Heart of Glass (4 page)

“Welcome,” says a voice from behind her mask. I recognize her at once—from the mask’s feline design and the husky tones. It’s Grazia de Ferrara. The simple silver ring on her middle finger might look like a cheap market trinket, but for those of us initiated into the Segreta, it is the sign that someone is in the upper echelons of Venice’s most exclusive club. Simple, demure—but a sign of great power. One day I hope to wear one like it, but for now I’m still in the lower ranks of this secret society. Beside Grazia is the woman who leads us, with gray-streaked hair and sharp eyes of bright green: Allegreza di Rocco. Allegreza clutches a mask, its eyeholes framed by jewels and lace, its edges sparkling with gold feathers. Allegreza’s ring has a small ruby embedded in it, made for her by one of the best jewelers in the city. If the master craftsman only knew what Allegreza had commissioned from him!

“I hope you are well,” I say to Grazia.

She takes the mask from her face, and her eyes, as so often, are watchful and sad. Grazia, Allegreza and I are bonded by a secret not known even to the rest of the Segreta: Grazia’s daughter Carina was killed in Venice’s
waters. Turned to spite through twisted love, it was she who killed Beatrice. When I revealed what I knew, she tried to kill me and, in the process, died herself. The image of her writhing in pain in the flames of a burning boat and the sound of her shrieks will never leave me.

“Old friends!” a voice calls softly. I recognize the tone of Paulina’s whispers as she arrives, out of breath.

“So glad to see you finally,” I say.

Paulina puts a hand on my arm. “I’m so sorry! My cousins were visiting and I couldn’t get away. Anyway, you’re a big girl now! You can choose dresses without me.”

I feel a frown crease my brow, but it’s hard to stay cross with Paulina for long. “No matter, Faustina came with me.”

“Oh no!” she whispers. “You’ll be wearing a burlap sack on your wedding day!”

I giggle, drawing a sharp glance from Grazia. Segreta business is rarely mirthful. “We’ll be sisters-in-law soon,” I say to Paulina.

“Not long now!” she says. “Perhaps you can spare Nicolo and me a small room in your palace.”

She’s smiling as she speaks, and her eyes flicker like molten gold in the candlelight. This isn’t the first time she’s said this, and I wonder if the repetition is intentional. It seems every time we meet she makes some comment about being disinherited or impoverished. It’s true that since Roberto returned from hiding, Nicolo is no longer his father’s heir, but Paulina’s barbed jokes make me uncomfortable. It is not as if Paulina will ever be poor, and our friendship is worth more than money. To me, anyway.

“You know you’ll always be welcome with us, don’t you?” I say.

“Of course!” she replies, but still she can’t seem to look me in the eye.

Allegreza walks into the center of the group and we form a tight circle of the initiated, sworn to loyalty. I wonder whether Teresa will turn up at the time I suggested.

“We have an important matter to discuss,” announces Allegreza. “Word comes from our sisters abroad: a secret message written in ammonia salts. A boat will arrive here tomorrow evening. Because of the extra security at the harbor, our visitor will disembark at the island of Murano to be met by one of our representatives.” She gazes around the room. “I need a volunteer.”

Before I can open my mouth to speak, Paulina moves forward. “I’ll go.”

But Allegreza shakes her head. “You are too inexperienced.” Paulina’s cheeks flush, and she steps back into the circle. Allegreza’s voice softens. “We would not wish any harm to befall you.” Our leader’s gaze drifts to me.

“Laura,” she says. “You wish to say something?”

I find myself stepping forward. “I can help, if it is what you wish.” Even as the words leave my mouth, I remember the grand masquerade ball that is to take place in the streets around St. Mark’s tomorrow night. No wonder the rest of the group stays silent—they all want to dance and enjoy the carnival.

Allegreza bows her head in acknowledgment. “Thank you, Laura,” she says. And the matter is closed. When I turn to Paulina, she is already walking away.

