“I know.”
“Go the fastest way.”
He rows off into the night.
Liver and lungs can fix anything.
I squat and wrap my arms around my knees. I’m so cold. So very cold. My tears stick like ice on my cheeks.
I listen hard.
Silence.
I’m alone. Me here. Totally alone.
Everything is wrong. I’ve made the worst mistake ever. Unforgivable. Mamma would be appalled. Marin…Good Lord! I curl into myself and moan. Lord, Lord, Lord.
But the dream voices told me I’d feel this way. Grief confuses people. I just have to wait it out. They’ll come back to me. They always do. They’ll rock me.
Finally, day dawns over the island of San Giorgio Maggiore. The marangona in the piazza bell tower tolls, telling the workers to get moving. It’s time. I can barely unfold, my joints have locked so hard into place. I manage to half jump, half fall into the water. Lord, it’s cold! It stabs me from every side. And the tide has been going out, of course—the fondamenta is higher now, out of reach. I need stairs, water stairs. But I don’t know where the closest ones are. All the ones I can think of are far away, on small canals.
It’s so cold. I’ve never been this cold in my life.
I scream. My voice is but a raucous croak.
I swim to the closest bridge. It takes so long. Why is the water so deep here? I swim into the little canal, and there’s a gondola tied up. Gondolas ride shallow in the water, but this one is empty, so it’s higher. I can’t reach the gunwale.
I’m so cold.
But it doesn’t hurt anymore. I’m not afraid. Everything is quiet, peaceful, gray. The voices don’t even fight me. This is what’s right. Finally. From far away comes the sound of an organ. What a lovely way to die.
“Woman in the water!”
The gondola rocks hard beside me, and hands are pulling me up.
I mean to be giving thanks, but all that comes from my trembling lips is “Liver and lungs.”
The small boat usually handles very well, even with a passenger, but it’s hard to maneuver tonight. Pietro looks in all directions continually. No one should see him. No one should stop him. He knows the laws of the Republic very well. For assault or rape, one might be beaten, at the least, and, at the worst, branded. Jail, a steep fine. Being a servant, he’d get more jail time and less fine. But this would be considered attempted murder. He could be killed for this. And given that he’s a dwarf and she’s nobility, it could be a ritual execution, public mutilation. His hands chopped off and hung around his neck. He’d be marched through the streets to Piazza San Marco preceded by a herald proclaiming his guilt. He’d be hanged between the columns of justice. People would cheer.
Pietro has never harmed anyone in his life. If he were truly a murderer, he would have thrown her overboard immediately. But he isn’t a wretched sort. He’d say that if anyone caught him. He’d say it was obvious that he wasn’t a wretch, because he could have killed her easily.
Would it matter? Who would believe him? He isn’t even sure Agnola would. After all, who could imagine what The Wicked One had forced him to do? No one. It was unthinkable. She was unthinkable.
Pietro jumps at every noise from the banks as he goes through the series of quiet canals. This is the quickest way to cut from one side of Venezia to the other, but it’s still too long for comfort. Someone will catch him. His life is over. All because he loves Agnola. Blackmail is the worst of crimes; The Wicked One is the worst of criminals.
He eases the boat out into the lagoon now. The forest of the Isola della Certosa looms to his right. He rows harder. His arms and back and thighs strain with the work. His hands feel frozen to the oar. His gloves were lost in the water when The Wicked One rolled the girl into the boat. What a mistake to take them off. The wind whips off the water and steals the feeling from his cheeks.
Murano is asleep. The whole lagoon seems asleep. Pietro feels dead on his feet. But he’s alive. He needs to keep rowing to stay alive.
The girl gives a little moan.
The Wicked One said the girl would be unconscious till morning. Looks like she is as much a dunce as she is a devil. At least the girl is coming to…at least she’s not dead. Pietro dwells on that. If he can keep her from doing anything rash, this could still end well.
“Are you awake? Can you hear me?” How can he hope to get away with this? He does not seem a likely winner against The Wicked One.
