Masquerade (21 page)

Orelia had needed to escape the palazzo, so she had gone to the one place she could be guaranteed peace and quiet. It also happened to be the one place she couldn’t stop thinking about
him
.

Leaning against the trunk of the cypress tree, Orelia stared out through the branches and empty birdcages. By some miracle she had found the garden again, instructing the gondolier to take her to Giudecca and then walking the calli until she found the door into the garden.

When she had first heard Angelique’s news a few hours ago, she had felt so dizzy she was forced to lie down. Angelique had taken her reaction for overwhelming joy. In fact, Angelique was so delirious that if Orelia had taken out a knife and stabbed herself in the heart she would not have raised an eyebrow.

Orelia had been made to promise to tell no one, since Angelique had only learnt about Bastian’s intentions through spying on him and her father. It was just what Orelia needed: another secret.

In her confusion, Orelia had come to the garden hoping the fresh air would help her make sense of everything, but now she was realising that there was no sense to be made. And the garden was only reminding her of the fateful night when she had begun to fall in love with Bastian, even if she had refused his advances. The only way she could account for Bastian’s sudden change in affections was the love potion Angelique had given him, and that too made no sense at all. How could a small bottle of liquid manufacture one of the deepest emotions?

Orelia believed she had known what real love felt like, but maybe that was just as manufactured as a potion. Maybe Bastian had been playing with her all along? There was definitely far too much playfulness in his nature, yet when he had kissed her at the Ridotto it had felt so real.

With a sigh, Orelia pushed herself away from the tree and wandered aimlessly through the garden. A thorn struck her arm as she passed by a bush. She did not feel a jab and if it were not for the smear of blood on her arm, she would not have known she had been struck at all. The sight of her blood, so red, made her realise something. She had not come to Venice to fall in love. She had come to find answers and that’s what she would focus on now.

The sun was blazing red in the sky. It would be dark soon. Orelia needed to get back to the palazzo before her absence was noticed.

Taking a final walk around the garden, Orelia left through the gate in the wall. She locked the door and paused on the other side. If she continued to come to the garden, she would not be able to forget her feelings for Bastian. She looked down at the ornate key in the palm of her hand. She took a few steps away from the wall and threw the key back into the garden. Her breath caught as it disappeared from sight. There was no sound to say where the key landed; it was as if the garden had swallowed it up.

Orelia found Antonio waiting for her at the same place he had let her off. He returned her home quickly, but not quick enough. Maria was waiting at the water entrance in the doorway, like a lion waiting to pounce.

‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Where have you been?’ she demanded.

Water lapped at heels of Orelia’s slippers as she stood on the water steps, her entrance blocked by Maria. ‘I just needed some fresh air.’

Maria turned her scorn to Antonio, waving her arms at him. ‘You should know better than to ferry any of the Signorinas about unchaperoned!’

Poor Antonio looked down at his feet.

‘Signor Contarini needs you to collect him from the Palazzo Ducale. Go.’

When Antonio had steered the gondola away from Ca’ Contarini, Maria turned back to Orelia. ‘Your disobedience . . .’

‘I never needed a chaperone in Montepulciano,’ interrupted Orelia, her remark surprising even herself.

Maria’s face reddened even more. ‘Well you are not in Montepulciano any more!’

Now that Orelia had spoken back once, she didn’t see any reason to stop. ‘But Angelique and Veronica sneak out on occasion.’

‘They should not be doing anything of the kind. Even still, you don’t know the city like they do. And look, you’re not even wearing a mask or a veil. Anyone could see you wandering around alone. You’ll bring disgrace to Signor Contarini, do you want that?’

Guilt washed over Orelia. ‘No. I won’t do it again.’

‘Go upstairs.’

Orelia went straight to her room, not at all in the mood to speak to anyone else. All she wanted was to sleep – to fall into her bed just as she was. But when she entered her room, Anna was there waiting. Afraid of hurting the fragile girl’s feelings by sending her away, Orelia dutifully sat down in front of the mirror. Anna quietly removed the pins from her hair. Tendrils of hair began to fall loose around her shoulders.