There’s a muffled knock from the doorway, and a rush of cold air as the door is opened. Then, footsteps on the stairs, and Teresa steps into the room. She’s a little early.
Quickly, everyone slides their masks over their faces. Allegreza turns into an owl, Grazia morphs into a sly black cat. I bring my own mask down to hide my expression, the swan feathers tickling my cheeks as I tie the silk ribbons around my head. As Teresa looks about, she’s surrounded by a collection of hidden faces.

“Who are you, and what brings you here?” Allegreza asks, her voice stern.

Teresa clears her throat. The bruise on her eye has deepened, as dark as ripe black grapes.

“My name is Teresa,” she begins, her voice shaking. “I was invited here.”

Eyes dart around the room but I say nothing. Now is not the time.

“My husband is a fighting man, a soldier,” she goes on. “But he has learned to love his fists too much.” A hand flutters up to her face, to indicate her injuries. “I was told help might wait for me here tonight.”

“That depends,” says Allegreza.

The rest of the women stand as still as statues. I remember how it felt to be scrutinized by the Segreta.

“We trade favors for secrets,” says Allegreza. “Do you have a secret you can share?”

“What do you mean?” asks Teresa.

Allegreza spreads her hands, and her voice is gentle. “I mean, we will help you, but there is a price.”

Teresa shakes her head slowly. “I have no secrets.”

This brings titters and chuckles from the room, even from me. Allegreza’s eyes narrow behind her mask. “Everyone has secrets. Would you like to take a moment to think?”

Teresa stares hard at the floor, clearly trying to contain her emotions.

I step forward and put a hand on her arm. “I was the one who summoned you here,” I tell her gently. “I want to make your life easier, but you must do this thing for us first. Secrets are everywhere, and what seems innocuous to you might be the difference between life and death for another. Think carefully.”

When she looks back up at us, the tears finally spill from her eyes.

“Gunpowder,” she says.

Hisses and whispers fly from the women, crowding in the air above our heads like a flock of birds.

“Quiet,” Allegreza orders. She stares at the woman. “Go on.”

“I remember my husband talking about armaments, stockpiled in the … I think he said the Arsenal.” Teresa wrings her hands. She knows that her words put her life in danger. The contents of the Arsenal are a closely guarded secret.

“And what did your husband say?” I ask her.

“He said the gunpowder stores were tainted during the last flood. It’s almost all useless now. Whole barrels of it. Admiral Massimo is furious and told him not to tell anyone. But when my husband drinks, his tongue is as loose as his fists.”

This is very interesting indeed. Gunpowder is the source of our power on the seas. If our enemies were to discover this, the whole city could be in danger.

“Well done,” Allegreza says, coming to place a hand on the woman’s arm. “You have guaranteed your safety. In return
for your secret, we can initiate you into our group.” She jerks her arm, and a small dagger emerges from her sleeve, her hand grasping the hilt. The blade glitters.

Teresa backs away. “What is your intention?”

Allegreza smiles and turns the blade in the light. “It is nothing, really. A small nick across your palm. Here, give me your hand.”

But Teresa is cowering against the wall now. “I don’t want to be cut! I’m a simple woman.” She looks from face to face, her eyes wild. “Please, let me go.”

Allegreza makes a small movement, and her dagger disappears. “Calm yourself,” she says gently. “You can leave us. We will put your problem to rights.”

A sob escapes Teresa as her eyes dart, like those of a trapped animal, to the door. “Thank you, thank you.”

She turns on her heel and walks up the stone steps out of the cellar. She’s at the top when Allegreza calls out, “Remember, Teresa, say nothing of what you’ve seen here.”

Teresa disappears into the night. Not all are made to be members of the Segreta, and I wonder if I’ll ever see her again.

There is a few moments’ pause. “If what she tells us is true,” I say, “our ships are guard dogs without any teeth.”

“And Massimo is in trouble,” says another of the women, referring to the Admiral. “The blame will fall on him if this comes out. That must be why he’s keeping this a secret—we would have heard if he’d made an official report to the Doge on the matter.”

“But how can we use the information?” says Allegreza.

