They all drink.
“Who cut my lace?” asks Neve. Her hands are on her ribs again.
“I did,” says Alvise.
“How did you guess it was too tight?”
“The ends were knotted. Otherwise, I could have pulled it out. But I had to cut it. You never knot the ends. You make a bow.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Alvise realizes how revealing they are. He shouldn’t know so much about Neve’s bodice. He swallows in confusion.
“It was new,” says Bini. “We saw the new yellow silk. That was it.”
Neve looks hard at them. Then she smiles. “Thank heaven for that.”
Agnola stands behind Dolce in the large hall. Dolce’s looking in the mirror again. She was muttering to it just moments ago, but as Agnola approached she stopped. “What were you saying, Dolce?”
Dolce twirls around. Her speed surprises Agnola, for she sometimes moves across a room stopping at each piece of furniture as though to steady herself. Dolce just looks at her.
“I’d really like to know what you say to the mirror.”
Dolce doesn’t even shrug.
Agnola gives up. “Your skin looks strange. Did you do something to it?”
Dolce nods.
“It looks like you’ve been scrubbing at it. Hard. Why, your cheeks are practically raw. Do they hurt?”
Dolce touches her face. She’s wearing gloves. Gloves, and she’s still got her shift on. “Yes. I hurt everywhere.”
“Let’s go back to your room.”
“How can that help? I hurt inside.”
“Let’s try.” Agnola rings the bell on the wall and takes Dolce’s arm.
Lucia La Rotonda comes up the stairs in an instant. Dolce and Agnola haven’t even walked halfway down the hall yet. Everyone seems to be moving faster than Agnola expects them to. It makes her feel suddenly old. “We need a lovely, soothing lotion, please.”
“Of course, Signorina,” says Lucia La Rotonda. She turns toward the stairs.
Agnola hates it when people address her as “signorina.” At her age, she deserves the title of “signora” just as a sign of respect. Still, she knows Lucia La Rotonda does it out of history—Agnola will probably always be “signorina” to her. “No, wait. I learned a new recipe.”
Lucia La Rotonda turns back around. She folds her hands at her waist. “I have many good recipes.”
“You’ll be glad to learn this one,” says Agnola, with what she hopes is grace. “I just learned about it at the Pisoni palace.”
Lucia La Rotonda quivers just the slightest bit. She’s as ambitious as anyone could be. Like a harp, touch her in the right place and she sings. Agnola feels slightly guilty playing her this way.
“Yes?” says Lucia La Rotonda.
“Boil equal parts rose water and lemon juice—”
“Excuse me, Signorina, but the lemon juice has gotten stronger, sitting so long since summer. Perhaps less lemon, then?”
“That sounds sensible. Certainly,” says Agnola. “Once it has reached a boil, add crushed almonds. But they must be crushed very finely. Stir and boil till the whole mixture is milky and thick. It could take—”
“A quarter hour to a half hour,” says Lucia La Rotonda.
“Of course. When it’s smooth and cool, please bring it to us. With a sponge. And we could use your masterful hand with the bathing.”
Lucia La Rotonda gives a satisfied smile and leaves.
“You are a model of patience, Agnola,” says Dolce.
“Maybe that’s my problem.”
Dolce nods. She puts a hand on the glass chest-bench against the wall and lowers herself onto it. “Nothing is easy.” She looks down.
The chest-bench is empty. Filling it was Bianca’s job. Agnola makes a mental note to get flowers tomorrow. “Let’s go to your room, Dolce. I’ll help you out of your shift and into something pretty.”
Dolce mumbles.
“What did you say?”
“Clothes can’t make you beautiful.”
“No, they can’t.” Agnola pats Dolce’s arm, half lifts her, and guides her the rest of the way. Dolce seems more childlike every day. “But clothes can help in other ways. Maybe today you can wear something different. Something to lift your spirits. Clothing can remind you of the lovely things in life. It can remind you of who you are.”
“Who am I?”