‘I was cleaning your bedroom this morning and I found something under the bed that might be of interest to you,’ whispered Anna, looking nervously towards the door.

‘What is it?’ asked Orelia, turning around to face her, suddenly very alert.

‘A letter. The paper is very aged, so I knew it could not possibly belong to you.’

‘Do you have it with you now?’

Anna put down the pins and took a folded piece of paper out of her pocket. Orelia reached for it eagerly. She stood up to read it, a habit she had got from her mother who had never read any correspondence sitting down.

Mi cara,

It seems like a lifetime has passed since I first saw you at the beginning of Carnevale. I remember when you smiled at me and held your fan in front of your face. I almost misinterpreted your signal, being not so fluent in the language of fans. I accepted your invitation to follow you. I will follow you till my dying day.

You have possessed my mind and spirit. Every piece of glass I shape reminds me of your curves. Every time I stand in front of the furnace, I feel the heat of your lips on my neck.

When can you come to see me next? It pains me that I cannot come to you. Murano – my island, my prison. I fear that one day you will tire of our difficult love. If that dark day ever comes, I would rather die than be without your love. I will be waiting at our spot tomorrow after the Marangona bell rings, hoping you will find a way to meet with me.

Until our lips touch again, may the glass flower I made for you with all my love stay close to your heart.

J.R

Orelia felt short of breath. This was a letter to her mother, the mention of the glass flower, now Orelia’s glass flower, told her that much. Someone had been deeply in love with her. J.R. J.Rossetti? It had to be Orelia’s father. What if he was still alive? Of course, he probably was. He’d be no older than her uncle. He could tell Orelia all she wanted to know about her mother. But where would she find him?

‘Are you all right, Signorina?’ said a voice.

Looking up, Orelia saw Anna still standing in front of her dressing table, watching her intently. Without thinking, she dashed across the room and took both of Anna’s hands, drawing her close. ‘Are there any other letters?’ she said, staring into Anna’s brown eyes.

Anna gently pulled her hands away. ‘No,’ she said, moving behind Orelia to begin the laborious task of undressing her. ‘That’s all I found.’

Layers of clothing were being stripped from Orelia’s body but she felt more constricted than ever. She read over the letter again, searching for a clue. Her eyes stopped on the word,
Murano
. Maybe that was where she would find answers.

‘Where is Murano?’ she asked Anna who was busy unlacing her stays.

‘It’s about one mile from the north-most point of Venice. It’s not far by traghetto,’

Orelia felt some of her tension disappear. Murano wasn’t far. It was the closest she had come to answers yet. ‘Does the traghetto leave from il Molo where I arrived in Venice?’

‘No. It leaves from the Fondementa Nuove, on the other side of the city,’ answered Anna.

‘And do you know what times it leaves tomorrow?’

‘The first one leaves at the first Marangona bell.’

Orelia nodded, and with that, she had forgotten all about Bastian.

Orelia awoke early the next morning. In the clear light of day, the flaws in her plan soon became obvious. All she had was the name of an island. Once there, where would she begin her search? She was also less certain that J.R was her father. Her mother could have had many lovers. The fact that his surname began with ‘R’ could be pure coincidence. But even if he was not her father, he had known her mother and could shed some light on her past.

In the sunlight filtering through her window, Orelia re-read the letter that Anna had found. There was more in the letter than she had originally thought. Her mother’s lover had been a glassblower, which would narrow the search somewhat.

By the time she finished the letter, she knew that despite the little information she had, she must go to Murano, and with Angelique spending the morning interviewing hairdressers, there was no better opportunity. Orelia knew she would get into trouble again for leaving the palazzo unchaperoned, but this was something she had to do and she had to do it alone. She would bear the punishment when she returned. But so Antonio did not also bear the punishment, if indeed he would agree to ferry her after yesterday’s incident, she decided to walk to the Fondementa Nuove.

As much as Orelia would have liked to have dressed herself, getting into stays was not a one-person job. Anna was nowhere to be found so she asked Maria for help.