Gull cries come from behind him. Dawn is breaking over the lagoon. The black-and-white ducks fall behind quickly. The mainland grows closer. Let his luck hold out—let him make it to the mainland unseen.
The girl groans. Her eyes open. She pushes herself up on an elbow. Her mouth falls open when she sees him. “Pietro,” she says plaintively.
He can’t pretend he doesn’t know her. She’s Bianca. She knows his name. Agnola loves her and Pietro loves Agnola. Hatred for The Wicked One makes his mouth go sour. This should never have happened.
“We’re almost there,” he says.
“Where’s Mamma?”
“You shouldn’t think of her as your mamma anymore. She isn’t worthy of it.”
Bianca’s brow furrows. She cups one hand over the other and exhales on them. “Where are we going?”
Warming her hands like that, it’s just what Pietro did back at the fondamenta. He feels an eerie sense of connection to her, as though this is fated. “I have friends. They’ll take you in.”
She shakes her head. Panic in her eyes. But she doesn’t scream. Good.
“Take me in? I should go home.”
“You can’t go home. She has to believe you’re dead.”
“She?” The furrow in her brow deepens. “You mean Mamma? You want Mamma to believe I’m dead?”
“If she finds out you’re alive, she’ll take out her anger on Agno…on your aunt.”
“What are you talking about?”
Pietro turns the boat northward, and they skim along the mainland shore. “She’ll ruin me, too.”
Bianca pulls on a lock of hair. She looks around, then back at him. She seems to be assessing him. “Will you make her think I’m dead?”
Her voice is steady, but she can’t possibly be feeling steady. She’s trying to be smart. Maybe she’s planning an escape.
“Please answer. Will you make her think I’m dead?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Does it matter?”
Bianca lets out a little cry of distress; it sounds as though she’s all alone in the world.
Pietro winces. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of harming you. I told you, my friends will take you in. You can live with them until your father returns in the spring. You just have to stay away as long as The Wicked One is in charge.”
“The Wicked One,” she says slowly. “You’re confused.”
Pietro rows harder.
“Mamma isn’t well, you know.”
“You’re going to make excuses for her? She’s rotten through and through.”
Bianca pulls her cloak up to her chin. “Who are these friends?”
“You’ll see. We’re going ashore now.” Pietro steers the little boat onto the beach. He sees no one on the shore as far as the eye can reach. Where is Alvise? Damn! Pietro lets out a sigh of dismay.
The boat gets stuck in the sand. The water is still up to Pietro’s ankles. His boots will be ruined. But there’s no dock anywhere safe. And the pine grove in front of them offers a hiding spot. Pietro jumps out. “Come on.”
“No.”
“You’ve been good so far. Stay good. This is the only way. Or the only way I could think of. The safest way for you.”
“For me? I don’t even know you.”
“Yes you do. I brought Pizzico to—”
“I know who you are, but I know nothing about you! You could be a murderer.”
“I’m saving your life. That’s all you need to know. Get out of the boat. Now.�
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“My boots will be ruined.”
“Mine already are.”
“But you’ll get new ones. All I have”—she holds her arms out to both sides and the cloak falls into her lap—“is what I’m wearing. I don’t even have gloves. A noble girl without her gloves.” She gives a little laugh that ends in a choked sob.
Let her talk. As long as she talks, she’s not doing something stupid, like trying to run away.
Bianca’s face goes unreadable. She straightens her shoulders. “If I’m in exile, as you seem to think, I’ve been impoverished overnight.”
“You’re alive. Think on that. Get out of the boat.”
“Ferry me on your back.”
“You weigh too much.”
“Your back is strong.”
“All right.” Pietro stands beside the boat with his back to it.
“Ha!” Bianca grabs the knife from his waistband. “You have to do as I say now.”
“No I don’t. I can just walk away and leave you.”
“And I can row back across the lagoon.”
