‘Her bottom? Why not her bosom?’ said Veronica, annoyed as much at the interruption as the ridiculousness of what Signora Goldini described. ‘You would think that would be more selective, no?’
‘Or her chin?’ added Luca, grinning at Veronica.
She glared back at him. How dare he keep trying to get the last word? ‘You sound like you speak from experience, Signor Boccassio. We do know how you like to get yourself wet.’
Her father chose this moment to end the conversation he had been having with the senator beside him. He cast Veronica a look. ‘What are you all talking about?’
Her father was just as superstitious as most Venetians but aside from her opinions, he would not be too pleased about how she had let her tongue get away from her, no matter which side she was on. ‘Oh, trivial things,’ she said, lightly. ‘I was just about to ask Signor Segredo about his work. I’ve heard his paintings have become a favorite among tourists.’ She glanced down the table at him and smiled. ‘Tell me, Signor Segredo. What part of Venice has captured your attention at this moment?’
‘The Rialto Bridge,’ answered Alessandro. ‘That bridge is Venice. Everyone who visits this city wants to take it home with them.’
Veronica had hoped the conversation would have their own secret meaning to take pleasure from but as it went on she realized he really was just talking about architecture. After a few minutes of listening to Alessandro tell everyone all about the challenges of painting the bridge’s archways, she became immensely bored. She needed to be a bit less subtle with him. She didn’t have her fan to send him a message, so instead she gave him a deliberate wink and looked at the dining room door.
Alessandro gave an almost imperceptible nod in return and stood up. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I have to pass on a message to my gondolier.’
Veronica waited a few minutes, thinking up her own excuse to leave the table, when people had begun to move off to the sitting room or the hall anyway. She stood up, casually.
‘Miss Veronica,’ said Luca, causing her to pause. He picked up a napkin and dabbed the corner of his cheek with a playful smile. It took her a moment to catch his meaning. She touched her own cheek and felt a smear of pepper sauce. She felt herself flush hot with embarrassment and grabbed her own napkin to wipe the mess away before dropping it roughly back on the table. ‘Enjoy the rest of your evening, Signor Boccassio,’ she said with exaggerated sincerity. ‘Perhaps take a moment to appreciate the moon.’
Without letting Luca get in another word, Veronica hurried off to find Alessandro.
Down the other end of the table, an entirely different set of dramas were playing out. Sitting facing the mirrored wall, Bastian adjusted the position of his white bauta mask dusted with the finest particles of gold glitter. Despite its commonness, the bauta was his favorite mask because it allowed absolute freedom. There was no telling who was beneath the mask and due to its ingenious design, the wearer could eat and drink freely beneath the projecting chin. It also distorted one’s voice, which was perfect for occasions like this.
Tonight, he was not Bastian Donato. He was Marco D’Este. He had been surprised when he had received a note from Marco that afternoon suggesting they swap identities for the evening. Marco had not forgotten to mention that the banquet was in honor of Orelia. If they both played their cards right that evening – Bastian with Orelia, and Marco at a high-stakes card game held in a secret location – it would be a very profitable evening indeed.
Next to Bastian sat one of the D’Este’s servants, Francesca. She seemed to be enjoying herself or maybe she was just consuming too much wine. Every so often, her eyes darted around as if someone might see through her disguise.
Bastian looked over at Orelia. She looked breathtaking in a green gown, the material so lustrous it shone like an emerald. He was seated across from her so he could ‘gaze in her eyes with eyes confessing fire’ in the words of the Roman poet, Publius Ovidius Naso. Bastian had decided that if he was going to make Orelia fall in love with him, where better to start than with The Art of Love, the instructional guide on how to find and keep a woman.
Having made the pursuit of women his sole purpose in life, Bastian thought he had known everything about getting them, on some topics he could have even written a book. But there was a lot he had learnt from the guide, such as not forgetting a woman’s birthday or that a man’s tears will move stone.
