Masquerade (7 page)

Angelique had decided at an early age that her beauty was her greatest asset, and like any asset it needed proper care and attention. This required long and elaborate beauty rituals, most of which were not at all pleasant.

‘What is this?’ asked Orelia, bringing the bowl of yellow liquid to her nose, before quickly putting it back down on the table.

Anna stood behind Angelique and dipped a rod into the bowl. The sponge affixed to the end of it greedily soaked up the liquid. Angelique adjusted the broad-brimmed top-less hat upon her head, making sure that all her hair was pulled through the top and flowed over the brim, well away from her body. She leaned back in her wooden chair for extra reassurance.

As Anna applied the wet liquid to her hair with the rod, Angelique realised she had not answered Orelia’s question. ‘Mmm . . . Anna, what’s in the solution?’ she asked, the tiniest smile on her lips.

‘Honey, oil, egg yolk, vine ash, barley straw, liquorice rind, boxwood sawdust, crushed sunflower seeds and urine,’ answered Anna.

Orelia’s face twisted. ‘Urine?’

Angelique looked out over the Canal Grande. From their rooftop terrace, the gondolas that filled the large waterway appeared no bigger than toy boats. A cool breeze moved around her. She always felt like she was on top of the world when she came up to the altana, which in turn made her feel a bit wise. ‘Beauty, like everything, comes at a cost.’

‘She also lays raw veal soaked in milk on her face for hours at a time,’ said Veronica, who was sitting a bit further away in an arm chair she’d had the servants carry up to the rooftop from the sitting room.

‘It’s worth every minute of it,’ said Angelique, touching a hand to her own cheek, feeling the soft smoothness of her skin. ‘Now, go back to reading your book, Veronica.’

‘Does that mix make your hair soft?’ asked Orelia, pointing to the bowl.

‘No, it’s to make it resemble fine gold. Most women have hairdressers use complicated dyes on their hair, but I prefer the old-fashioned method.’

‘I suppose it has nothing to do with the fact that you dismissed your hairdresser a few weeks ago?’ said Veronica.

Angelique stared icily at Veronica. ‘It has nothing to do with that. Pierre betrayed my trust and I’ve made sure he’ll never work in this city again. I won’t hire a new hairdresser until I am certain they are trustworthy and exceptionally skilled. In the meantime, Anna is satisfactory.’ She smiled at her lady’s maid.

‘Perhaps if you did not share your every secret, thought and desire with your hairdresser . . .’ said Veronica.

‘Well, it works very well, in my opinion,’ said Orelia, jumping in. ‘Your mix, I mean’

‘Do you wish to try?’ said Angelique. ‘Anna can do you next.’

Orelia shook her head, her hair catching the sunlight like flames in a fire. ‘Maybe another time.’ She looked around. ‘I love these plants you have up here. It’s like a garden in the sky.’

Angelique glanced at the potted plants distractedly and nodded. ‘Have you enjoyed your first week in Venice? Don’t count the dinner party at Ca’ Grissoni last night. I should’ve known it would be a bore.’

‘It’s been interesting.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Angelique, ‘because there’s many more weeks like that to come.’

Orelia cocked her head to the side. ‘How long does Carnevale last?’

‘Five months! It ends on Shrove Tuesday, but then there are two more weeks of Carnevale forty days after Easter.’

‘God help me,’ said Orelia dramatically.

The two of them laughed and even Veronica raised a smile while keeping her eyes on her book. A moment later, Maria emerged onto the rooftop. ‘A note for Signorina Orelia,’ she said, holding out an envelope.

Angelique stopped laughing and Veronica looked up.

‘Me?’ said Orelia, taking it from Maria as if she were accepting a court order.

‘Open it,’ said Angelique, looking at the envelope with intense curiosity. There was nothing written on the front, no name, no address. Whoever had sent it to her, must have delivered it personally or had it delivered by messenger with precise instructions. But who would be sending something to Orelia?

‘I think I’ll read it later,’ said Orelia, trying to push the envelope into the pocket of her olive green dress that she still insisted on wearing whenever she could.

Angelique swiftly grabbed the envelope, and swung herself out of Orelia’s reach to inspect the contents. There was a note and a key inside. Angelique unfolded the note and read aloud, ‘Join me for the opera tonight at the La Fenice in the Doge’s box.’ Angelique’s voice broke as she read out the initials. ‘B.D.’

Orelia took her note from Angelique’s shaking hand. ‘There’s no name on the invitation.’

‘The messenger said the note was for the girl with
red
hair,’ said Maria. ‘You are the only one of that description.’

Angelique turned away and squeezed her eyes shut until pinpricks of light filled her vision. She would not cry. Not in front of Veronica and Orelia. Not with her hair soaked in urine.

‘Well, I’m not going,’ said Orelia, her voice sounding far away.

‘I think we should
all
go,’ said Veronica. ‘The Doge’s box is the best box at La Fenice. There’s no better view of the stage, I’ve been told. I’d give anything to spend an evening in there. As Orelia said, there is no name on the invitation. Let’s all surprise Bastian.’

‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ said Orelia.

‘Si, are you sure that’s a good idea, Signorina Veronica?’ echoed Maria.

Angelique turned around, displaying a dazzling smile. ‘It’s a perfect idea!’

Angelique wrapped a long black cloak around herself then covered her face with a white veil edged with lace that she had made herself. She assessed her reflection in the mirror and nodded approvingly. She was dressed perfectly for an occasion that required the utmost secrecy. She was going to visit a witch.

