“What else is there?”
Agnola shrugs. “Carnevale, for one.”
“Does anyone really care about Carnevale?”
“Of course they do.” Agnola inspects her hands. “The students at the university, for instance.”
“Oh?”
“You didn’t listen when Pietro came yesterday?”
“He appreciates your company more than mine. I sit with you only to maintain the necessary propriety.” Dolce yawns.
That’s another thing Dolce does too much of: sleep. But they all do, even the servants. “That’s thoughtful of you. Thank you. Well, let me tell you the news about the students in Padova.”
“If you must.”
“The university faculty decided that Carnevale was frivolous—a waste of time. It’s not a liturgical necessity, after all. It’s only tradition. So they declared that they would continue lectures all through the Carnevale season. No break. They said they’d be saving the students from folly. The students went wild.”
“What does that mean? They barked and growled? Defecated on the floor?”
“They did the student equivalent. They smashed classroom benches. One tutor lectured on Aristotle—some philosopher in Greece long ago—and they beat him. Another dared to lecture on Galen—a great physician in Rome long ago. You’ve heard of him, I know you have, because Marin likes to talk about him. Remember? Anyway, they beat that tutor, too.”
“Absurd,” says Dolce.
“But understandable. Carnevale is a time of breaking rules. People need it. We can’t be good all the time.”
“That’s the truth.”
“Right. The university faculty can’t be as smart as they think they are if they don’t understand that much about human nature.”
“I don’t like human nature,” says Dolce. “Not really.”
“What a sad and terrible thing to say.”
Dolce protrudes her lips in thought. “I guess you’re right. But it’s true. We’ll do anything to satisfy our needs. We’ll ruin the lives of the ones we love.”
Agnola rushes to Dolce and kneels at her feet. She takes Dolce’s hands in her own. “Don’t think like that. Forgive Bianca. She didn’t mean to ruin our lives. Whatever she did, however much it wounded us, that wasn’t her intention.”
Dolce blinks. Her face is all surprise. She does that a lot. She seems not to be in the same world that everyone else is. Agnola can’t bear seeing Dolce so undone anymore. It’s not possible that Bianca committed suicide. It’s not! “Sweetest Dolce, let me help you.” Pietro told Agnola not to repeat his words to anyone. But Dolce is suffering so. Agnola kisses Dolce’s hand. “Bianca is not dead.”
Dolce’s face goes flat. “What?”
“She’s alive.”
Dolce grabs Agnola by both wrists so tight, Agnola can’t hold in a yelp. “How do you know this?”
“I believe it. It helps me. When I can’t think anymore, when my head is so heavy I can’t hold it up, I remember those words. Bianca, our dear Bianca, she lives.”
Dolce lets go of Agnola’s wrists. “Oh.” Her head falls back against the chair. “You can believe what you choose to believe.”
“You can believe it, too. I can tell you that every day. I can whisper it in your ear whenever you need me to. We can sit in the music room and pretend we’re listening to Bianca at the harp.”
Dolce shakes her head.
“Why not? Please, Dolce. They never found her body.”
“Of course not. She sank to the bottom because of her dress. That’s what the authorities say.”
“But they don’t know. They can’t know for sure. Bianca’s alive.”
Dolce shakes her head harder.
Agnola reaches up and holds Dolce’s head still between her hands. “Listen to the words. They will help you. Really. They help me when Pietro says them.”
“Pietro says them?”
Agnola nods.
“What does he say?” Dolce sits up again. She pushes Agnola’s hands away. “What does he say exactly?”
“He says, ‘Bianca is not dead.’ He says, ‘Trust me.’ And I do. It helps.”
Dolce looks at Agnola. “I need to speak with Pietro.”
Agnola smiles. “Of course. I’ll send for him.”
“Send for him now. Hurry.”
Agnola gets to her feet.
Dolce grabs her hand. “And tell Lucia La Rotonda that I need to see her. Immediately.”
“That’s a good idea. Let’s have her make a fine dinner tonight. Let’s grow fat before Lent comes.” Agnola moves quickly down the stairs.
