bones!” She casts a shameless glance at Emilia’s stomach. “Who knows, soon you could be eating for two.” My sister-in-law’s cheeks flame, and I tut loudly, giving Faustina a firm shake of my head. She shrugs. “I’m only saying …”

After we’ve all finished eating, Emilia gets to her feet and goes to retrieve the gardening basket and shears from
where they have been abandoned beside the climbing rose that dances across a trellis pinned to the wall.

“Here, let me help!” I say, jumping up to join her. Faustina grumbles as she clears away the picnic things.

“Take no notice of her,” I say to Emilia as I choose a rose stem to prune back.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says.

“You shouldn’t feel embarrassed to tell Faustina to stop her teasing,” I tell her. “You’re one of the family now.”

We fall into companionable silence as we work, side by side. I try to concentrate on picking out dead rose heads, but I can’t stop thinking about the note. I allow a flicker of hope to spark in my chest, but I won’t let it become a full-blown fantasy. This won’t be the nightmare’s end, but it is a reprieve and may be the first decent step to clearing Roberto’s name.

I move slowly around the garden, seeking out the blooms that are past their best. In a corner, I kneel beside a lattice covered in climbing flowers. I reach past an olive tree, straining to catch a wild stem of roses that has snapped at the base. My hand brushes against something smooth and cold, and, looking down, I see a dagger.

The blade is plunged into the trunk of the tree. A prickle of fear spreads over my skin, because I recognize the hilt—the mother-of-pearl inlay and the polished rosewood, the turned gold of the guard. My fingers wrap around the handle, and I pull the dagger out of the tree, turning it around so that the blade glints in the sunshine.

This is my enemy’s weapon. It is the blade that Carina tried to plunge into my breast that night on the boat. I am sure of it.

“What have you got there?” Faustina has arrived behind me.

“It’s a lady’s dagger,” I say.

Faustina calls to Bianca, who comes running. I glance towards Emilia, but she is absorbed in another part of the garden and doesn’t notice the fuss.

“What’s this, you silly girl?” Faustina asks, indicating the dagger. “Is it yours or any of the servants’? Have you been fooling around out here?”

Bianca shakes her head. “We don’t have the money for such things,” she says. “And I hate blades.” She looks up at me, her eyes wide. “Have strangers been in the garden?” she whispers.

I send her a reassuring smile. “Don’t be silly. One of Father’s friends must have dropped it.” I slip the weapon into a basket of gardening tools. “I’ll find out whom it belongs to and return it. Go on, back to your work!”

Bianca dips in a curtsy, before running back to the house. Faustina’s gaze hasn’t left my face.

“How will you find out whom it belongs to?” she asks.

“How do I know?” I say impatiently. “Let’s just forget about it.”

Faustina shrugs, and goes to carry the picnic things indoors. Emilia helps her, packing our leftovers inside the empty bread basket. But I stand rigid. I can’t get Bianca’s words out of my head. Have strangers been in the garden? Or ghosts? Only one person could have put that dagger here. Carina, the woman who once tried to kill me. But Carina’s dead, just a figure in my dreams. No one could have escaped that sinking, burning boat.