Masquerade (8 page)

‘Let me guess? Young, in good health, and foolish, the only thing you could possibly be in want of is love.’

‘I need your
strongest
love potion.’

Signora Quirini clicked her tongue. ‘Can you pay?’

Angelique pulled a sack of coins out of her pocket. The woman took the sack without counting its contents. ‘It will take a moment to prepare,’ she said, reaching a hand to Angelique’s head and plucking a single strand of golden hair.

Angelique flinched, but didn’t dare express her pain aloud. She was almost as afraid of this woman as she was of the man in the sotoportego.

For several minutes, Angelique watched Signora Quirini’s back as she poured and pounded various things. ‘What is the potion made of?’

‘Now,
that
is a secret,’ answered Signora Quirini without turning around.

‘How does it work?’

‘It is simple. Have the man you wish to fall in love with you drink it,’ said Signora Quirni, passing a vial to Angelique. The old woman did not let go of the vial for a number of seconds, as if she were reconsidering entrusting it to this naive girl.

‘If anyone asks, this is medicine for your throat. Remember, if the Inquisitors come for me, they also come for you.’ Her silver eyes bored into Angelique.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Angelique. ‘I can keep a secret.’

All around Venice women were sitting in front of mirrors having their hair styled or their cheeks powdered, preparing for the night ahead.

Not Orelia. She was pleased to be wearing just a white chemise, her initials embroidered in emerald thread near the hem. She had hardly had a minute to herself in the last week, and was weary of being squeezed into the uncomfortable fashions for the many engagements they had attended. Most of all, she feared if she wasn’t careful she would forget why she had come to Venice.

Finding herself now uncharacteristically alone, she began rummaging through the tall chest of drawers in her bedroom. She was looking for anything that might give her any clue as to why her mother left Venice nineteen years ago.

There had already been many obvious signs to suggest her mother had been hiding something quite significant: her uncle’s conviction to bury the past; the secrecy he had made of her identity; this bedroom that had been locked up until now.

There were small signs too: the way her uncle had looked at her; the way Maria didn’t look at her; the feeling that Venice sang to her, as if she belonged here, even though everything about it was so strange.

Orelia pulled open drawers filled with undergarments and gloves. Much of the contents had been there when she arrived, which she took to mean they had belonged to her mother. That was another piece to the puzzle; her mother had left Venice without even the chance to pack all her things.

Orelia picked up a handkerchief and ran her finger over the delicate embroidery. It should have felt comforting to find something of her mother’s that she could touch and hold, but Orelia felt as if she were handling a stranger’s possessions. They did not have the earthy smell of the mother she remembered or any of her practicality.

Closing the drawer harder than she intended, Orelia sighed. She had found nothing, other than heartache.

‘Can I help you find something?’ said a soft voice from the door.

Orelia looked up and saw Anna. She thought for a moment before answering. She didn’t know what she was looking for: a diary, perhaps. Her mother had always scribbled poems and observations on bits of paper, so it was not a stretch to think that she may have kept a diary as well. ‘It’s fine,’ Orelia answered, eventually.

‘Are you ready to get dressed for the opera?’ asked Anna.

‘I suppose,’ said Orelia, standing up. She was still not confortable about being dressed by someone else, but the clothes she was expected to wear did not allow the luxury of dressing oneself. The lacing up of the stays required at least one other person, or if you wanted it as tight as Angelique did, two.

‘Please not so tight,’ said Orelia. ‘I can barely breathe!’

Anna loosened the laces. ‘Mi dispiace, Signorina,’ she whispered. She kept her eyes down as she collected more underclothes and began fitting them on Orelia.

A pang of guilt shot through Orelia. Had she offended Anna? The poor girl was only trying to be helpful and she was being so ill-tempered. She attempted a smile. ‘I’m so lucky to have your help. I can never remember which goes on first; the petticoat or the pannier.’

