Dark Shimmer (24 page)

Biancaneve nods. Her eyes fall on the covered basket again. “What do you have in there?”

“Good things,” says the woman. “Beautiful things.”

Biancaneve is overwhelmed with pity. What ugly things might this woman think of as beautiful? “May I look?”

“Please do.”

Biancaneve pulls off the cloth. The basket is piled high with bodice laces. Silk, and in the best colors of Venezia. She fingers her own bodice lace. It's grimy and frayed at both ends.

The old woman reaches out a hand tentatively. She touches Biancaneve's hair. Biancaneve looks at her in surprise. The woman seems wistful. Almost longing.

“Take yours off,” says the woman quietly. “Throw away that shabby old lace.”

Biancaneve grips the poker tighter in one hand and pulls out the old lace with her other. Her hand flutters above the basket. “Which one? They're all so beautiful,” she breathes.

“You can't ask me,” says the woman. “I mix up colors.”

“How funny, to sell such glorious things and not be able to appreciate them.”

“Pick the color of the sun—warm and comforting, like you.”

Biancaneve hesitates, but only a second. She puts the poker on the floor. The yellow is, in fact, more dazzling than even the green. She plucks a yellow lace from the basket and holds it to her cheek. It's soft and smooth and perfect. It's everything her life used to be. Then she puts it down. “I'm sorry.” She steps back, to fight off temptation. “I wasn't thinking straight.” This is so unfair. “I don't have anything to pay you with.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. And tomorrow's my birthday! I can't have anything.”

“Your birthday? Well then, let me give it to you as a present.”

Biancaneve blinks in amazement. “These cost too much. I couldn't take such a present.”

“Try it on, at least.”

“I shouldn't.”

“Doesn't everyone have the right to pretend, just for a moment, that they can afford something nice? One silk lace?”

Biancaneve picks up the lace again. She threads it through her bodice.

“Here. Let me help you tighten it.” The old woman takes both ends and pulls. She pulls and pulls. She's so strong.

“That's too much. It hurts. I can hardly breathe.”

“Neither can I,” says the old woman, eyes miserable. “That's the problem, you see.”

She pulls harder.

T
he smell of burning stew slaps Alvise in the face. He comes through the door with Bini at his heels. “Neve!” The girl lies on the floor, her face as pale as her name. Alvise drops the dead hedgehogs and rushes to her. He grabs her hands. Icy. He puts his cheek to her nose. Let there be a hint of breath, Good God, let it be. He slaps her cheeks. “Neve!”

“Is she dead?” Bini's voice cracks.

“I don't know.” Alvise rubs her arms.

“What's that in her bodice?” Bini leans in from the side. “That lace, it's new. Someone's been here.”

Alvise pulls out his knife and tries to slide it under the lace, but it's too tight. He forces a finger under one part and cuts straight. The lace pops open. He rips it the rest of the way.

“She was suffocated,” says Bini.

“Don't say that. Get her closer to the fire.” Alvise pushes on Neve's shoulders. “Pull her!”

They push and pull her as gently as they can. Then they stand over her and watch.

“You've messed her clothes.” Bini points.

There's blood everywhere that Alvise's left hand touched. He sucks on his bleeding finger. Then he squeezes it tight in his right fist. “Get the stew off the hook before it catches fire.”

“It'll take two of us.”

Alvise grabs the bucket and throws what's left of the water onto the fire. It sputters and goes out.

“What'd you go and do that for?” Bini gapes at Alvise. “You know how hard it is to get a fire going again.”

“What if the stew caught fire and it spread and we couldn't get Neve out of here in time?”

Giallino comes through the door. “What's all this smoke? And the fire's out.”

“We had to,” says Bini. His face colors, but he doesn't look at Alvise. “The stew was catching fire, and I couldn't lift it down myself, and Alvise cut his finger open so he couldn't help me and—you would have done the same thing.”

“Why's Neve on the floor?” Giallino runs over.

The others come in the door now, shouting questions. Alvise keeps shaking his head.

“Shut up, everyone.” Ricci claps his hands once, then shakes his clasped hands at them all. “Give Alvise a chance to speak.”