Antonin is dispatched in moments. And the cook is right where she’s supposed to be. Lucia La Rotonda follows Agnola up the stairs, to the library.
“Yes, Signora?”
“Liver and lungs,” says Dolce.
“Excuse me, Signora?”
Agnola goes to stand beside Dolce. She shakes her head in warning at Lucia La Rotonda. “She just needs a moment to think more clearly.” She leans over Dolce. “You don’t want liver and lungs, Dolce….You want—”
“Hush!” Dolce points a finger at Lucia La Rotonda. “You boiled me liver and lungs two months ago. Do you remember?”
“Of course, Signora. With salt, just as you requested.”
“Did you recognize the animal they came from?”
Lucia La Rotonda looks offended. “I have been the cook of this family for eighteen years, Signora. I recognize all meats.”
“And what animal was it?”
“A pig, of course.”
Dolce puts her hands in her hair. “Where did the pig come from?”
“Now that I think of it, it was probably a wild boar. The liver wasn’t all caked with fat, like with domesticated animals.”
“And where did the wild boar come from?”
“I’d say on the mainland, just the other side of the lagoon.”
“You can tell that just from looking at the organs?”
“It’s not advisable to transport fresh meat far, Signora, even in cold weather.”
Dolce points a finger at Agnola now. “Tell Pietro to come immediately!”
“Antonin is already fetching him.”
Dolce stands. “Get out of here, both of you!”
Lucia La Rotonda bows and runs.
Agnola’s eyes burn. She walks into the hall and closes the library door behind her. She leans back against it. Her heart pounds. What’s going on? The liver and lungs of a boar can’t have anything to do with anything. But Dolce changed in an instant. She acted angry. Who is she enraged at? Agnola chews on her knuckles. Why, oh why, did she say that about Bianca being alive, especially when Pietro has always admonished her not to talk of it? What has she done?
Agnola moves aside so Carlo can knock on the library door.
“Come in.”
He opens the door. “You have a visitor, Signora.”
Dolce shrieks.
Agnola rushes in. “Dolce! What happened?”
Dolce gives a hideous attempt at a smile and looks at Carlo. “Don’t be alarmed, Carlo. I didn’t mean to do that. I expected Antonin. Surprises…surprises irritate me.”
Carlo bows, keeping his wide eyes on Dolce. “Please forgive me, Signora. Shall I show the guest in?”
“Pietro knows his way. And, Agnola, I told you, I don’t want you with us.”
Agnola’s heart races. Everything is wrong about Dolce. “I’m staying.”
“Get out!”
Agnola flinches.
“It’s not Pietro, Signora,” says Carlo in a loud whisper. “And this visitor would like to see both you and the signore’s sister.”
“I’m not taking visitors,” says Dolce.
“This one insists. He says it cannot wait.”
“All right. Show him in. But explain to him that I’m expecting someone else, so this has to be short.”
“No, Carlo,” says Agnola. “Please don’t say that. Treat the gentleman with utmost respect.
The signora is not feeling well. Let him know that. Say we implore him to be sensitive to the circumstances. A truncated visit will be much appreciated.”
Carlo bows and leaves.
“You have to behave, Dolce.” Agnola speaks with a steady voice, though her insides are all jumbled. “You have to behave no matter how irritated you are.”
“I’m the signora of this household.”
“And I’m the one who has lived all my life in Venezia. You scared the wits out of Carlo with that scream. You can make amends to him later. But you must not scare anyone else. No screaming. And you must not offend anyone else, including me. I love you, but you cannot abuse me. This is Marin’s home. Act like Marin would want you to act.”
“Marin wants me to be happy.”
“And you should want him to be happy. This is his society, his friends, his world. Don’t ruin it for him. Or for yourself. Someday you’re going to want to be part of it all again.”
“I miss her. Do you know that?”
“Of course I know that.”
“But I shouldn’t. Not me.”
“Don’t speak like that. It isn’t fair to either of you.”
Dolce exhales noisily. “You’re suddenly stronger, Agnola.”
