Heart of Glass (25 page)

I gasp. “But the Piombi is a place for men.”

“Massimo is making an example of her. Quite right too.”

“I saw Roberto after he was mistreated,” I say. “I can’t bear to think of someone else suffering like that.”

Lysander raises his eyebrows. “Perhaps she deserves it, little sister.”

“Well, I for one hope she isn’t suffering,” says Emilia, shaking the shawl from around her shoulders. “I think there’s more to it than the pamphlets suggest. Women don’t go round stirring up trouble and murdering people for the sake of it.”

“You’re right,” I say. “There’s a reason this happened, surely. If it’s even true.”

“I don’t care about reasons,” Lysander says. “The law is the law! No one should take a life. If this is what women do to make their voices heard in Venice, then they should be silenced!”

I can’t listen to him any longer. “Would you have me silenced?” I demand. “Or Emilia? Are you saying we don’t deserve a voice because we wear dresses? For shame, brother. I thought better of you.”

Emilia places a hand on Lysander’s chest. “Really, darling, we should leave Laura alone.”

But now Lysander’s blood is up too. He shakes her off and points at me. “Don’t twist my words,” he says.

“I don’t need to,” I say. “You already sound just like Father.”

A low blow, I know, but Lysander has made me so angry.

He seizes Emilia’s arm and leads her with him from the room.

“Lysander!” Emilia tries to protest, but he isn’t listening.

Faustina is gaping, still holding the comb to her chest. “Men!” she mutters.

From my brother’s chamber, I hear raised voices behind the closed door. I hurry down the stairs, away from the angry sounds. At the bottom, I pause. Whether it was deliberate or not—I cannot tell—I find myself beneath the portrait Roberto painted of me.

That day he delivered it, before I knew who he really was, the work astounded me. He’d captured every detail of my face, and each brushstroke sang of his insight. He knew me so well, even then.

But I don’t recognize that girl anymore. The glint in her eye, the promise that seems to linger about her, both have gone. All that remains of the girl I was is this portrait.

Roberto fooled me back then, when he was Giacomo the painter. Perhaps he’s fooled me as Roberto too.

35

I can’t live like this. Allegreza is being tortured and the Segreta are in more danger than I ever thought possible. Meanwhile, we each sit in our separate homes, gazing listlessly out of windows or picking at meals.
How can we call ourselves a society
, I think,
when not one of us is doing anything to help our leader?

And just like that, my decision is made. I call to a servant boy to fetch my shawl. Before anyone else in the household can notice, I slip out and summon a gondola. Soon I am gliding down the liquid paths of the city and I emerge beside a small market where a beggar always sits in the shade of a stunted tree.

I drop a coin into her hat. Few would know that this toothless unfortunate, with her blind eye and hunched back, is a trusted messenger of the Segreta. I’ve learned never to underestimate anyone.

I kneel beside her. To onlookers, I’m a well-to-do lady with a soft heart. Little do they know that Margarita needs no one’s pity.

“God bless you,” she says.

“I need you to send the message out,” I tell her. “To meet in the carpenter’s basement.”

Margarita raises an eyebrow. “These are dark times,” she says. “I hear Allegreza is having her fingernails torn from their beds even as we speak.”

I can’t help wincing and Margarita notices, cackling with laughter.

“And who are you to make such a request?” She gives a gentle burp, staring brazenly into my face.

I reach into my velvet purse, pulling out a soft leather pouch that hangs heavy with coins.

“How many?” I ask.

Margarita grins, revealing black holes in her gums. “All of them,” she says, snatching the pouch from me. She doesn’t bother to count, stuffing the leather into her filthy cloak. She shifts herself on the ground. I straighten up and reach out a hand to help her, ignoring the creases of dirt in the wrinkles of her palm.

With a grunt, she’s on her feet.

“By seven this evening, Margarita.”

She’s already moving away from me, leaning heavily on a crutch.

“Make way for the lady!” shouts a stallholder, and his friends break into laughter. I shake my head as I watch her depart the square.

A candle sputters in the draft as the carpenter’s door opens for only the fifth time. Five of us, out of the whole of our number—dozens of women, perhaps more. The last of the five slips into the room, her face hidden behind her feline mask.

I look around. I remember the first time I encountered this small, damp room with its low ceiling. I thought I was coming to a music recital. Little did I know where the low doorway would lead. Back then, glittering masks crowded the room. Now I stand with four women only. None wears the silver ring of seniority, but what can I expect after my performance at the convent?

“Is this it?” I ask, despairing.

One of the faceless women shrugs. “I came against all my better instincts. There’s a curfew, you know. Pamphlets spreading evil lies about the Segreta. We’re risking our lives, just to be here.”

“I’ve seen the pamphlets, but we cannot rest when our leader languishes in the Piombi. We must help her.”

“She wouldn’t want us to endanger ourselves,” says another woman. “The society is greater than any one individual.”

“So we should just leave her?” I say, my voice raised.

“All I’m saying is—”

Another woman pats the air. “We’re on the same side, remember. Let’s remain calm.”

There’s a sudden creak of wood and the stained door inches open. A slight woman steps into the room, glancing furtively over her shoulder. When she turns her face back to the room, I see a turquoise-lined mask. Paulina! Immediately, I feel my face flush. Last time we saw each other, she was cursing Roberto’s name, clawing at my hair.