‘It’s very early. Are you going somewhere?’ asked Maria, pulling the laces of the stay suffocatingly tight.

‘No,’ choked Orelia. ‘I plan to spend the morning up on the altana enjoying the sun.’

Maria nodded. Orelia knew that Maria would be unlikely to climb the several flights of stairs to check on her later.

‘Though, I would not mind a trip to Murano one day soon,’ Orelia added. ‘I’ve heard the glassblowers of Murano are unlike any others.’

‘They are Venice’s treasures and highly guarded ones at that. They are not allowed to leave the island for fear they will reveal their glassmaking secrets. Any that leave are hunted down and punished with death.’

‘That’s terrible!’ cried Orelia.

Maria’s stony expression did not alter. ‘Some things are for one’s best. When the glassblowers forget that, unfortunate things happen. It would do you well to remember that, too.’

Orelia nodded obediently.

Maria looked at the different gowns laid out on the bed. ‘Which will you be wearing?’

‘The green brocade,’ answered Orelia. Green was her mother’s colour.

Anna had been waiting at the Fondementa Nuove since before the sun rose. She kept her eyes on the people lingering near the congregation of traghettos, gondolas and fishing boats at the water’s edge, hoping to catch a glimpse of Orelia. Children in masks chased black-headed seagulls, momentarily distracting Anna with their innocence. She tried to convince herself that she was doing what was right for Emilia and for herself. And yet, still she felt a darkness creeping inside her.

As more and more people arrived at the Fondementa Nuove, Anna feared she would not notice Orelia when she appeared, if she appeared. At one point, Anna had almost followed the wrong person until she noticed her mistake from the colour of the woman’s hair, which had appeared red from afar, but was actually brown.

This wasn’t the only thing that could go wrong. Orelia might decide not to take the first ferry, as Anna was relying on. Maria had been very reluctant to let Anna have the morning off. She had told Maria that she needed to visit her sick father, a convenient fiction she had used before as an excuse to get out. With every plea, Anna’s father had become sicker and sicker until Maria had finally given in on the condition she returned by midday. If Anna was even a minute late returning, Maria would find some way to punish her.

Thankfully, a short while later Orelia passed by wearing a black columbina mask. She had the unmistakable walk of someone who was still not used to walking in heeled slippers. Anna pulled down the bottom of the veil, even though it already reached her elbows and was at no risk of revealing her face, and moved closer to where Orelia stood. The crowd on the fondamenta made it quite easy for Anna to remain close to Orelia without being seen. She was so focused on keeping Orelia in her sight that she didn’t realise that the traghetto destined for Murano was boarding until the Marangona bell sounded, declaring it the start of the workday.

As the other passengers boarded the oversized gondola, Anna hesitated. She had been so concerned with getting leave from the palazzo that she had completely forgotten one small but important detail. She had not brought money for the fare. Not that she had any money anyway, since that awful night at the Ridotto.

‘Are you coming aboard or not?’ barked one of the two gondoliers.

Anna looked around for Orelia and saw that she was already aboard, with her back to Anna. Quickly, Anna pulled back her veil, as if the sight of her big eyes might compel the man to extend her charity.

‘Emilia?’ said a different voice.

Anna looked beyond the gondolier and saw a well-dressed young man looking at her from the end of the gangplank.

‘It’s been so long since I’ve seen you! Are you off to Murano?’ he called to her, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be having a conversation like this.

Anna nodded uncertainly.

‘Let her aboard,’ he said, tossing a coin to the man.

Anna pulled her veil back over her face and hurried down the gangplank. The young man held out his hand to help her into the traghetto and she gladly took it. When aboard, Anna stayed towards to back of the ferry, as far away from Orelia as possible, and turned to face the other direction.

‘Where have you been these past few months?’ said the young man at her side. ‘You just disappeared. We were very worried.’

Anna turned her gaze upon him. It suddenly made sense now. This must be Franco Basilio, the son of the patricians Emilia had worked for. They owned a palazzo off the Cannergio Canal. Emilia had never mentioned how handsome Franco was or how good he looked in deep purple velvet.