“Oh, Dolce!” Agnola’s heart breaks. “Life goes on. For a while…” Her own voice catches. Then she gets hold of herself. “For a while we may forget why. Why we get up in the morning and dress and eat and talk and sleep. We can forget. I know, Dolce. I miss her, too. So very much. We’ve all come undone inside. But you, you are coming undone outside, too. And that makes it worse.”
They go into Dolce’s room.
Dolce walks to a rear window and lifts one corner of the red taffeta curtain. Sunshine frames her head and shoulders in a rosy haze. “I saw her.”
Agnola doesn’t know how to respond. So she keeps her mouth shut.
“I couldn’t touch her. I wanted to. I wanted so much to feel her skin on mine. But I couldn’t take off my gloves, you see.”
Agnola’s breath is stuck in her chest.
“She has nothing anymore. No luxuries. No silverware. No porcelain or brass or copper. No linen chest even. She’s desolate.” Dolce turns around. Tears fill her eyes.
“Dolce, dear Dolce.” Agnola hugs Dolce, who stands rigid in her arms.
“All she has is her beautiful hair. It’s still glorious. She’s still beautiful. Insanely beautiful. But no one can see it. No one except…”
“Except…you?”
“The beds.”
“Beds?”
“I believe Bianca is like me now. Like I was as a child. The odd one, the lonely one. Isn’t that funny, Agnola? Bianca is back where I started.” A sob catches in Dolce’s throat. “I never wanted that. I hate it that she should feel that way. So lost.”
Agnola runs her hands up and down Dolce’s arms. “However Bianca is now, that’s how she’s supposed to be. That’s how the good Lord wants it.”
Dolce pulls back and her eyes light up. She looks sharp again. She does that. Dolce pulls off her shift.
“Your skin!” Agnola’s hands go to her cheeks. But she drops them; she mustn’t alarm Dolce. “You’re peeling.”
Dolce looks down at her chest. “I’m flaking away.”
“You just need that lotion. It’s wonderful. We’ll massage it into you everywhere.”
“I heard you with Pietro in the music room last night.”
A tingle of fear rushes up Agnola’s chest and throat.
“Don’t worry. I’m glad you’ve found a better spot than the storeroom. And you needn’t fear: I didn’t put my ear to the door.”
Agnola goes to the fireplace and leans against the marble for support. She looks at Dolce. This is surely leading somewhere.
“But…” Dolce pauses. “Pietro was laughing. Both of you were laughing.” She sits on the bed. The bed skirt is crimson silk. The coverlet is crimson silk. Dolce’s colorless skin seems lost in a sea of blood.
She lies down. Her naked body is beautiful, no matter how much she might be failing. That body is any man’s ideal. Except Pietro’s. Pietro is hungry for Agnola’s body. Pietro loves her.
“Is Pietro generally happy, Agnola? Or was it just a momentary pleasure?”
“I’m not sure what you’re asking, Dolce. And I’m not sure you have the right to ask it anyway.”
“I need to know. Please.”
“Why? Why on earth would you need to know such a thing?”
“Agnola, if you tell me, I will tell you what I say to Mirror.”
“Mirror? You mean the big mirror in the grand hall? You call it by name?”
“Yes.”
When Dolce passes through the big hall, she never fails to look in that mirror. She mumbles to it several times a day, and often cries. She cries silently, but her whole body shakes. Agnola is co
nvinced Dolce’s deterioration is somehow tied up with that mirror. Yes, yes, of course, it’s because of Bianca. But the mirror is twisting Dolce, turning her inside out. Agnola needs to know what Dolce says to it. And surely the answer to Dolce’s question is not harmful to Pietro. How could it be?
“All right. I agree.” Agnola pats her own chest to calm herself. “Pietro is a levelheaded man. He’s generally optimistic in spite of the ugliness of the world.”
“What ugliness? Did something ugly happen recently? Did something happen over the last few days? Since you went to the afternoon party at the Pisoni palace?”
“No. Nothing new.”
“Are you sure?”
“I think so.”
“Nothing sad?”
“Sad? What are you asking me, Dolce?”
“How’s the dog business going?”
“He fetched a lapdog from the trainers just two days ago. For the Pisonis’ youngest daughter, Camilla. You know her. The one with all the ringlets. The little beauty.”