That afternoon, Bastian had just finished reading the chapter titled, ‘At Dinner Be Bold’. He took a sip of wine. According to the poet, drunkenness hinders the pursuit of love, though, in some circumstances, it is useful to pretend to be drunk. Bastian certainly hoped all his effort would be rewarded.
To Orelia’s right was Angelique Contarini. She was very pretty, but he had decided long ago to stay away from Signor Contarini’s daughters for fear of crossing their over-protective father. Maybe he could break that rule tonight. He was Marco, after all.
Bastian looked around and noticed that people were beginning to leave their seats, heading either to the library to play cards or the sitting room to gossip and listen to the musicians. He had to draw Orelia aside. In ordinary circumstances, he would only have to wink at the woman he wanted and they would follow him anywhere. This girl was different – wary and guarded. He would have to make her trust him, somehow.
With the empty seats now dotted around them, it was possible to hear individual conversations. Pretending to still be eating, he listened as Angelique asked the woman across from her how long until she was expected to give birth. There was an awkward pause when the woman replied that she was not pregnant, before Angelique launched into saying, ‘The funniest thing happened the other day. Orelia and I were at the Rialto and when I turned around, Orelia was gone. I found her standing in front of a stall selling canaries with tears in her eyes. I practically had to drag her away.’
The woman laughed, the ample flesh above her tightly cinched chest jiggling.
Bastian looked at Orelia. Her cheeks had reddened and she looked down into her lap. In the moment before the laughter ended and the next topic of conversation began, Bastian stood up. ‘How about a game of Blind Man’s Bluff?’ he cried, deliberately adding a slight slur to his words.
Beside Orelia, Angelique clapped her hands. ‘Yes, Yes!’ she cried, just as he predicted. ‘That is a splendid idea . . .’
‘Marco,’ said Bastian with a wink.
Angelique blushed. ‘Anyone who wishes to play can join us in the hall.’
Around them guests began to stand up, but Orelia stayed seated, regarding him with a suspicious look. Bastian watched with interest as Angelique practically pulled her up. ‘Come on. It will be fun,’ she said.
They filed through the dining room into the central hall where Angelique appeared holding a blindfold. There were ten players. Among them were Francesca and the round not-pregnant woman, otherwise known as Signora Visconti. ‘Who shall be in first?’ asked Anglique.
‘I’ll think of a number between one and ten,’ said Bastian in a commanding voice he had learnt from his father. ‘Whoever guesses it will be in first.’
‘That’s fair,’ said Angelique.
Closing his eyes, Bastian pretended to think of a number. ‘Who’d like the first guess?’ he asked, opening his eyes.
‘I guess nine,’ said Angelique. Each guest took a turn guessing a number. But there was only one guess he paid attention to. ‘My number was four,’ he said at the end, looking directly at Signora Visconti.
‘Give me the blindfold,’ she huffed.
‘You have to take your mask off to be in,’ said Angelique, handing the piece of material to Signora Visconti. ‘Otherwise, the blindfold won’t sit right and you’ll be able to see.’
Bastian froze. He hadn’t taken this into consideration when he suggested the game. If he took his mask off, everyone would know that he was not Marco D’Este. He glanced
towards Francesca, but she was already gone.
Calmly, Bastian took off his dress-coat and handed it to a servant. He didn’t need to hide. He just had to ensure he didn’t get caught, and when he looked around at the giddy players, he realized that wouldn’t be too difficult.
Signora Visconti handed over her mask and tied the blindfold around her head. Guests shrieked and ran off in different directions. Signora Visconti’s hands reached at thin air as she took tiny steps forward. Bastian was right, he wouldn’t get caught, nor would anyone else for that matter.
Bastian’s eyes searched for Orelia and found her standing on the other side of the hall, watching Signora Visconti carefully. He approached Orelia from behind and when he was close enough whispered, ‘You should have told that woman that she deserved to be in a cage, not the canaries.’