“We came in and she was lying on the floor, cold as snow.” Alvise jerks his chin toward the yellow silk lace in the middle of the floor. “Someone tried to suffocate her with that bodice lace.”

“The Wicked One,” says Giallino. “Yep, that's who.”

“Neve's not stupid,” says Baffi. “She'd never let The Wicked One in.”

“How could she keep her out? She's a girl and The Wicked One is powerful.” Giordano shakes his head. “We need to put a bolt across the door.”

“I bet Neve let her in willingly,” says Bini. “She always says we shouldn't call her The Wicked One. She refuses to believe her stepmother wants her dead.”

“She won't refuse now,” says Giallino. “If she lives. She's not moving.”

“Ai!” Tommaso falls to his knees. “She has to live. I love her.”

“We all love her, Tommaso.” It's Ricci.

Alvise knew the girl had won their hearts, one by one. Every time she said “please,” and meant it. Every time she sat on a stool and didn't complain about it being so low. Every time she didn't smile at them as though they were cute or funny—that sealed it. How you can love someone for what they don't do, for simply being a decent person…that's how it happened, though. Neve treats them like people. She works hard. She doesn't always do things right the first time, but she learns fast and does them right the second time. And her smile, it could make a man fall to his knees. Alvise doesn't even know if the girl likes any of them, but he knows all of them love her. He's grateful Ricci was the one to say it. He senses a change in the room. They're more united than they ever were before.

Good God, let this girl live.

Giordano gets his pillow and puts it under Neve's head. “Her color's returning. Don't you think so?”

“It's hard to tell, it's so dark.” Giallino goes to the door. “I'll get dry firewood. Tommaso, help me. You're our best fire starter. You've got the patience.”

Tommaso stares at Giallino. Alvise watches: the poor kid, he's not used to praise. Alvise has to find opportunities to praise all of them.

“It's the best thing you can do for her now,” says Giallino. “We need to keep her warm.”

Bini takes the blanket from his bed and lays it over Neve. He looks at Tommaso. “Our blanket's thicker than hers, right?”

Tommaso nods. He leaves with Giallino.

An hour later, the fire is roaring, the hedgehogs are roasting, the water buckets have been refilled, the burned stew has been fed to the dogs, the big pot has been scrubbed out by the riverside with pebbles, and the table has been set. Everyone worked, no one grumbled. Alvise calls them to the table.

“We shouldn't eat till Neve can join us,” says Tommaso.

Alvise kneels over Neve. “Neve?” He puts his face closer. “Neve?” Did her eyelashes flutter?
Thank you, God in heaven. Thank you!

Neve looks up at him. Her mouth opens, but she doesn't speak.

Alvise helps her sit up and get to her stool. Her hands press against her ribs. Her bodice hangs open, but she's fully covered by the smock underneath. Still, it feels wrong to leave her like that. Her old lace lies on the floor. Alvise grabs it and holds it out to her.

Neve pulls away, shaking her head. She blinks fast. She's panting now.

Alvise doesn't know what to do. “Well.” He turns to the others. “What are we waiting for?”

Giallino serves the meat. Bini comes around with the sauce. They eat.

“Oh,” murmurs Neve. She's the first to break the silence. “It's delicious.”

“You almost died,” says Tommaso.

Neve's lips part, then close, then part. “The hazelnut sauce is so good.”

Bini nods. “Tommaso's right.”

Neve sits up tall. Resolve masks her face. “Bini gave me ideas. Teach me recipes, all of you. We'll eat better from now on.”

“Recipes?” says Ricci. He gives her a hard look. “We're waiting.”

Neve's hand trembles. She puts down her knife. “It was an old peddler woman.”

“The Wicked One,” says Bini.

“I told you she'd come looking,” says Giallino. “Yep, I told you.”

Neve takes a deep breath. “Maybe.” Her shoulders fall. She looks around at them. “You saved me.” She's blinking fast.

“We're putting a bolt across the door tomorrow,” says Giordano.

“And we'll take turns coming back to the cabin every so often all day long to check on you,” says Baffi.

“If she comes this way again,” says Ricci, “I'll kill her.”

Neve puts her hand over her mouth. She shakes her head.

“Oh, yeah?” says Bini. “You want to die?”

