Angelique pouted and looked down at her ring-less hand.
‘It won’t be for long,’ he said. ‘How would you like to join me and my father for dinner tonight at the Doge’s Palace?’
‘The Doge?’
Bastian nodded.
‘I’d love to,’ said Angelique, her mouth spreading into an unstrained smile, like a rose in full bloom. She waited for a kiss, but it did not come.
For days, Anna had troubled over how she would arrange a meeting with Signora D’Este. She could not just walk up to the palace, knock on the door and be invited in like any other guest, even if she was wearing another gown pilfered from Angelique’s chest.
But as it happened, Signora D’Este had sought her out. When Anna had answered the door earlier that morning, there was messenger with a note for Giselle da Quaterno. Anna had tucked the note into her pocket and said she would make sure it reached her. It was then that Anna saw just how calculated every action of Signora D’Este was. Not only had she ensured that the note would not fall into the wrong hands, she had reminded Anna of the future that was waiting for her.
The afternoon passed by slowly. As she endured her task of dusting, Anna felt that the note would burn a hole in her pocket. She of course had not been able to read what was written on it and berated herself for not asking the messenger to read it to her, if he indeed could read. She smacked the dust cloth against the edge of the desk, accidentally letting go of it. Good ideas always came to her when it was too late.
She bent down to pick up the cloth, but before she took a hold of it, something else caught her eye. One of the lower drawers of Signor Contarini’s desk was slightly open and she
could see something inside that was catching the light. There was something familiar about it.
Even though it was against the rules to go through her master’s work, Anna found her hands reaching for the handle. She looked over the edge of the desk to check that she was still alone, then eased open the drawer. There, on top of a few of papers, sat a glass flower. Maria must’ve retrieved it from behind the painting in Orelia’s room and given it to Signor Contarini.
Without giving it a second thought, Anna picked up her cloth and wrapped it around the glass flower and rushed out of the library. She climbed the staircase to the fifth floor, praying that she would not run into anyone.
Luck was on her side. When she reached her bedroom, she buried the ornament at the bottom of her chest and closed the lid firmly. Her heart pounded. She had stolen from her master. And for what? So she could have something pretty to hold occasionally.
No, Anna realized she’d taken the flower for Orelia. Clearly it had something to do with Orelia’s mother and her secret lover, the glassblower. The first moment Anna got she would find a chance to secretly place it somewhere only Orelia would find. It didn’t change the fact that Anna had made a deal with Signora D’Este and it didn’t ease Anna’s guilt. The glass flower belonged to Orelia, that was all.
Anna sat down at the end of her bed for a moment’s rest before she would have to return downstairs. Listening to her own breathing, Anna remembered the note in her pocket. She withdrew it and stared at it in dismay. She could not think of a single person who she could ask to read it to her without inviting suspicion. How could fate be so cruel?
‘What’s that?’ said Emilia softly.
Anna looked over at her sister, wondering if she’d just woken up or had been awake the whole time. ‘This?’ she said, holding up the card in her hand. ‘It’s a message I received, but it’s useless. I can’t read it.’ She dropped the note onto the bed.
Emilia raised herself up onto her elbow. ‘I might be able to.’
‘You can read?’ said Anna incredulously.
‘A little. Before I fell ill, my master’s son, Franco, was secretly teaching me to read. I’m not very accomplished, but I could try.’
Flinging herself across the bed, Anna hugged her sister tight. ‘You are amazing.’ Eventually she let go and grabbed the card. ‘Here. What does it say?’
Emilia rubbed her eyes and stared at it for a few moments without saying anything. Anna held her breath, fearing her sister’s skills were not enough for the task.
‘Mee . . . t me,’ began Emilia, stretching each word, ‘at San Gio...va...nni Gri...sos...tomo at mid...night. Do not be l . . . ate.’ Emilia looked up. ‘That’s all it says. Who are you meeting with?’
‘Someone who can help us,’ answered Anna, smiling sadly. She walked over to the window and opened the shutter. She tore the note into small pieces and let the wind lift them from her hand and carry them away. The sight of her betrayal on paper made her feel more ashamed than she could bear. It was for the same reason she had avoided Orelia since the trip to Murano. Every time she thought she could no longer go through with her deal with Signora D’Este, she remembered how close Emilia had come to being discovered by Maria that same afternoon. And then there was the small voice at the back of her head that whispered the name, Giselle.
One hour before midnight, Anna slipped through the door of the land entrance. There were mounds of snow collected in the streets and for a brief moment Anna stopped to marvel at the sight of the snowflakes dancing against the dark sky. Wrenching herself back to reality, she pulled her cloak tightly around her and quickly headed in the direction of Cannaregio.
A short while later she found herself in front of San Giovanni Grisostomo. There was something about churches and graveyards that made her uneasy. Of all places, why did D’Este have to choose a church? Even the thought of being trapped with Signora D’Este in the felze of a gondola was less unsettling.
Anna stepped up to the heavy wooden door. Staring at the circular pattern of dark glass on the door, she wondered if she should perform the sign of the cross before she entered, but then abandoned the idea. Nothing could save her dark soul now. It was little wonder that she hadn’t been struck down on her way here.