‘Grazie,’ said Anna, as she helped Orelia into a gown of soft purple brocade with double-flounced pagoda sleeves of the finest lace. Orelia liked the gown for two reasons, the first being that the colour reminded her of the wildflowers that grew in Montepulciano, and the second reason being that were no ribbons anywhere on the gown. Ribbons were one thing she was sure she would never take to.

‘Is this Angelique’s gown?’

‘Si, I took it in a bit. Angelique has arranged for you to meet with a tailor next week, so soon you will have your own gowns. Would you like to sit while I arrange your hair?’

Orelia nodded and sat down in a chair in front of a dressing table. For a few minutes the room was quiet, the only sound coming from the brush sliding through her hair.

‘You’re lucky you have some curls,’ said Anna, taking a piece of hair and pinning it at the nape of Orelia’s neck. ‘I don’t need to use a curling iron.’

Orelia laughed. ‘Curling hair, altering gowns, cleaning, is there anything you don’t do? How long have you been working here?’

‘For two years.’

‘Do you like it here?’

‘Si,’ said Anna, although to Orelia’s ears it sounded more like a sigh.

Orelia looked into the mirror at Anna’s small round face. Her brown eyes had a depth that made them appear as though they had witnessed more than most people did in a lifetime. They were eyes you could trust.

‘I was looking for something before, something that belonged to the girl who occupied this room a long time ago,’ said Orelia. ‘Have you ever found anything in here that might have belonged to her?’

Anna froze, her hands suspended above Orelia’s head just about to press a pin into her hair. ‘This room has been locked for as long as I have worked here, but there was one time . . . I shouldn’t say anything. I might get in trouble.’

‘Please, Anna, tell me what you found. It is very important to me. I’m not supposed to be asking, so if anyone gets in trouble it will be me.’

Biting her lip, Anna put down the pin slowly. ‘When I first started working here and I did not know this room was not to be entered, I found a bundle of letters . . .’

‘Anna!’ cried Maria, charging into the room. ‘The cook needs your assistance in the kitchen.’

Giving Orelia an apologetic look, Anna hurried out of the room. Orelia began to stand up, but Maria came behind her and forced her shoulders down.

‘I will finish your hair.’

Maria picked up the pins and began gathering piles of Orelia’s hair and jabbing pins into it as if she was stabbing a pie.

Orelia did not flinch or complain. Instead, she observed the older woman in the mirror. Her dark hair was peppered with grey, and her skin was heavily lined. Orelia wondered how long Maria had been working for her uncle. Had she known Orelia’s mother?

‘I overheard part of your conversation. There is only one thing you need to know about Isabella Contarini. She was a wicked, wicked girl.’

Orelia gripped the edge of the table until her fingers turned white. Maria was wrong. Her mother had been the most gentle, kind and generous woman she’d ever known. There had not been a single wicked bone in her body.

She wanted to tell Maria this, to scream it at her, but the words would not come out.

‘This hair is impossible!’ Maria exclaimed, as she set the pins down on the dressing table heavily. ‘That will have to do.’

Maria walked to the door, but stopped halfway and spoke without turning around. ‘You remind me much of her.’

The time from Maria leaving her room to when Orelia found herself standing on the calle outside the palazzo with Angelique and Veronica was a complete blur. Orelia could barely recall drinking the alcohol that was clearly on her breath.

‘Maybe I shouldn’t have given you that glass of wine before we left,’ said Angelique in a concerned voice. ‘You looked so shaken up. I thought it would help calm your nerves. It was only one glass.’

Orelia spun around, enjoying the light-headed feeling. ‘I’m glad you did. I feel so relaxed. But why are we walking when your father owns several gondolas?’

‘It is much quicker to walk to La Fenice,’ said Veronica, walking ahead of them. Further behind Orelia and Angelique was Aunt Portia, their chaperone for the evening. She too, had drunk wine before leaving, though considerably more than Orelia.

‘What Veronica really means is that she doesn’t like to get caught in the queue of gondolas waiting to unload passengers. Veronica is one of the few people who go to the opera to watch the performance,’ said Angelique.