Franco was looking at her, waiting for her reply.

‘Mi dispiace,’ she whispered. ‘I went to visit my father and discovered that he was very ill. I could not leave him. I should have found a way to let your family know. My deepest apologies.’

Franco’s eye shone with concern. ‘Is your father better now?’

‘He is getting better slowly,’ she answered, placing each word carefully.

‘Then you should come back to the palazzo. Mimi misses you dreadfully. She says no one fixes her hair as well as you. She has even brought in several hairdressers and sent them away in tears.’ Franco spent the remainder of the trip telling Anna about the goings-on in his household. Although, Anna did not know the people he was talking about, she found herself enjoying the conversation. It was so nice being in Franco’s company that Anna sighed aloud when the traghetto arrived at Murano.

‘Would you like to join me for coffee?’ asked Franco.

The word si was on her lips when from the corner of her eye, she spotted a flash of red hair and remembered why she was really there.

Franco’s question still hung in the air. He looked at her with such honesty and goodness. Anna pictured herself following Franco down the gangplank, instead of Orelia.

‘Emilia?’

At the sound of her sister’s name, Anna knew that it was too late to follow the righteous path; she had already taken the path of evil. ‘I would like to, but I am meeting someone.’

Franco took her hand and turned it over. Then he placed a coin in the centre of her open palm. ‘For the return trip,’ he said.

‘Grazie mille,’ said Anna, with a smile. She walked down the jetty just in time to see Orelia take off with purpose down the fondamenta along the left side of the island.

Anna hurried after her. It had been many years since she had been to Murano, but it seemed to Anna that not much had changed. This quiet side of the island was where many glassmaking workshops were located.

They walked for a few minutes until Orelia stopped at the foot of a ponte to give way to a man who was crossing. Anna ducked into a nearby alley, pressed her back against a wall and exhaled deeply. She could see Orelia’s shadow on the pavement and then heard her speak.

‘Scusi Signor, I am trying to find the workshop that may have made this item about twenty years ago.’

‘Mi dispiace, Signorina. I cannot help you.’

This was the response from everyone Orelia stopped to ask. One of those people happened to be from Florence, but she was the most helpful of all, suggesting Orelia enquire at a glassmaking workshop itself. She pointed Orelia in the direction of one she’d just come from.

Anna followed Orelia to the workshop, but of course, she was unable to follow her inside. Instead she found a window, which was open to release the heat generated by the massive furnaces inside the workshop. She peered through the window just as a man, around the age of Signor Contarini, took the glass flower from Orelia to examine it.

‘I haven’t seen a flower of this design for a very long time,’ he said. ‘See the way all the petals melt into each other. In fact, there was only one workshop that made flowers like this, but it was shut down by the government a long ago.’

‘Why?’

‘Something terrible happened.’

‘What?’

‘I cannot say.’

‘Does it have anything to do with Isabella Contarini?’

A gust of wind swept by rattling the window.

‘Anyone who speaks that name is an enemy of Serenissima,’ said the man harshly.

‘I’m no enemy. I just need answers. What did Isa . . . she do?’ Orelia sounded as if she was on the verge of tears.

‘I cannot help you. I will not bring bad luck upon myself,’ he said, handing back the flower as if it had suddenly become hot and turning back to his work. ‘You would be wise not to go around asking about
her
. You will only get yourself in trouble. Now leave.’

‘I beg of you,’ said Orelia. ‘Please help me. I can pay you. I don’t have much money, but I can offer you this emerald ring.’

‘I will not speak of it for all the emeralds in the world.’

‘Surely you must know someone who will. Please.’

The man sighed and lowered his voice so much that Anna struggled to hear. ‘Signora Tiepolo. She is very old. She is the only one who might be foolish enough to speak about it.’

‘Where can I find her?’

‘There’s a cemetery on the other side of the island. She visits her son’s grave there every day. That is where you might find her. That’s all I can say.’

‘Grazie, grazie, grazie Signor.’

‘Keep your ring. Just do not tell anyone you came to see me.’