The interior of the church was designed in the shape of a cross. Candles flickered in alcoves within the walls, giving the space an orange glow. It was quiet and empty except for the tall, slender figure cloaked in black, sitting in the second row.
Holding her breath, Anna walked down the center aisle. If Signora D’Este heard her footsteps, she didn’t turn around. Even from behind, the Signora had a threatening presence; the unnatural straightness of her back and the length of her neck all gave her a formidable viciousness. A shiver ran down Anna’s body. This was what evil looked like, making its mark on the body after years and years of selfish deeds. Anna touched her soft plump cheek. How long before she would be a portrait of evil, too?
Anna stopped. Maybe it was not too late to turn round and leave.
‘Beautiful night, is it not?’ said a voice like dripping candle wax.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Anna answered, ‘Yes.’
Signora D’Este turned her head to look at Anna and patted the spot on the wooden bench next to her. ‘How’s my little song bird?’
Those words made Anna feel like a caged bird. She sat down and folded her hands together piously. ‘Good.’
‘Don’t you just adore this church? I happen to know something the priest would rather be kept secret, and in order to keep my lips sealed, he allows me to use the church whenever I have a need.’ Signora D’Este dangled a key from her finger. ‘Blackmail is a marvelous thing . . . So, what did you find out for me?’
Anna looked down into her lap and tried to recall the speech she had practiced. ‘Orelia is not who she says she is,’ she began quietly. ‘But before I tell you any more I want something from you: a guarantee that you will uphold your part of our agreement.’
‘Dear child,’ said Signora D’Este, laying a cold hand on Anna’s shoulder. ‘I have already arranged a meeting for you with the owner of San Cassiano Theater. Once you tell me what you know, I’ll tell you the time and place
of the meeting.’
Anna lifted her eyes to the marble altar expecting to see a heavenly light shining down through the roof. Her dream, Emilia’s salvation, all seemed possible. Maybe Signora D’Este could be trusted. What reason did Anna have to mistrust her in the first place, other than her fierce demeanor? Anna felt her shoulders relax slightly.
‘Well?’
‘She is the daughter of Isabella Contarini.’ Anna did not need to say another word. Recognition flashed across the Signora’s face. ‘Of course,’ she whispered. ‘I should’ve seen it. This is too perfect.’ She laughed, the sound echoing throughout the church. ‘Does anyone else know?’
‘Only Signor Contarini, and perhaps one of his servants, Maria.’
‘Why has Orelia come to Venice when she hides a secret that could put her in so much danger?’
‘Until a few days ago, she did not know about her mother’s past.’
Signora D’Este nodded and stood up. ‘Your information is . . . satisfactory.’
‘My meeting . . .’
‘Oh yes, your meeting is with Signor Canterello. He wants to meet you at midday on Monday at his home on Calle del L’Agnello, Santa Croce.’
‘Midday? But I’ll be working then. Maria won’t let me leave the palace again –’
‘I’m sure you’ll find a way,’ interrupted Signora D’Este. And with a triumphant smile, she ended the conversation.
Since returning from the island of Murano, Orelia had been trying to summon the courage to confront her uncle. She wanted to hear the truth about her mother from him. She still wasn’t sure if she believed what she had been told, or perhaps she just didn’t want to believe the old woman’s story. Either way, it was all she could think about, especially during the two-week break from Carnival between Christmas and the Feast of the Epiphany. God certainly did not grant her mind any peace during the many hours she spent with her family on her knees in church services.
There had also been a moment of illumination in the holy period. It had come on Christmas Eve when the entire government went by gondola to venerate the martyr’s relics on the island of San Giorgio. Orelia had watched the procession from her bedroom balcony, feeling quite overwhelmed by the sight of hundreds of illuminated boats. It struck her in that moment just how immense and intimidating the Venetian government was. How could one woman strike it down with one act? It was unimaginable, impossible. Even more impossible was that her mother would do something like that. The mother she knew would never hurt anyone. She was no witch.
Every time Orelia dismissed the whole story as an old woman’s crazy invention, she remembered how the tailor’s mother had mistaken Orelia for her mother and said things Orelia had not made sense of at the time. There was some truth in Signora Tiepolo’s story and the only person who could illuminate that for her was her uncle.
But how to confront him when he had been so very clear about not wanting to talk about the past and when he could barely look at her? Orelia considered writing him a letter, but she did not feel that she could organize her thoughts into a coherent piece of writing. She also considered dropping hints about her new knowledge at the dinner table to see his reaction, but she did not think he would tell her anything if she used these sorts of tactics.
Then one afternoon after having a glass of wine at lunch, Orelia sent Maria to ask Signor Contarini if he had time to meet with her. Maria returned with a simple nod and led her to the library.
When Orelia entered the library, her uncle was sitting at his desk, busy with a pile of documents. ‘Sit down,’ he said, motioning to the armchair facing him without looking up.
Orelia turned to Maria who was still standing behind her in the doorway. ‘I would like to speak with my godfather alone, please.’