“You don’t know how to manipulate the oar.”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Go on, then. Row to Venezia. Find your way through the streets to your home. Walk in the door. And wait for The Wicked One to find someone else to kill you. The next person might really do it. That’s the likelihood. As horrible as it is, you’re better off with me. That’s how I see it.”
Her eyes plead. “I don’t…I can’t…I won’t believe you.”
“What choice do you have?”
Tears roll down her cheeks.
Pietro holds out his hand for the knife. She gives it to him. He wishes she weren’t so pathetic. He wishes the world would change back to how it was before. He turns around and offers his back.
Bianca climbs on. She’s gigantic. He has nothing against big people as a group. He’s in love with Agnola, after all. And no one should be judged by their size. But having a big person perched on his shoulders, now, that’s an absurd image if ever there was one. He slogs through the water and sets her on firm mud. Then he goes back and pulls the boat up onto the mud. He turns the boat over and lifts it above his head and carries it through the shore grasses and into the woods.
Bianca follows.
Pietro puts the boat behind a tree. He checks that it can’t be seen from the shore. Still…He pulls out his knife and hacks off low branches from a pine tree and covers the boat. Then he walks quickly. They can’t stay on the shore, where they could be spotted by any passing boat.
He tramps through the underbrush. Within minutes the wet boots pinch his toes and rub at the top of his feet. If he walks too far, his feet will wind up all swollen; they’ll be a mess for days. Where, where, where is Alvise? He agreed to meet Pietro on the shore. Maybe he confused the day. That’s just like Alvise; he never gets anything straight.
Pietro puts a hand on his forehead. He’s cold and tired and his feet hurt and behind him tramps a petrified girl. What could be worse than your mother wanting you dead? Pietro looks over his shoulder at Bianca.
She’s just two steps behind him, her eyes steady, hands clasped under her chin, holding her cloak in place.
“I can’t walk you the whole way,” he says.
“What?”
“You can do it on your own. I’m sorry.”
“I can’t. You know I can’t.”
“It’s not that far, and you’re strong. You just walk straight ahead. And listen hard—at a certain point you’ll hear a dog, then a few dogs. Just head toward the dogs.”
“What if there’s a bear?”
“They go to rivers, not the lagoon. Besides, they’re more frightened of you than you are of them.”
“I hear a dog.”
“We’re too far still. You can’t hear one yet.”
“I do.” Bianca points. “Over there.”
Pietro hears it now, too. Another dog as well. Maybe three. They’re barking like mad. “They’re chasing something. Come on.” He runs toward the barking, crashing through the dry cane and scrub brush.
A boar races toward him. The dogs are at the beast’s heels. Pietro draws his knife.
The boar is coming straight for him. He closes both fists around the hilt of the knife and spreads his legs so he can hold his stance. The boar charges, its snout chest-high. A dog nips the beast in the rear. The boar spins at the last minute to face the dog. Pietro stabs it in the haunches. The dogs go wild, all three of them. They’re nipping and barking and the boar is turning in circles, slashing with his tusks. Pietro can’t wield the knife again or he might stab a dog.
Alvise dashes onto the scene. “You’re killing it! Are you crazy? Down!” he shouts at the dogs. “Down! Down! Down!”
The dogs back off, whining, muzzles bloody, nipping at each other now. Alvise mutters curses. He pulls out a knife and plunges it into the side of the boar’s neck. The air is filled with squealing. Pietro jumps in and sinks his knife into the boar’s neck too. Blood spurts in his face, on his chest, everywhere.
The boar shakes, then stops moving. The dogs keep yipping and nipping. Alvise has to swat them away. He points at Pietro. “You stabbed him in the rear. What on earth were you thinking? We can’t kill boars, you idiot! And the dogs can’t be allowed to jump on it once it’s cornered.”
“It wasn’t cornered. It came at me.”
“You should have run!”
“I can’t run that fast. Neither can you.” Pietro’s shouting now.
“You may have made a big mess for me.”