“She’s not that beautiful.”
“She will be someday. Anyway, she said she wanted a puppy at that party, so I recommended Pietro, of course. Camilla is apparently thrilled with the dog. Pietro’s happy.”
“And his dog trainer friends, they’re happy?”
“I don’t know them.”
“But Pietro didn’t say they were sad about anything?”
“No. Nothing like that. Why do you ask these things?”
“Another failure. I feared as much.” Dolce holds her hands up and shakes her head at them. “Weak. I can’t do anything with these hands anymore. I was strong once. I could have pulled laces tight enough to crush ribs.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I owe you only one answer.” Dolce sits up. “I ask Mirror if I’m beautiful, if I’m the most beautiful one.”
Oh. Such a simple and stupid thing. Agnola should have bargained for the answer to her other burning question. She’s been a fool.
“Do you want to know what Mirror answers? No.”
“But you are beautiful,” says Agnola.
“Mirror is never wrong. And you have confirmed that.”
Agnola grits her teeth. This discussion makes her angry against her will. “I don’t understand. You never seemed to care about this before, and now…now it’s all you speak of.”
“We all have our peculiar ways, Agnola. Are mine that different?”
“Yes, they are, Dolce. They disgrace you. They diminish your soul. Vanity carried to such an extreme, bah!”
“It’s not for the sake of vanity. It’s for the sake of love.” Dolce closes her eyes. She’s silent.
“Are you drowsy? Have you been taking monkshood in the daytime?”
“Monkshood?” Dolce’s eyes shoot open. “Who has monkshood?”
“That’s what the physician gave us all, to help us sleep after…”
“No. He called the medicine something else…wolfsbane.”
“It’s the same thing. He warned us to use it sparingly, and just at night. It’s dangerous.”
“I know about monkshood, Agnola. I learned about it as a child.”
“Don’t overuse it.”
“I haven’t.” Dolce hugs herself. “Indeed, I haven’t made the use of it I should have. My hands are weak and useless, but monkshood is strong poison. And I know the right amount. This is a better way by far.”
Agnola goes cold. “What do you mean?”
Dolce looks at her sharply. “Did I speak out loud? Don’t pay attention.”
Agnola sits on the edge of the bed. “Why didn’t you come with me to the Pisoni party?” she says softly.
“I had things to do.”
“Where?”
“What do you mean, where? Household chores…”
“Don’t lie to me, Dolce. I know you were gone the whole day. You said not to disturb you, but I came into your room before I left, to check on you. You were gone. And Antonin was gone. You told me to have the Contarini women bring me to the party because you needed to send Antonin on an errand, but that wasn’t true. You had Antonin take you someplace.”
“You’re right.”
“Where did you go?”
“It’s private.”
“Tell me.”
Dolce puts a hand on Agnola’s shoulder. “I’ll tell you, and in exchange you’ll do me another favor.”
“It’s better if we just talk to each other openly. Like we used to do. Like sisters.”
“Sisters do each other favors. And I need a favor, Agnola.”
“What kind of favor?”
“Another disguise.”
“I thought you liked the peddler outfit.”
“I did. Now I want something else.”
“What?”
“A daily dress, but fine. Like we would wear most days. And not in any usual color of Venezia dresses. Maybe in orange.”
Orange? How like the Sforza women of Milano; Dolce will look ridiculous. Even more ridiculous than she looks now. “Do you know what a figure you cut, in the nude, but with gloves?”
Dolce pulls off her gloves. Her nails are split. Her skin is raw and red.
“Oh! What’s happening to you?”
“Gloves hide a multitude of sins, no?”
“I’ll call the physician.”
“No, Agnola. He’s useless.”
“There are other physicians, Dolce. I can ask for recommendations. I can—”
“I’m taking care of it. I’m going for…the cure. My cure.”
Agnola frowns. The mineral baths, of course! She should have investigated them, taken Dolce to them herself. “Antonin takes you?”
“Partway, yes. I walk the rest of the way.”
Agnola’s mouth goes dry. “It’s dangerous for you to walk the alleys of Venezia.”