Orelia quickly turned her head to look over her shoulder, her striking eyes wide and bright. Then she did something entirely unexpected, she laughed. ‘That would certainly have made her readily accept me as a daughter of Venice.’ she whispered.
As he had done when they danced on the first night of Carnival, Bastian moved his mouth close to her ear. ‘Why is it so important to be accepted?’
‘Because then I won’t stand out.’ After a pause, she added, ‘Is your name really Marco?’
Bastian gave her a mischievous smile. ‘I think you know the answer to that, which is why you haven’t been able to take your eyes off me all evening.’
Before Orelia could respond, Signora Visconti swiped at the air only inches from them. Bastian pushed Orelia out of the way and they ran off to other side of the hall. When they were safely out of Signora Visconti’s reach, they both laughed.
‘Been swimming in any more canals, recently?’ questioned Bastian, whispering into her ear.
‘Me? Swim in a canal?’ said Orelia. ‘You must have me mistaken for someone else.’
‘I’m sorry. I thought you were this girl I danced with at a street party. She is beautiful and daring,’ he said, keeping a close watch on Signor Visconti. ‘If you see this mysterious girl, please tell her that I can’t stop thinking about her.’
‘Oh, I know who you are talking about now,’ said Orelia, looking at Bastian from the corner of her eye. ‘She was telling me all about you.’
‘What did she tell you?’
Orelia shrugged. ‘Just that you were too scared to jump with her.’
‘That’s what she told you, was it? Come with me right now and I’ll show you that I’m not scared of anything,’ said Bastian, moving behind Orelia to whisper in her other ear.
Orelia bit her lip for a number of seconds. Then she smiled, a smile that drove Bastian crazy at night thinking about it. Before he could hear her answer, Bastian felt two hands grip his shoulders.
‘Goodnight, Marco,’ whispered Orelia as Signora Visconti pulled off the blindfold and cried out in victory.
For a moment Bastian stood there dazed, not believing he’d been caught. He quickly regained his senses, winked at Orelia and fled from the room.
Angelique loved nothing more than spending the morning in the sitting room, making lace and discussing other people’s secrets. On this afternoon, the only secret on her mind was her own.
She sat at one end of the fawn-colored damask settee with a cushion on her lap, her hands working quickly lifting ivory bobbins over each other, adding little by little to the intricate pattern of lace upon the cushion.
On the other end of the lounge, Orelia was sifting through a box of lace. ‘Did you really make all this?’ she asked, stroking a piece of fine pink lace of overlapping rose buds.
‘Yes,’ said Angelique. ‘Needle lace is the more common technique, but I prefer bobbin lace. I think the result is prettier and you don’t get pricked by the needle.’
‘It’s beautiful. Can you teach me how to do it?’
‘Of course. Choose a pattern from that chest, then take a needle and perforate the outline of the drawing.’
While Orelia sorted through the patterns, Angelique’s hand moved to her hip. She felt around for the small vial concealed beneath the linen of her dress. No matter how many times she checked to see that her potion was safe, there was always that small vice of doubt that gripped her just before her hand found the precious item. Signora Quirini, ‘the witch’, had been happy to supply Angelique with another love potion at twice the cost on the grounds that raven’s hearts were in short supply. Angelique could not afford to buy another one without raising her father’s suspicion, which meant her future happiness relied on this very love potion.
As her fingers curled around the small vial, Angelique could not bear keeping it a secret any longer; she had to tell someone. What were secrets for, if not for showing off like a fine necklace? Orelia was that perfect someone. Angelique was certain her secret would be safe with her.
Finally, Orelia settled upon a simple geometric design and started to pierce the holes along the outline.
‘I consider you my dearest friend,’ said Angelique.
Orelia replied with a warm smile.
‘And there are no secrets between the dearest of friends,’ continued Angelique.
Midway through pressing the needle into paper, Orelia froze. ‘What makes you think I am keeping a secret?’