“It's you or her,” says Giordano. “That's the long and the short of it. And we won't let it be you.”

Neve stares at Giordano. Tears well in her eyes. Alvise doesn't know what to do. Tears stream down her face now. “I didn't believe it. I couldn't. The last night we were together she said I was truly beautiful. She said she loved me so much. Why?” Her voice strangles on a sob. She looks around at them. Then she folds one fist inside the other and beats them rapidly against her chest right under her throat. “Recipes? Please?”

“I can gather porcini,” says Tommaso quickly. “They're good with squirrel. I know a special place. And they're big ones—rust-colored and heavy as a goose egg.” Tommaso leans forward. “On private property. But I can sneak them.”

“Don't get in trouble just for mushrooms,” says Neve quietly.

Baffi frowns. “Never call porcini ‘just mushrooms.' ”

“I saw other mushrooms at the base of an old fig tree,” says Ricci. “Tall and skinny and white, with little ball crowns at the top. They might be
chiodini.
”

“
Chiodini
and chestnuts—they go perfect with pigeon,” says Giordano. “And we've got plenty of chestnuts.”

“It's a strange winter when porcini and
chiodini
are still popping up after the feast of Santo Stefano.” Alvise smiles. He raises his glass. “To a strange winter, and a safe one.”

They all drink.

“Who cut my lace?” asks Neve. Her hands are on her ribs again.

“I did,” says Alvise.

“How did you guess it was too tight?”

“The ends were knotted. Otherwise, I could have pulled it out. But I had to cut it. You never knot the ends. You make a bow.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Alvise realizes how revealing they are. He shouldn't know so much about Neve's bodice. He swallows in confusion.

“It was new,” says Bini. “We saw the new yellow silk. That was it.”

Neve looks hard at them. Then she smiles. “Thank heaven for that.”

A
gnola stands behind Dolce in the large hall. Dolce's looking in the mirror again. She was muttering to it just moments ago, but as Agnola approached she stopped. “What were you saying, Dolce?”

Dolce twirls around. Her speed surprises Agnola, for she sometimes moves across a room stopping at each piece of furniture as though to steady herself. Dolce just looks at her.

“I'd really like to know what you say to the mirror.”

Dolce doesn't even shrug.

Agnola gives up. “Your skin looks strange. Did you do something to it?”

Dolce nods.

“It looks like you've been scrubbing at it. Hard. Why, your cheeks are practically raw. Do they hurt?”

Dolce touches her face. She's wearing gloves. Gloves, and she's still got her shift on. “Yes. I hurt everywhere.”

“Let's go back to your room.”

“How can that help? I hurt inside.”

“Let's try.” Agnola rings the bell on the wall and takes Dolce's arm.

Lucia La Rotonda comes up the stairs in an instant. Dolce and Agnola haven't even walked halfway down the hall yet. Everyone seems to be moving faster than Agnola expects them to. It makes her feel suddenly old. “We need a lovely, soothing lotion, please.”

“Of course, Signorina,” says Lucia La Rotonda. She turns toward the stairs.

Agnola hates it when people address her as “signorina.” At her age, she deserves the title of “signora” just as a sign of respect. Still, she knows Lucia La Rotonda does it out of history—Agnola will probably always be “signorina” to her. “No, wait. I learned a new recipe.”

Lucia La Rotonda turns back around. She folds her hands at her waist. “I have many good recipes.”

“You'll be glad to learn this one,” says Agnola, with what she hopes is grace. “I just learned about it at the Pisoni palace.”

Lucia La Rotonda quivers just the slightest bit. She's as ambitious as anyone could be. Like a harp, touch her in the right place and she sings. Agnola feels slightly guilty playing her this way.

“Yes?” says Lucia La Rotonda.

“Boil equal parts rose water and lemon juice—”

“Excuse me, Signorina, but the lemon juice has gotten stronger, sitting so long since summer. Perhaps less lemon, then?”

“That sounds sensible. Certainly,” says Agnola. “Once it has reached a boil, add crushed almonds. But they must be crushed very finely. Stir and boil till the whole mixture is milky and thick. It could take—”

“A quarter hour to a half hour,” says Lucia La Rotonda.