“I don’t. I go elsewhere. And that’s all I’ll say. For now. I’ve been honest with you, Agnola. I love you. Please, will you get me an orange dress? Quickly.”
“It will take time to choose material and have the tailor come here and—”
“No, no, I don’t care about all that. Have someone make it fast. Make it larger than me, and I’ll stuff it where I need to. It will disguise me better.”
A clunk comes from outside the door. “Thank you, Carlo.” It’s the voice of Lucia La Rotonda. “May I enter, Signora? Signorina?”
“Come in,” says Agnola.
Lucia La Rotonda enters. She blanches at the sight of Dolce’s shedding skin. “I made a giant pot. In case the signora wanted to bathe in it.”
“That was considerate of you,” says Agnola.
“Agnola, dear,” says Dolce, “you can leave me in the capable hands of Lucia La Rotonda. You have an errand for me. Please hurry.”
Agnola kisses Dolce on her paper-dry cheek and leaves. Outside the door she hesitates. And she happens to see Dolce hold her hand to her mouth, then look at it. On her palm is a tooth. No. Oh, please no. Agnola flees.
The pup trails behind Giallino, a little too far. He slaps his leg. “Come on, catch up.”
She runs to his heels, tail wagging like a maniac.
He scoops her up and gives her a good rubbing up and down the tummy and back, behind the ears, under the chin. He kisses the top of her head and plops her down again. “Stay close. You could be the right doggy for the next little missy who comes along. Just stay close.”
She looks at him intently.
This is good. Eye contact is the most important thing. It’s what makes all of them so good with the dogs, especially the hunting dogs. They stand eye to eye, and the dogs get the message right off. Alvise is best at it, because he can stare down the most belligerent dog. He’ll put his nose to the dog’s nose and lift a warning lip, but it’s mainly his steady eyes that do the trick. That’s why he’s in charge of the hunting dogs. But Bini’s getting better at it all the time.
Giallino tried to work with the hunting dogs at first, but he hated the fa
ct that no one but their trainer was allowed to pet them. Still, he loves this business. He loves living a free life, tramping through the woods in winter. Not having to do ridiculous antics to make a bunch of louts laugh. He’s a skilled worker, independent, in charge of himself, and still part of a group. He’s been here for only a matter of months, but he’s as committed to these men as if he had grown up with them, though, of course, he has no idea what that would really feel like. Giallino was taken from his mother when he was an infant; he never had a family.
A family. That’s what Neve called them last night. “The family in the woods.”
When she said it, a shiver went up his spine. It made him sit tall. Because it’s true. They’ve created their own family, and they’ve welcomed him into it.
Neve is part of the family now, too. Though they know she will leave someday.
Tommaso says he loves her. He says he’ll win her.
But he won’t. None of them will. Not because they’re little and she’s big, but because she’s their sister. And they protect her. That’s what brothers are supposed to do. You don’t need to have grown up in a family to know that.
Her father will come home in the spring. At first it seemed like spring would never come….Neve interrupted everything. It was impossible to do the simplest things, like change into a nightshirt, without considering where she was. Now spring seems just around the corner. Giallino’s lips tremble. He presses them together hard.
The pup licks him straight up the face.
Giallino laughs. He was staring at the pup this whole time, but he’d forgotten about her. Neve hates to be licked by dogs. She says their breath stinks.
He walks. There’s no reason to be sad. It’s still January. The Dolomiti mountains are snow-covered. And Pietro said those mountains in Russia, whatever they’re called, will be impassable for months. Neve’s not about to disappear tomorrow.
A squirrel zips across his sight up ahead.
The pup stays at Giallino’s heels. Good for her. It’s possible she didn’t see the squirrel, but Giallino doesn’t think so.
He walks from tree to tree, making sure he comes within arm’s reach of the trunks. Some of them must reek of fox or wolf. But the pup stays at his heels. She doesn’t have to follow every scent, that’s good. It could be her nose is defective. But if it is, that’s fine, too. She won’t get distracted from her owner by all the lovely odors of the household.
Dark Shimmer Page 21