“Am I? Perhaps my manner is deceptive, Dolce. I am not weak. I might be a bit shy—but I am not weak. I refuse to be weak.”
“I wonder,” says Dolce slowly, “I wonder if you could help me.”
This has taken a more positive turn than Agnola could have dared to hope. “I would do anything to help you. Anything that does not harm Pietro. I hear them coming in the hall—Carlo and the visitor. We’ll talk when they leave.” Agnola moves to the side of Dolce’s chair and folds her hands in front of her waist. She must be ready to deal with Dolce’s behavior.
Carlo leads in a man dressed all in black. Not in the black gown of the priest, but that of magistrates and officials.
“You may leave, Carlo,” says Dolce.
Carlo bows and leaves.
The man bows. “Let me introduce myself, dear ladies. I am—”
“Messer Sanudo,” says Dolce. “We—my sister-in-law and I—have been entertained in your home on several occasions by your dear wife, Caterina.”
Agnola is startled. She curtsies to Messer Sanudo, but keeps her eyes on Dolce. How can a person be so changeable?
“You come about a matter that cannot wait?”
“Indeed. A serious matter.”
Agnola puts a hand on the back of Dolce’s chair for support. Have they found Bianca’s body? Is all hope finally lost? Please, no. Please, please.
“Please,” says Dolce, as though voicing Agnola’s prayer. “Please, have a seat.”
“I prefer to stand.” Messer Sanudo reaches into a pouch hanging from his waist and takes something out. He holds it in front of Dolce. “Do you recognize this?”
“Of course.”
Agnola forces herself to look. A mirror. It’s only a small mirror. It’s not a necklace or an earring, nothing that belonged to Bianca. Her legs feel weak from gratitude. She sinks into the chair beside Dolce’s.
“I’ve been told you are in the habit of giving out mirrors just like this. Exactly like this. In fact, this is one.”
“You’ve been told correctly.”
“Indeed?” Messer Sanudo’s face shows surprise. “So you don’t even want to know who made the denunciation?”
Dolce looks bewildered. “Denunciation? For what?”
“It was Signora Grimani.”
Dolce smiles. “I remember talking with her at the festival.”
“She saw you give this mirror away. You were standing with your sister-in-law.” He makes a small nod at Agnola. “I procured it from Signora Dandolo.”
Color rises in Dolce’s cheeks. “Then I’ll have to give Signora Dandolo another one. I can’t imagine why you took this from her.”
“A rebellious spirit will do you no good, Signora.”
“First you speak of a denunciation, now you call me rebellious. I’m sincerely confused. It is not against the law to give gifts.”
“Where did you obtain these mirrors?”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“It is definitely the business of the Republic. The mirrors were not made on Murano. Not a single mirror manufacturer there claims them as his own.”
“So?”
“So we have a problem. An enormous problem. These mirrors are made with the methods of the Murano mirror manufacturers—and those methods are secret. They are among the most guarded secrets of the Republic.”
Dolce blinks. “Why?”
“Why? Are you sincere? Our mirrors are an important part of Venezia’s wealth.”
Dolce smiles and sits taller.
It’s clear that Dolce doesn’t understand the import of what Messer Sanudo is saying. Agnola wants to warn her, but who knows how she’d react?
“You must tell us where you bought them. Once we apprehend the thief, if it’s clear that you didn’t understand you were buying from a scoundrel, you will be exonerated.”
Dolce shakes her head. “I don’t buy them from anyone. I make the mirrors myself.”
Messer Sanudo looks taken aback. Then he laughs. “Making mirrors is complex.”
“More complex than you probably know,” says Dolce. “Everything matters. The ratio of tin to quicksilver has to be just right. The pressure when the glass is placed on the tin and quicksilver has to be enough to affix it but not so much that the glass breaks. The whole thing cannot be handled too soon, or all is lost.”
Messer Sanudo’s face is stricken. “Who told you all this?”
Dolce puts her fingertips together and touches them to her lips. “Do you know that the people on Murano did not discover their secret method themselves?”