No one saw her leave the palazzo, which in itself was a slight disappointment to Angelique. Finally, she had a secret and there was no one to observe it. Her father was attending a senate meeting at the Palazzo Ducale, while the servants were busy doing whatever it was servants did when they were not attending to her needs. Aunt Portia was napping, while Veronica and Orelia were in the library. The two connected on an intellectual level that made Angelique feel isolated.

Maybe that was why finally having a secret of her own felt so comforting; it was something they all had in common. Veronica had her secret; the place she disappeared to that made her return flushed and cheerful. Orelia had secrets, too. Angelique could see it in her eyes.

Angelique hurried through the calli, even though she was in absolutely no rush. No one paid much attention to her but she kept the veil pulled over her face so no one would recognise her and report back to her father that she had been roaming the calli unchaperoned. She supposed a mask would’ve been a better form of disguise than a veil, but Angelique preferred to reserve mask-wearing for when the sun went down, something not observed by most Venetians. She felt a small thrill with each person she passed. She had never had so much fun alone.

Fun and secrets aside, this was a matter of the heart. She would finally have Bastian alone to herself tonight, or practically to herself. She was not going to let this opportunity go to waste.

Angelique knew Veronica would disapprove of using a love potion. Veronica disapproved of love, and Bastian. Regardless of what her sister thought, Angelique knew that she and Bastian were meant to be together and the love potion would simply open his eyes to this fact. Signor Zafoni’s mask should have saved her the trouble, but Bastian had failed to wear it to Signora D’Este’s ball. For the sake of her complexion, Angelique had endured the devastation with the elegance of a swan.

In the district of Cannaregio, she crossed the Campo Santi Apostoli and continued on through a network of calli that became so narrow they barely accommodated the width of her pannier. The stench of the canals was strong and Angelique was glad of the slight protection afforded by her veil.

She was trying to find Calle Varisco, Venice’s narrowest street, in which there lived a witch who sold her services, if the conversation Angelique had overheard in a coffee shop could be trusted.

But unfortunately Angelique found herself terribly lost.

In the middle of a deserted campo, Angelique turned in a circle, looking from casa to casa. A chill passed through her. Where was she anyway? Which way had she come from? She did not have Veronica’s sense of direction. She sometimes got lost in her own palazzo.

She started walking towards the least derelict casa to ask for directions, when from the corner of her eye she spotted movement in a sotoportego. She grabbed handfuls of her skirt and hurried towards the dark passageway through the building. ‘Please, can you help me?’ she called. ‘I’m lost.’

Angelique stepped into the sotoportego and stopped. She couldn’t see anyone. Her eyes squinted in the darkness. She turned around, certain she hadn’t been seeing things.

Out of the darkness, a large hand reached towards her, grabbed her by the neck and pushed her against the wall.

Angelique stared into a man’s snarling face. She kicked and struggled and tried to scream, but her voice came out in ragged bursts. The man tightened his grip on her throat and ripped off her veil. He pressed his lips close to her ear. ‘Ciao, bella.’

Angelique’s heart pounded wildly. She felt herself losing consciousness, a feeling she welcomed. She wanted to die before she could find out what this man would do to her.

‘Let her go,’ said a strong, authoritative voice.

Angelique felt the pressure on her neck lessen until the hand holding her dropped completely. The man stepped back, cursing.

Angelique gasped for air, her body shaking.

‘Leave,’ said the same voice. As soon as the man had fled, a small, thin woman stepped into the light. She had flowing hair, black as a raven, and deep lines on her face that looked like they’d been painted on with an artist’s brush.

She was the perfect fit for a witch.

Before Angelique could offer her thanks, the woman slapped her on the shoulder. ‘Stupid girl. What are you doing here alone?’

‘I’m think I am looking for you,’ answered Angelique, trying to keep her voice steady.

‘And who am I?’

‘A –’

The woman held up a hand to stop her. ‘Do not say it.’ She gripped Angelique’s arm and pulled her through the sotoportego. ‘My name is Signora Quirini. Every gondolier in the city knows where to find me. It is
no
secret.’

‘Oh,’ said Angelique, finding herself more disappointed than surprised.

The woman moved closer until her face was only inches from Angelique’s. ‘Let me be clear: I am not a witch. Do not
ever
refer to me as one. Witches cast spells and curses. Witches are put on trial. I am not a witch. I am an apothecary. I work with the gifts God has laid on this earth. I attend church and pay my taxes. Do you understand?’

Angelique quickly nodded her head and said nothing.

‘Bene,’ said the woman. ‘I think I may still be able to give you what you came for. Follow me.’

The woman walked ahead but Angelique did not follow. Part of her wanted to, but the other part wanted to go straight home and never leave her bedroom again. In either scenario, the question of how she would find her way home remained. Even with directions, she would probably get lost again.

As if having read Angelique’s thoughts, the woman turned around and said, ‘I’ll have a gondola take you home afterwards.’

With a sigh of relief, Angelique quickly followed Signora Quirini to the land entrance of her casa. Amazingly Calle Varisco was just on the other side of the sotoportego. Angelique shivered again when she thought how lucky she had been.

Ushered inside the casa, Angelique found herself in a small room lit by a single candle. Shelves lined the walls and were crammed with jars and bowls, filled with liquids, powders and dried plants. A particularly spikey species of aloe sat on the table in the middle of the room. Angelique smiled. This was exactly what she had imagined.