‘Not you, silly. I am the one guilty of keeping a secret. Would you like to know what it is?’ said Angelique, her voice taking on a deeper, huskier sound.
‘Sometimes secrets are –’
‘I have purchased a love potion from a witch,’ interrupted Angelique.
Orelia looked startled. ‘Surely you’re joking.’
Angelique shuffled closer to her, lifting the cushion off her lap and placing it on the settee next to her. ‘I shall prove it to you, but you must tell no one. It will be our secret.’ She withdrew the potion from her pocket. The dark amber liquid was a perfect match with Orelia’s hair. Her eyes grew wide and she reached out to touch it. A second before her finger connected with the glass, Angelique pulled the vial away and closed her hand around it. ‘I can’t let anything happen to it,’ she said.
‘How did you acquire it?’ asked Orelia.
‘From a witch, though she does not call herself a witch, she calls herself an apothecary. I visited her a week or so ago when you were at the tailor with Anna.’
‘How do you know it will work?’
Angelique let out an exasperated sigh. Orelia was almost as bad as Veronica.
‘Do you not want to know who I intend to use it on?’
‘Bastian,’ answered Orelia.
Angelique was taken aback for a second, then she simply laughed. ‘You know me like a sister,’ she said, grabbing Orelia’s hand. ‘And sisters help each other.’
Orelia pulled her hand away, as if pricked by the needle. ‘How can I help?’
‘I have to slip the potion into Bastian’s drink. I failed at the opera and –.’
‘Is that why you knocked the drink from Marco’s hand?’ interrupted Orelia.
‘Yes. I would have succeeded if not for that big fool. Can you imagine if he had drunk the love potion?’ Angelique shuddered. ‘I would have thrown myself over the balcony.’
‘Why did you not try again at the banquet last night?’
Angelique gasped. ‘Bastian was there?’
Orelia shifted uncomfortably, as if the expensive settee from Paris was suddenly uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know. I just assumed he was there. There were so many people present.’
‘No, father never invites Bastian. He doesn’t like him.’
‘Your father said that?’
‘He doesn’t have to. He believes too much of what he hears. Not all that is said about Bastian is true.’
‘So I’ve been told,’ said Orelia dryly. ‘How well do you know him?’
‘Not as well as I’d l
ike to. Will you help me get Bastian to take the love potion?’
‘I don’t see how I can be of any assistance.’
‘He is interested in you because you’re new, and who doesn’t like new things? We can use that to our advantage,’ said Angelique. ‘Perhaps you could invite him out for coffee? I could go in your place, masked, of course.’
Before Orelia could respond, the door to the sitting room opened and Veronica walked in. She was wearing a dress of bold red, green and yellow stripes with only a fraction of the lace protruding from the elbow-length sleeves that Angelique thought fit for a woman of her distinction. Her dark hair fell naturally around her face. She glided over to an armchair holding a book.
Angelique sighed. Her sister’s timing was as imperfect as always.
‘You two look very secretive,’ said Veronica, the corner of her mouth turning up in a smile.
‘I’m just learning to make lace,’ said Orelia.
‘I’ve never been good at lace-making or embroidery or any of those things society expects a woman to be proficient at.’
Angelique slipped the vial back into her skirt and rearranged the cushion on her lap. She resumed weaving the bobbins in and out of each other. ‘The poor man that shall have you as his wife,’ she said to her sister. ‘Or should I say poor Luca, since a wedding seems imminent?’
Veronica scoffed. ‘Don’t be so sure.’
‘You’ll have to marry someone one day. Why not Luca? He is handsome, rich and well-respected. What more could you want?’
‘Someone who has respect for me and for what I think. Someone who would ask my permission to marry me, not my father’s,’ said Veronica, relaxing into the armchair dreamily.
‘You read too many books. They are ruining all men for you.’
‘And you should read more books. Then you wouldn’t go falling in love with every man with a handsome face and gilded buttons!’
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