Heart of Glass (6 page)

“Are you coming with us?” Lysander asks.

“Perhaps I’ll surprise someone instead.”

My brother shakes his head in mock disapproval. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell Father—or Faustina.” He shifts
Emilia’s sleeping body in his arms. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

I wave him off as he carries his wife down the steps towards a coach. But as I watch him leave, I can’t ignore the pricks of worry at the back of my neck. I’ve never seen Roberto drunk in all the months we’ve known each other.

It’s not hard to find a coach to take me to Roberto’s. They line up outside the palace, waiting to transport tired guests to their beds. I whisper the destination—a simple pension in the artisan quarter that Roberto keeps in secret, even though he could live in the luxury of his father’s palace. When we pull up outside, I slip out of the coach, its suspension creaking, and hand over a few coins to the driver.

“Would you like me to wait?” he asks. “I can be very discreet.”

I draw my cloak more tightly around my body. “No, thank you. That will be all,” I say coldly, although I can hardly blame him. Trysts between unmarried couples probably account for half his fares at this time of night. Faustina would have a heart attack if she knew where I was.

I turn to the wooden door that leads to Roberto’s rooms and straightaway I hear the sound of violent curses carrying down the stairs. The door, I see, is open a fraction. I step inside.

“Roberto?” I call up.

“Who’s there?” demands my betrothed. His tone of voice is startled and hostile.

“It’s me,” I answer stiffly.

“Don’t come in!” Roberto shouts down.

Something uncontrollable takes over. I run up the stairs.

“I will not be left to stand in the street,” I say, my voice full of anger. Roberto rushes to position himself at the top of the stairs, his feet braced, but I dart past him and stumble into near darkness.

An image flashes before my eyes: a woman’s body. I glance at Roberto, and his face is creased with anguish.

I look once more at the body on the floor. Her skin carries the faint blue stain of death. It is a color I know far too well—I saw it first on my sister Beatrice’s face as she lay in her coffin. But this woman doesn’t lie with her hands folded on her chest, her body cushioned by satin. Her dark limbs are flung out at awkward angles. Her face presses into the wooden floorboards. A trail of blood trickles from a corner of her mouth, and a larger wound blossoms across her corset. Her eyes look up at me, wide and accusing.

A scream worms up my throat, and I clamp my hands over my mouth as I look from the woman to Roberto.

In the gloom I see that he clutches a sword. It hangs from his fist, dripping blood onto the floor. He looks like a butcher. His shirt is torn open, and poppies of blood stain the white cotton. Red is splattered across his hose.

I find the strength to speak, backing towards the door again. “What have you done?” I whisper.

Roberto shakes his head over and over. He never stops shaking his head. His face is pale, and his hands tremble.

“I don’t know,” he whimpers. He takes a step towards me, and I find myself moving away. “I didn’t do anything!” he cries.

A whistle pierces the air, cutting off his words; then someone shouts, “It’s this one!” The sound of heavy-booted feet comes from the street outside. Roberto and I stare into
each other’s faces, unable to move or speak. One thought flashes through my head: it was all too good to be true. My happiness is over.

Roberto runs over to me, grips my arms so hard that it hurts. “Go, quickly! If you’re found here …” He throws an anguished glance at the body on the floor. He need say no more. He hustles me over to a window at the back of the room. It is barely wider than my skirts, but I find myself climbing onto a chair and forcing my body through the tiny opening.

There’s an angry shout from the stairs, and I let go, dropping to the street a few feet below. A low bush of bougainvillea breaks my fall, and I roll off it, cowering on the cobbles beneath the window. The last thing I see is Roberto’s terrified face at the window.