As predicted, Maria huffed before leaving. Ignoring the servant’s disapproval, Orelia closed the door and walked across the room to sit facing her uncle. ‘It’s hard to believe I’ve been here nearly four months,’ said Orelia, not waiting for her uncle to put aside his work and invite conversation.
‘How have you found Venice so far?’ he said, glancing up for a mere second before returning his attention to his work.
‘Quite wonderful,’ answered Orelia truthfully, fiddling with her emerald ring, which had been an early Christmas gift from Angelique. ‘Everyone has been so welcoming and it’s such a beautiful city. There’s so much to see . . . In fact, I visited Murano a few weeks ago.’
This got Signor Contarini’s attention. ‘Really? I did not hear about it. Angelique and Aunt Portia both neglected to tell me about the trip.’
‘They didn’t accompany me,’ said Orelia, hesitantly. ‘I went alone.’
Her uncle tried to disguise his fear but Orelia could see it in his eyes. ‘Did you enjoy it?’
For a moment, Orelia was tempted to tell her uncle that the trip was pleasant and forget about everything she’d learnt about her mother. At the most, she would be lectured again about going around unchaperoned. Her absence that morning had gone unnoticed due to a drama that took place between Angelique and one of the hairdressers she was interviewing. Orelia liked to think she had become a little braver since her arrival in Venice, but it was moments like these that made her feel like nothing had changed.
She took a deep breath; things had changed. ‘I did not go for the sightseeing,’ she whispered. ‘I went looking for answers about my mother’s past.’
‘I thought I made myself clear –’
‘I needed to know. How can you just pretend it didn’t happen?’
Her uncle lifted a hand. ‘What do you think you know?’
All at once, Orelia retold Signora Tiepolo’s story. When she finished speaking, her uncle sighed and rubbed his temple. ‘Then you can see why I told you not to go looking for trouble. If anyone found out who you really are, you’d not only ruin this family’s reputation I’ve spent years rebuilding after your mother’s actions but you will put yourself in great danger.’
Orelia was silent. She had been desperately hoping the woman’s story was a lie but her uncle had just confirmed otherwise. ‘Was she really a witch?’
Her uncle looked at her intently. ‘I don’t know. What she did on the Festa Della Sensa was out of character but maybe we just didn’t know who she really was.’
‘But surely you know why she did it.’
‘We never saw her or heard from her after she fled from Venice. I only know what everyone else knew: that she accused the Doge of killing the man she loved. The rumors that circulated in the weeks afterwards said that he was a glassblower from Murano.
‘Apparently, they planned on leaving together, but when the Inquisitors found out their plan, they had him killed. Glassblowers are not allowed to step foot off Murano for fear that they will reveal their secrets to other countries.’
‘Maria already told me about them. That man was my father, wasn’t he?’
It was the first time Orelia had said this out loud, the first time she had dared to even think it. Her mother had always told Orelia that her father died when she was an infant but that was probably another lie. It would explain why her mother had given her the glass flower, a small part of the father she never had a chance to meet. Orelia felt her eyes sting with tears.
‘It’s possible,’ said her uncle.
Orelia brushed away her tears angrily. ‘What sort of government hunts down craftsmen and hangs innocent women?’
‘There are laws and when they are broken, there are consequences.’ said her uncle, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his dress-coat.
‘Of course you would defend the government.’
‘I loved my sister,’ said her uncle in a tired voice, ‘but what your mother did was inexcusable, even if it was for love. Our family, the family she left behind when she fled Venice, paid for her actions.
‘There were those who thought we should
be convicted for her crime. Fortunately, the Inquisitors could not find evidence against us. After many investigations, they concluded that Isabella acted alone. But that didn’t mean things went back to normal. Our family were not invited to dinners and balls. Painters or tailors would not visit our house. It was not just the Doge that Isabella cursed; it was Venice – every man, woman and child. Our name would’ve been erased from the Golden Book if we had not been one of Venice’s oldest families. It has taken many years to rebuild our reputation, to become respected once again.’
‘Do Angelique and Veronica know about all this?’
‘No and it will stay that way.’
‘Surely they must have heard some gossip?’
‘Venetians are gossips, but they are even more superstitious. Some four hundred years ago, the fifty-fifth Doge, whose name I will not speak, committed an act of treason. After the government beheaded him, they condemned him to damnatio memoriae, erasing every image of him and his name from history.
‘It is much the same with your mother. Those who remember the events of eighteen years ago will not speak of Isabella Contarini, still fearing the curse. Even though she is not spoken about, people still fear her and they will fear you. That is why you cannot tell anyone who you really are.’
‘But I haven’t committed any crime!’ Orelia cried, frustrated tears pricking her eyes once again. ‘I am not a witch and neither was my mother!’
‘Someone will find evidence against you. It’s all about what people believe not what is true.’ His eyes searched Orelia’s. ‘Can you continue to pretend to be Orelia Rossetti? If you can’t, I can give you some money and the name of a friend in Verona. But that would be a shame. Angelique and Veronica have taken to you like a sister. And I too, enjoy having you here.’
Orelia looked down into her lap, knowing he was right. She could not be Orelia Contarini, not here. She would always be wearing a mask but what choice did she have?
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