Silence stretches between us. I can’t think of a single sensible theory to put forward. Paulina, her eyes wide
behind her turquoise-trimmed mask, lets out a sigh of frustration. “That woman’s secret means nothing!”

But Grazia steps into the center of the circle. “Not so hasty, young one,” she says. How many secrets has Grazia known? How many years has she been a member of the Society? Since before I was born, I’d vouch. “No information is without value,” she says. “That woman is married to a soldier—part of a world we rarely glimpse. We should wait and watch our chess pieces. When the time is right, we’ll know what move to make.”

Allegreza nods slowly. “There’s wisdom in your words, sister. Even a lowly pawn can achieve a checkmate. In the meantime, we must look to solve Teresa’s problem. That should be easier.”

“Agreed,” we murmur. One by one, we climb the stairs to leave. Another secret has been shared tonight. Another mystery awaits.

5

A girl in scarlet tights walks above our heads. Emilia and I crane our necks back to watch as she balances on a taut rope stretched between two hooks high on the walls. She holds out her arms over the stiff net skirt that surrounds her hips, as satin slippers, dyed the same color as her stockings, curl with the precarious grip of her toes on the rope.

“Don’t jump!” calls out a boisterous man, and his friends laugh as the girl passes over them. They stare greedily at her long limbs, encased in silk.

“Unbelievable,” Emilia breathes. A group of lute players passes before us, followed by a performer wearing the familiar uniform of a colorful patched tunic and leggings. He hops nimbly and turns a cartwheel, and we are forced to leap, laughing, out of his way.

Emilia’s cheeks are flushed from the heat of the ballroom, and she holds her hands to her sides. She is wearing an embroidered dress with a frilled collar at her breast. Her throat is as white as alabaster, and her hair sparkles with
the gold ribbons that draw back her curls. Around us pass men and women wearing ornate masks covered in feathers and sequins, gathered scraps of lace and fluttering curtains of silk. Sinister hooked beaks, laughing clown faces and feathered hats abound. Ribbons quickly work themselves loose, and the heat of the room has people pushing their masks down to dangle around their throats.

“Good evening, Laura!” a voice calls out—one of Father’s friends. People dance with dramatic flourishes, goblets are quickly drained of wine and platters of cold meats are picked clean.

“So, how do you like it?” I ask Emilia, taking two glasses of wine from a passing tray.

“It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen before,” she replies, grasping the stem of her glass. “Do you ever grow used to this?” Her eyes shine with admiration.

“It’s new to me too!” I reply. I remember listening to these long nights of celebration from my convent cell.

“When you grow used to nights like this,” says Lysander, “you know it’s time to rest.”

I look up and see a prominent merchant leaning against a wall on the far side, smiling into the face of a younger man. The youth, in doublet and hose, leans a hand on the wall so that his face draws near the other man’s. He whispers in the Councilor’s ear and then nestles his face in the crook of the man’s neck. As the elder statesman smiles, his glance catches mine across the crowded room. If we were out in the streets of Venice, by light of day, he would undoubtedly flinch away from his companion under the scrutiny of a stranger. Instead, he raises a hand in greeting. I send a curtsy in return.

There is the loud stamp of a staff on the parquet floor and two wide doors swing open.

“The Grand Council of Venice and the Florentine embassy!” announces a crier. A group of men in ornate ruffled shirts and deep robes walk into the room. My father is one of them, his chin raised proudly. He walks beside a man whom I recognize as Massimo, Admiral of the Fleet. They call him the Bear on account of his being so stocky and heavily bearded. Behind the Councilors come our visitors from Florence. Each wears a cloak dyed red, with what I guess is cochineal, and sewn with gold thread. Florence’s wealth is on show tonight. The men arrive in the center of the ballroom and turn to greet the women who have gathered around them, in their skirts of rainbow colors. As lips brush against fingertips, it is like watching an ancient and complex ritual.

“When do I get to meet your betrothed?” Emilia whispers in my ear. She stands on tiptoe to survey the room.