‘Don’t listen to her; she doesn’t know what she is talking about. Have you ever been to the opera, Orelia?’ asked Veronica when they had stopped at a ponte spanning a narrow canal.

Orelia found she
disliked
ponti more than anything she had encountered in Venice so far – especially at night when the water beneath was as black as ink, and especially now when she was tipsy. She waited until she was safely across before answering. ‘No, I have never been before.’

‘You will love it,’ said Veronica.

‘I am not one for opera,’ said Angelique. ‘My ears are too delicate.’

‘Your ears are filled with wool,’ said Veronica loudly, so loudly in fact, that her statement was heard by a group of four women coming towards them. They hooted in response, a loud repetitive noise filled with mockery and gaiety. It was not a noise Orelia expected women of any class to make. Orelia’s surprise was not at all lessened when she realised that the four women were actually young men in costume.

They wore ghastly dresses, some too short, some too long, all too tight. Their faces were entirely covered with vulgar masks featuring high eyebrows and red cheeks. Even stranger, they each carried a sling holding an egg. Angelique must have noticed this addition to their costume too, for suddenly, she shrieked and took cover behind Veronica.

With one cold stare from Veronica, the pranksters continued quietly on their way. When they were out of sight, Angelique slowly peeled herself away from her sister. ‘The eggs are filled with rosewater. They may not ruin a gown, but they can still ruin a night.’

Finally, they came to a grand white building in the Campo San Fantin. Veronica led the way up the stairs and stopped between the imposing columns in front of the entrance doors to allow their aunt to catch up.

‘Next time you suggest we walk instead of taking a gondola,’ said Aunt Portia, breathlessly, ‘you can have your father as chaperone.’

They stepped into a brightly lit foyer decorated in various hues of pink and accommodating more people than Orelia thought possible. With the rising volume of chatter, a hope began to swell within her, a hope that they might get through the night without an intimate moment with Bastian.

‘Let’s find the Doge’s box,’ said Veronica, weaving between the crowd of men and women.

They went up a flight of stairs to a landing, far less crowded than the foyer. A chandelier hung so low that Orelia thought it would be quite possible to lean out over the balustrade and blow out some of the hundred or so candles. She fought the urge to do so and reminded herself not to drink any more wine.

‘I’ll be in the sitting room if anyone needs me,’ said Aunt Portia, fanning herself with an ivory cutout fan that matched her ivory-coloured gown embroidered with gilt thread. ‘Don’t doing anything scandalous, or if you do, don’t be seen,’ she added in a low voice.

Orelia hid a smile behind her fan. She quite liked Great Aunt Portia and wondered whether her mother had liked her too. She looked closely at the older woman, trying to discern whether Aunt Portia knew who Orelia really was. But her glazed eyes were unreadable, as always.

When they had been first introduced at the dining table, the older woman had seemed so indifferent to Orelia. It was only later, after returning home from the ball at Ca’ D’Este shortly before sunrise, that Aunt Portia had followed her up to her bedroom and embraced her with a silent hug before walking off without saying another word. Orelia wanted to ask Aunt Portia about her mother, but that would mean defying her uncle’s wishes and she could not do that.

The sound of laughter drew Orelia out of her thoughts and when she looked around she realised that she was the only one still standing there. She hurried after Veronica and Angelique up another staircase where they emerged into a curved hallway with white doors stretching endlessly on one side and with oval gold-framed mirrors covering the walls on the other side.

Catching sight of herself in a mirror, Orelia paused. She fitted in perfectly with the people who passed behind her in the reflection, as though she’d had no other life than this. Orelia held her hand up to her face. In such a short amount of time, she seemed to have
lost
herself in the city of masks.

She felt a tug at her elbow. ‘You look beautiful,’ said Angelique. ‘Come on.’

Veronica had already found the Doge’s box and was waiting outside the door. ‘Do you have the key?’ she asked Angelique.

‘Of course,’ replied Angelique, producing the key from her pocket with a hint of irritation.