“I’m sorry, all right? I’m sorry.” Pietro looks down at the boar. It dawns on him: this is an opportunity. It’ll save him money he doesn’t have. He jams his knife into the boar’s chest cavity and rips it open. He carves and digs.
“What are you doing? If we’re going to get in trouble for this boar, at least we’re going to be the ones to eat it.”
“I need the liver and lungs.”
“What?”
“It’s part of the deal. I have to give them to The Wicked One.”
Alvise’s face contorts. “Good God, she’s crazy. Move over. I’m faster. Let me do it.”
“No. You stay clean. I need your clothes. Anyway, I have to be careful with the organs. I need them whole.” Pietro is almost grateful for the excuse; the hot innards warm his hands. He throws the entrails to the dogs, which jump onto them with snarls. Finally, he holds the liver in one hand and drapes the lungs over his other arm. He stands and looks around.
Bianca is gone.
“Damn!” Pietro shakes his head. “Where has the girl gone to?”
“I’ll find her,” says Alvise. He pulls his clothes off. “Hurry up.”
“Take care of her.”
“Hurry up, I’m freezing. If you don’t want to return to Venezia looking like an assassin, strip now. You have ten seconds to take my clothes or I’m putting them back on.”
Pietro sets the liver and lungs on a branch so the dogs can’t get at them. He wipes his hands and face with pine needles as best he can. He and Alvise exchange clothes, down to the boots. “I’ll bring you new boots next time I come,” says Pietro.
“You better. Now get back to Venezia. Go on, clear out of here. And you owe me.”
“Take care of her.”
“We will.”
“I mean it. She’s not a bad sort. And her life has gone wrong.”
“Get out of here. Really.”
Horrible, horrible, horrible, horrible, horrible.
Don’t see it. Don’t see that mouth, those tusks.
See the trees.
That’s what she must do.
Pine, cypress, oak, beech, an occasional ash, elm, hornbeam. Over there a poplar. Yes. She knows this. Papà taught her. This is a wild forest. It grew up naturally, all kinds of trees mixed together. She can hear Papà’s voice in her head. So long as she hears his voice, she can keep running.
So many kinds of trees. She could be f
ar from any village, far from any home. Bad news. This is very bad news.
But she mustn’t think like that. That kind of thinking means defeat. Bianca cannot be defeated. Even wild forests have visitors.
And people—especially nobles—come to forests like this one to hunt birds, bears, boars. Nobles would know Papà. They might even know her.
But no one hunts in weather this cold.
Her dress is damp. How did it get damp? She shivers so hard that she fears she’ll fall.
She sees the boar again, she can’t keep the image out of her mind. But there won’t be another one. Will there?
Bianca peers hard through the crisscross of leafless bushes and wintry branches as she runs. Pietro said bears were unlikely here. He said they’d be more afraid of her than she was of them. That’s right. Papà explained that to her once when they saw a bear from the window of a monastery near Trento. He told her: Be calm around wild animals. Never run. But if you do run from a bear, go downhill. Bears are bottom-heavy, so they can’t run downhill nearly as fast as they can run uphill. They tumble.
What if they tumble right past their prey and then jump up and attack going uphill?
And that hideous boar ran straight for Pietro. What kind of animal attacks a man like that? Maybe the boar killed him. Bianca was running so hard, brush cracking under her feet, blood rushing in her ears, that she couldn’t be sure, but she thinks she heard a cry. A death cry.
And the boar was chased by dogs.
Bianca thinks, Wolves. She’s never seen one. Their teeth…
No point in thinking like this. No!
She finally stops, leans against a beech, and rests her cheek on the smooth bark. She’s grateful for the years she had as a child traveling with Papà. What little she knows about nature comes from those years. That knowledge had better help her now.
Everything had better help her. Think hard.
She should have run in the direction they had come from, toward the lagoon. She realizes that now. She could have walked along the shore and flagged down a passing boat. Instead, she ran away from the boar.
But that wasn’t stupid. That kept Pietro between her and the boar. That was the sensible thing to do.
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