“Murderer!” cries a voice, thick with disgust. Then Roberto’s eyes widen as an arm comes around his throat and drags him away. I rock my body, shoving a fist into my mouth, forcing myself not to cry out. Squatting on the ground, among the scented petals, I stare at the moon high in the sky above Venice. My whole body shakes as I listen to the sounds of angry voices, until a door is slammed, and everything turns to quiet once more. In the far distance, a lute is being played by a lone musician in the night. But I don’t follow the tune. Instead, I listen to the sound of my own heart breaking.

8

I don’t take a coach home. I couldn’t face a driver—any person at all—the way I feel. I run across the Rialto Bridge, towards the wealthiest part of Venice. I barely notice the wide arches of the bridge or the market stalls, the banking houses or clock towers. I have only one thing in mind.

As I race up the marble steps of Allegreza’s home, the great oak doors stand firmly shut. I throw myself on them, banging my fists against the varnished wood and crying out. I don’t care who hears.

“Help—let me in!”

Will she hear my voice, from one of the many arched windows that gaze down over the canal? I grasp the door knocker, shaped like a writhing sea serpent, and bring the brass down again and again. But the noise seems muffled by the dawn air, and with a gasp of exhaustion I crumple to the ground, my skirts rising up around me like soft clouds. I hide my face in my hands and weep, kneeling on the steps of the grandest house in the district.

“Get up, child!”

I peer between my fingers at the timeworn face of an old woman wearing a huge white apron. She stands in the crack of the door, resting a hand on the bolt, ready to slam it shut again at any moment.

“Please,” I beg, scrambling to my feet. “Please let me in. Allegreza, she knows me. I need to see her!”

The woman’s whiskered face hardens. “Venice will sink into the sea before I let you in here at this hour.” She drags a hand across tired, puffy eyes. “You’ve woken half the household. How dare you show such—”

“That will be all,” says a voice.

The servant woman’s eyes widen in recognition, and I feel a small flicker of hope as she turns. Now I can see into the hallway. There stands Allegreza.

“Come in,” she says, throwing a glance to the servant who stands cowed, her gaze firmly on the tiled floor. “You may leave. Tell Effie to bring our guest a warming drink. We’ll be in the parlor.”

“But the fires aren’t lit yet—” begins the old woman. Allegreza silences her with a raised hand. “Of course, my lady,” the servant murmurs. “Right away.”

I step inside, and we wait for her to leave. I feel suddenly aware of my appearance—the dress stained from hiding in the street, locks of hair torn free from their pins, my eyes that surely must be red from crying. I try to smooth my skirt, but Allegreza holds out a hand to me.

“Come.”

She opens a tall mahogany door, and we let ourselves into the parlor. Rugs are scattered across the floor, and light blossoms through the unlined silk of the curtains.
Allegreza strides over to a window and throws it open. Cool, fresh air snakes across the room, drying the tears on my cheeks.

The leader of the Segreta turns to look at me. Even in her nightwear, she looks magnificent. Her gray-streaked hair is tinged silver in the weak dawn sunlight. She wears a linen night smock but has draped over it a velvet shawl embroidered with turquoise thread and heavy with tassels. On her feet are light kid slippers. She notices me looking at the shawl and casts a hand over it.

“We have an embroiderer in our household. This took her two years to make.” Her green eyes spark. “But I don’t suppose you came here to talk about clothes. Wipe the dirt from your cheeks. We have appearances to keep up. I think my servants are loyal, but I wouldn’t stake my life on it.”

Hastily, I rub my palms over my face. When I take them away, Allegreza gives me a curt nod of approval. She leads me towards a low couch, and the two of us sit down. “We’ll talk in a moment.” Then, in a louder voice: “Ah, Effie has brought your hot chocolate.”

A young servant girl comes into the room, carrying a silver tray. I watch as she takes a silver jug of steaming milk and pours it through a muslin sieve that contains vanilla pods. Then she adds brown crumbs of cocoa and sugar and stirs vigorously, finally passing the warmed glass to me. I raise the creamy liquid to my lips and sip. The sweetness takes my breath away, but immediately I feel calmer.