As the man turned his eyes warily to the window, Anna ducked down, hoping she’d not been caught. A few moments later, Orelia emerged from the workshop, but Anna did not immediately follow. She had lost track of how many bells had rung to mark the hours since they’d arrived, but she knew time was slipping away. Murano was not a large island. It would not take long to reach the cemetery. But how long would it take Orelia to find Signora Tiepolo, if at all?

Anna reflected on what she’d learnt thus far. Nothing really. She did not know who Isabella Contarini was or why she was so clearly feared. Nor did Anna know why Orelia was so interested in her. Clearly there was some connection between her master and this Isabella woman, given that they shared the same family name. But how was Signor Contarini’s goddaughter connected to this woman? Anna needed to go home with answers, or else this whole escapade was for nothing.

By the time Anna stood, Orelia was already gone. Cursing, she hurried off along the fondamenta until she found someone to ask for directions. She found the cemetery quite easily. And somehow she’d reached it before Orelia.

The wrought iron gate creaked as she pushed it open and stepped into the graveyard. A chill ran through Anna. She did not like these sorts of places. The air was cold and she felt a presence even though she was alone. Or was she?

There was a lone woman standing on the other side of the graveyard with her back to Anna. Could it be Signora Tiepolo?

Anna approached soundlessly, her footsteps muffled by the soft dirt. As she passed the church, she saw that it was indeed an elderly woman. She appeared to be staring down at a gravestone in deep reflection. Then a moment later, she began to turn in Anna’s direction. Frantically, Anna ducked behind a crypt just a few paces away from the woman. Her heart beat wildly. She was quite sure she’d not been seen, but she held her breath anyway. A minute passed and she relaxed. But as more minutes passed, she became anxious once again. Where was Orelia? What if the woman left before she arrived? And what time was it?

Then in the quiet of the graveyard, Anna heard movement. She did not risk peering out at this close distance, so instead pressed her body against the crypt and listened. At first, she thought the old woman might be leaving, but then she heard a familiar voice.

‘Are you Signora Tiepolo?’ asked Orelia.

‘Si,’ said the woman, her voice crackled with the sound of great age.

‘I was told you might be able to tell me about someone.’

‘Who?’

‘Isabella Contarini.’

‘Isabella Contarini . . . I haven’t heard that name spoken aloud in a very long time.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of The Curse.’

‘What curse?’

‘What curse. It amazes me how quickly time forgets, but I suppose that’s what happens when people are filled with fear. Before I answer your questions, you must tell me something.’

‘Anything.’

‘Your beautiful red hair, is it like your mother’s or your father’s?’

‘My mother’s.’

‘Come closer and I will tell you a story . . . It was just over nineteen years ago on the Festa Della Sensa, forty days after Easter. I was there at the Piazzetta when it happened. The Doge had returned from throwing a gold ring into the sea and was disembarking his ship when a woman in a black cloak stepped out from the crowd. She wore no mask or veil. She wanted everyone to know who she was, and they did. She was Isabella Contarini, the daughter of one of the most respected patrician families. She began screaming hysterically at the Doge. The whole Piazzetta went quiet and watched on as she pulled a live pigeon out from beneath her cloak and slit its throat with a silver knife. As the blood splattered all over the Doge, Isabella Contarini cursed all of Serenissima.’

Anna hung on every word, disbelieving and astounded.

‘Before she could be arrested, she vanished into the crowd. They searched for her night and day, hoping that by her death they could remove the curse, but she was never found.’

The old woman stopped speaking and the cemetery was filled with silence. Orelia’s soft voice broke the quiet like a twig snapping. ‘Why did she do it?’

‘She accused Venice of murdering the man she loved. He was a glassblower. After the incident, the government shut down the workshop where he worked. No one spoke her name after that day. It was considered bad luck, and still is, as I’m sure you’ve seen . . . You are her daughter, are you not?’

Anna gasped softly. She waited for Orelia to deny it, but she didn’t say anything.

‘Don’t worry,’ said the old woman, ‘your secret is safe with me.’