“What? Are you claiming that Murano got its secrets from elsewhere? Such a lie borders on treason.”
“It’s not a lie. The people on Torcello experimented for years—and the people on Murano paid them to do it.” Dolce’s smile is wide. “They came up with the present method around…let me see…over eight years ago now.”
“Torcello?” Messer Sanudo’s eyebrows lower. “Dear signora, eight years ago the island of Torcello had air so foul it literally reeked with death. The whole island was abandoned a couple of decades back because of marsh fever.”
“Not entirely abandoned. People lived there all along. A small group of people. In fact, a small group of small people.” Dolce laughs. “And they make mirrors.”
“I am in charge of regulating our mirror industry, and I’ve never heard anything of the sort.”
“Go ask them. Let them show you. They’ll make mirrors with exactly this method.”
“You can be sure I will. But what has this to do with you and these small mirrors?”
“That’s where I learned the method. I invented it, in fact. Me. So, you see, Signore, I am among the great and valuable secrets of Venezia. And I am a source of delight, me in my little nest.”
Messer Sanudo stares at Dolce. Then he turns to Agnola. “What do you know about this?”
Agnola has been dumbfounded throughout this exchange. She knows Dolce makes the mirrors, but she’s never heard Dolce speak about Torcello. If there really is a group of people on Torcello making mirrors, and if they happen to make tiny mirrors like these, then wouldn’t it be better that the authorities think Dolce bought the mirrors from Torcello rather than made them herself? It will ruin Dolce’s reputation if it’s known that she does that kind of labor. She’s been making those mirrors only in order to build up a good reputation. It would be hideously unfair if it all went wrong now.
Agnola lifts her hands helplessly. “My brother is generous with his wife to the point of being indulgent. Look how precious these little mirrors are—so delicate and graceful. They look like the work of a professional artist—and Dolce had the money to pay a professional artist.”
“I talked wit
h every artist on Murano,” Messer Sanudo says. “Our investigation requires the utmost thoroughness.”
“Investigation?” Agnola thinks she may be sick. “We have been through a terrible shock, Messer Sanudo. A personal tragedy.”
“I am aware of that. And I am sorry for your loss. But these mirrors remain. And the signora’s explanation is sheer nonsense.”
“I am confident there is an explanation that can satisfy all of us, Signore,” says Agnola. “Please understand, grief can make one lose hold on the daily truths, if only for the sake of survival. If you have nothing more to ask us right now…” She lets her voice trail off. The man must have at least a shred of decency; he must leave now.
“Have you quite finished with your conversation about me?” asks Dolce. “Amusing though it is, I’m tired of it. I suspect you are quite busy, Messer Sanudo. Or you should be. You should be hurrying to your boat and off to Torcello right now. It’s time to right the wrong.”
“Well, the fact that you understand it is a wrong is positive,” says Messer Sanudo.
“Of course it’s a wrong. The mirror makers on Murano should be ashamed of themselves for taking credit for the work of others. I’ll bid you good day now, as I am expecting someone shortly.”
Messer Sanudo doesn’t bother with niceties. He bows and leaves.
Agnola stands. “I’ve been a bad friend to you. I should have stopped you from making those mirrors.”
“If Marin couldn’t stop me, what makes you think you could have?”
Agnola knows Dolce is right. A husband has more sway over a woman than a sister-in-law does. But she didn’t try to stop Dolce. She liked seeing the other women vie for the mirrors. It gave her a sense of power in a world where she is powerless. Shame coats Agnola. “What will we do now?”
“About the mirrors? Nothing.”
That doesn’t seem right. There must be something to do. It’s an investigation—a formal thing. They must take action, if there’s any action to take. “Where do you make the mirrors?”
“In one of the storerooms. I keep all my materials there. Except my flask of quicksilver. I’ve hidden that in my room because I like to open it every day. I stick my nose in—there’s no smell, but just breathing the vapor makes a change inside me. It’s dizzying, how exciting that can be. Quicksilver is like my own blood by now. One breath reminds me of who I am, what I must do. One breath reassures me all day long.”
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