Allegreza watches me carefully. Then she orders the girl to leave and leans back against the couch.

“So, I assume you are here to tell me about last night’s meeting. Isn’t that right, Laura? I can’t think of anything
else—anything!—that would be important enough to disturb me for at this hour and in my own home.”

Her voice sounds dangerously low. This isn’t an invitation to speak, it is an order.

“No one came,” I say. “Or rather, there was someone but she ran away. I waited an age.”

The other woman’s face clouds. “What do you mean, ran away? Why would—”

“Roberto’s been dragged away, accused of murder!”

Normally, I would never interrupt Allegreza, but I can’t keep it inside any longer. Who cares about Murano now?

“I went to his quarters and there was a woman’s body lying on the floor.” My words spill out in a rush. “I don’t know what to do. This can’t happen, it just can’t!” I grasp Allegreza’s hands in my own and hold them to my chest. “Forgive me,” I mumble. “I don’t have anyone else to turn to.”

“Let me get this right,” Allegreza says, her eyes flitting over to the drawing room door. She brings her head close to mine. “Our contact ran out on you last night, and hours later you found a dead woman in Roberto’s apartment.”

I nod.

Allegreza rises from her seat and paces across the woven rug. She crosses her arms, drumming her fingers. Then she stops and whirls round to face me, the tassels of her shawl flying out as it slips from her shoulder.

“Tell me everything you remember about the dead woman,” she says.

My mind casts back. A dark room, blood on the floor, Roberto’s face … everything merges into everything else. “I don’t know. I can barely think.…”

“Well, you had better start.” The blood has risen to Allegreza’s face and throat, covering her skin in mottled patches of emotion.

It feels as though I’ve been slapped. But Allegreza’s anger works to jolt something in my brain. A memory glimmers behind my eyes. “She wore a plain shift dress, pale in color. It was torn at the shoulder and …” I force down the choke that rises in my throat. “And stained with blood. Her skin, it was dark. I remember that.”

“Good, good. Now, Laura. This is the most important question of all, so answer honestly.” Allegreza comes to stand before me. “Did you tell anyone about your mission to Murano? And I mean anyone. Did you tell Roberto?”

I shake my head, rising to my feet to look Allegreza in the eye. “No,” I say firmly. “I would never do that. Why do you ask?”

Without answering my question, Allegreza turns and wanders over to the open window, gazing across the canal.

“Then the Segreta has a traitor,” she says, her back to me. “If the dead woman you saw is who I think it is, there will be severe consequences. She was part of …” Her eyes flick er over to me; then she sets her lips as though coming to a decision. “She was part of a contingency to spread our movement beyond the limits of this city. We were so close to establishing another chapter.”

I bite my lip. “More of us? Abroad?”

Allegreza turns to face me. “Yes. Don’t you see—someone is determined to foil our plans. Do you think it’s a coincidence that no woman met you on Murano, and now there’s a dead woman on Roberto’s floor? A woman who was in our confidences?”

“Who was she?”

A bell rings from somewhere deep among the bowels of the house.

“That I will not say,” says Allegreza, walking towards the door. “I must be sure first.”

I understand that my interview with her is over.

“We must convene the Segreta at the earliest convenience.” She is talking to herself now, planning. She opens the door, and as I step through, I realize that I have one last chance to appeal.

“Will you help me with Roberto?” I stare at the ground. “I would be forever in your debt.”

“All in good time.” Her voice is suddenly soft. “Wheels turn at their own rate. Be patient.”

These few words must be enough for now. I dare not show any ingratitude.

“Go home and get some sleep.” She takes up a shawl that was lying on the arm of the couch and throws it over my shoulders to cover my soiled dress. “There is much you will need to be strong for.”

The door to the drawing room closes behind me. The old woman is waiting to see me out, smiling victoriously now that my time in the house is at an end.

When I emerge onto the streets of Venice, men are setting up their stalls. Another day has begun.

9