“Of course. When it's smooth and cool, please bring it to us. With a sponge. And we could use your masterful hand with the bathing.”

Lucia La Rotonda gives a satisfied smile and leaves.

“You are a model of patience, Agnola,” says Dolce.

“Maybe that's my problem.”

Dolce nods. She puts a hand on the glass chest-bench against the wall and lowers herself onto it. “Nothing is easy.” She looks down.

The chest-bench is empty. Filling it was Bianca's job. Agnola makes a mental note to get flowers tomorrow. “Let's go to your room, Dolce. I'll help you out of your shift and into something pretty.”

Dolce mumbles.

“What did you say?”

“Clothes can't make you beautiful.”

“No, they can't.” Agnola pats Dolce's arm, half lifts her, and guides her the rest of the way. Dolce seems more childlike every day. “But clothes can help in other ways. Maybe today you can wear something different. Something to lift your spirits. Clothing can remind you of the lovely things in life. It can remind you of who you are.”

“Who am I?”

“Oh, Dolce!” Agnola's heart breaks. “Life goes on. For a while…” Her own voice catches. Then she gets hold of herself. “For a while we may forget why. Why we get up in the morning and dress and eat and talk and sleep. We can forget. I know, Dolce. I miss her, too. So very much. We've all come undone inside. But you, you are coming undone outside, too. And that makes it worse.”

They go into Dolce's room.

Dolce walks to a rear window and lifts one corner of the red taffeta curtain. Sunshine frames her head and shoulders in a rosy haze. “I saw her.”

Agnola doesn't know how to respond. So she keeps her mouth shut.

“I couldn't touch her. I wanted to. I wanted so much to feel her skin on mine. But I couldn't take off my gloves, you see.”

Agnola's breath is stuck in her chest.

“She has nothing anymore. No luxuries. No silverware. No porcelain or brass or copper. No linen chest even. She's desolate.” Dolce turns around. Tears fill her eyes.

“Dolce, dear Dolce.” Agnola hugs Dolce, who stands rigid in her arms.

“All she has is her beautiful hair. It's still glorious. She's still beautiful. Insanely beautiful. But no one can see it. No one except…”

“Except…you?”

“The beds.”

“Beds?”

“I believe Bianca is like me now. Like I was as a child. The odd one, the lonely one. Isn't that funny, Agnola? Bianca is back where I started.” A sob catches in Dolce's throat. “I never wanted that. I hate it that she should feel that way. So lost.”

Agnola runs her hands up and down Dolce's arms. “However Bianca is now, that's how she's supposed to be. That's how the good Lord wants it.”

Dolce pulls back and her eyes light up. She looks sharp again. She does that. Dolce pulls off her shift.

“Your skin!” Agnola's hands go to her cheeks. But she drops them; she mustn't alarm Dolce. “You're peeling.”

Dolce looks down at her chest. “I'm flaking away.”

“You just need that lotion. It's wonderful. We'll massage it into you everywhere.”

“I heard you with Pietro in the music room last night.”

A tingle of fear rushes up Agnola's chest and throat.

“Don't worry. I'm glad you've found a better spot than the storeroom. And you needn't fear: I didn't put my ear to the door.”

Agnola goes to the fireplace and leans against the marble for support. She looks at Dolce. This is surely leading somewhere.

“But…” Dolce pauses. “Pietro was laughing. Both of you were laughing.” She sits on the bed. The bed skirt is crimson silk. The coverlet is crimson silk. Dolce's colorless skin seems lost in a sea of blood.

She lies down. Her naked body is beautiful, no matter how much she might be failing. That body is any man's ideal. Except Pietro's. Pietro is hungry for Agnola's body. Pietro loves her.

“Is Pietro generally happy, Agnola? Or was it just a momentary pleasure?”

“I'm not sure what you're asking, Dolce. And I'm not sure you have the right to ask it anyway.”

“I need to know. Please.”

“Why? Why on earth would you need to know such a thing?”

“Agnola, if you tell me, I will tell you what I say to Mirror.”

“Mirror? You mean the big mirror in the grand hall? You call it by name?”

“Yes.”