But before I can say a word, she rushes over to me and takes me by the shoulders, pulling me to her.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers into my hair. “For
everything I said. Everything!” She stands back and her eyes are rimmed with tears. “Please forgive me, Laura.”

I pull her mask back, the better to see her face. She looks dreadful, her eyes bloodshot, her skin sallow. She’s lost weight. “Of course I forgive you. Thank you for coming.”

“What do you want us to do?” asks a woman from behind a fox’s face, and her voice trembles.

I start walking around the room again, moving from one person to the next. I feel hopelessly unsuitable for the role of leader. How can they respect a woman not even eighteen years old? What if they laugh at my plan?

“God knows what they are doing to her,” I say. “We have a power, and we must use it. Secrets!”

“What secret can free Allegreza?” says Paulina.

“Massimo is the key,” I say. “He holds the power to release our leader. And think, what do we know about Massimo?”

“The gunpowder …,” the fox whispers. “Teresa’s secret.”

“That’s right,” I say, pleased to see my thinking is shared. “If the news of the ruined explosives gets out, Massimo will be shamed—publicly disgraced.”

“It’s a risky move,” says the woman in the cat mask.

“If we were forced to make good on our threat to leak this information,” says Paulina, “that would be treason. And with our enemies waiting, Venice’s poor defenses are laid bare.”

I incline my head. “True. But what is more important? Loyalty to the city or to the man who has usurped power? Who has fought harder for us, do you think?”

I watch the others carefully. It’s impossible to read their
body language, and their expressions are hidden behind their masks. I don’t even know if Allegreza would approve of this tactic. I could be casting my final die with the Segreta.

One by one, the other members nod.

“I’ll do it,” says Paulina quietly.

“Do what?” I ask.

“You’ll need a volunteer to deliver this message. Someone you can trust.”

“Are you sure?” I say. “I was going to do it myself.”

My childhood friend shrugs. “I have access to the Doge’s palace, don’t I? Why not put it to good use? I can make sure a blackmail letter lands in the right hands.”

I know she’s underplaying things. She’ll be putting herself in a position of extreme danger. If Massimo finds out who delivered the letter … He could lose his temper, drag her to the authorities or exact a colder revenge.

“Allegreza will thank you herself, one day soon,” I say, reaching for my friend’s hand. I squeeze her cold fingers.

36

I make my way back to the house and slip upstairs to hide in my room, picking up a half-finished piece of lace without much enthusiasm. How different are the two lives I lead.

We drafted the letter quickly, and Paulina has promised it will be delivered tomorrow. I urged her to be careful, but there was something so desperate about her this evening that I fear for her life.

Around ten o’clock, Faustina’s face appears in the doorway. She’s panting from climbing the stairs.

“Your father’s back,” she hisses, “and he has a guest with him. You’re expected to dine with your brother and his wife.”

I sigh and put down my lace. A guest—at this hour? “I’m not hungry,” I say.

“Your father insisted,” says Faustina.

She opens my closet and takes out a high-waisted mulberry velvet dress with ermine trim. I think about being stubborn, but I know this is a battle I can’t win. Besides,
perhaps the guest is one of the Council. If he’s drunk, there may be information I can glean that could prove helpful to the Segreta.

Dressing quickly, I paint a smile on my face and rush downstairs.

But the moment I step into the room, the smile falls. I want to turn and run.

A man stands before me with a mouth of crooked teeth splitting into a grin. His shoulders are stooped, and his thin frame sags beneath clothes too large for him. Liver spots are scattered across his face like splotches of spilt ink.

Vincenzo.

“Good evening, Laura,” he says, flecks of spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth. He gives a deep, mocking bow before straightening up again—or straightening up as much as his twisted body will allow. My father watches from a corner of the room, his eyes dark as coal. Emilia looks aghast and Lysander not a little troubled.

“I … I don’t understand. How—”

“How is it that I’m back in Venice?” he says. “Let’s just say that the injustices of the past have been rectified. The Council have recalled me.”

But only one man had the authority to recall an exile—the Doge—and he would never have done so. The pieces fall into place. “Massimo must have summoned you weeks ago,” I say. Which means the rebel faction must have been in contact for some time.

“Let’s say our Admiral is a man of vision,” says Vincenzo. “He knows my fleet is second to none. Venice needs her friends now.”

This at least is true. I wonder if Massimo has already
shared details of the defective gunpowder with people he trusts. If war comes, then Venice requires all the ships and ammunition she can muster.

“I look forward to dining with old friends,” says Vincenzo. He grins at me, and though he’s no longer a threat, I struggle to feel anything other than revulsion for him.

“Welcome back,” I say, lowering my body in a curtsy. Father smiles, and I know I have done well by him. It makes my insides churn.

Vincenzo steps closer, his robes rustling as he moves. Clearly, exile from his homeland has treated him well. His doublet is embroidered in gold thread and is deeply quilted. Sable lines his cloak, which he now throws over a shoulder, the better to reveal the heavy gold chain that sits on his chest. The Doge generously let him keep his fleet when he was banished, and business must have been good.

He takes my hand. Before I can snatch it back, he raises it to his lips and kisses my fingers. I feel the wet touch of his lips.

“Still no wedding band, I notice.” He drops my hand, his face full of wicked delight. My whole body is rigid with tension. “So like a dove,” he adds, his gaze traveling shamelessly over me. “Pure and white, cooing softly.” He laughs.