When Dolce passes through the big hall, she never fails to look in that mirror. She mumbles to it several times a day, and often cries. She cries silently, but her whole body shakes. Agnola is convinced Dolce's deterioration is somehow tied up with that mirror. Yes, yes, of course, it's because of Bianca. But the mirror is twisting Dolce, turning her inside out. Agnola needs to know what Dolce says to it. And surely the answer to Dolce's question is not harmful to Pietro. How could it be?

“All right. I agree.” Agnola pats her own chest to calm herself. “Pietro is a levelheaded man. He's generally optimistic in spite of the ugliness of the world.”

“What ugliness? Did something ugly happen recently? Did something happen over the last few days? Since you went to the afternoon party at the Pisoni palace?”

“No. Nothing new.”

“Are you sure?”

“I think so.”

“Nothing sad?”

“Sad? What are you asking me, Dolce?”

“How's the dog business going?”

“He fetched a lapdog from the trainers just two days ago. For the Pisonis' youngest daughter, Camilla. You know her. The one with all the ringlets. The little beauty.”

“She's not that beautiful.”

“She will be someday. Anyway, she said she wanted a puppy at that party, so I recommended Pietro, of course. Camilla is apparently thrilled with the dog. Pietro's happy.”

“And his dog trainer friends, they're happy?”

“I don't know them.”

“But Pietro didn't say they were sad about anything?”

“No. Nothing like that. Why do you ask these things?”

“Another failure. I feared as much.” Dolce holds her hands up and shakes her head at them. “Weak. I can't do anything with these hands anymore. I was strong once. I could have pulled laces tight enough to crush ribs.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I owe you only one answer.” Dolce sits up. “I ask Mirror if I'm beautiful, if I'm the most beautiful one.”

Oh. Such a simple and stupid thing. Agnola should have bargained for the answer to her other burning question. She's been a fool.

“Do you want to know what Mirror answers? No.”

“But you are beautiful,” says Agnola.

“Mirror is never wrong. And you have confirmed that.”

Agnola grits her teeth. This discussion makes her angry against her will. “I don't understand. You never seemed to care about this before, and now…now it's all you speak of.”

“We all have our peculiar ways, Agnola. Are mine that different?”

“Yes, they are, Dolce. They disgrace you. They diminish your soul. Vanity carried to such an extreme, bah!”

“It's not for the sake of vanity. It's for the sake of love.” Dolce closes her eyes. She's silent.

“Are you drowsy? Have you been taking monkshood in the daytime?”

“Monkshood?” Dolce's eyes shoot open. “Who has monkshood?”

“That's what the physician gave us all, to help us sleep after…”

“No. He called the medicine something else…wolfsbane.”

“It's the same thing. He warned us to use it sparingly, and just at night. It's dangerous.”

“I know about monkshood, Agnola. I learned about it as a child.”

“Don't overuse it.”

“I haven't.” Dolce hugs herself. “Indeed, I haven't made the use of it I should have. My hands are weak and useless, but monkshood is strong poison. And I know the right amount. This is a better way by far.”

Agnola goes cold. “What do you mean?”

Dolce looks at her sharply. “Did I speak out loud? Don't pay attention.”

Agnola sits on the edge of the bed. “Why didn't you come with me to the Pisoni party?” she says softly.

“I had things to do.”

“Where?”

“What do you mean, where? Household chores…”

“Don't lie to me, Dolce. I know you were gone the whole day. You said not to disturb you, but I came into your room before I left, to check on you. You were gone. And Antonin was gone. You told me to have the Contarini women bring me to the party because you needed to send Antonin on an errand, but that wasn't true. You had Antonin take you someplace.”

“You're right.”

“Where did you go?”

“It's private.”

“Tell me.”

Dolce puts a hand on Agnola's shoulder. “I'll tell you, and in exchange you'll do me another favor.”

“It's better if we just talk to each other openly. Like we used to do. Like sisters.”

“Sisters do each other favors. And I need a favor, Agnola.”

“What kind of favor?”

“Another disguise.”

“I thought you liked the peddler outfit.”

“I did. Now I want something else.”

“What?”

“A daily dress, but fine. Like we would wear most days. And not in any usual color of Venezia dresses. Maybe in orange.”