‘I can,’ she whispered. ‘I want to stay and be Orelia Rossetti.’
‘Another!’ Bastian shouted, raising his arm to the bartender. ‘That’s the spirit,’ said Marco, leaning back in his chair and finishing off the contents of his mug. ‘Did you know that Salvador lodged a complaint about our prank to the Lion’s Mouth?’
‘Too well,’ said Bastian, slurring his words. ‘What I wouldn’t give to see that rat right now.’
Marco looked around. ‘Yes, it’s a shame he’s not here. There’s lots of easy women, though. How about we invite some over?’
Bastian shook his head. ‘Women are the last thing on my mind tonight.’
‘This couldn’t have something to do with our bet, could it?’
The tavern owner appeared in front of them carrying a jug of glistening ale. ‘Thank you, my good friend,’ exclaimed Bastian, standing up to give the man a hug. Marco grabbed his arm and pulled him down. Then he refilled Bastian’s mug and pushed it towards him. Bastian took it up eagerly.
‘So, how is our bet going?’ said Marco. ‘There are only twenty-three days left of Carnival. Have you managed to get Orelia to fall in love with you yet?’
Before Bastian could answer, the man at the table behind them began coughing violently, as if he was choking. Bastian spun around, only to find that the man had rather quickly recovered. ‘Are you all right?’ asked Bastian.
The man dressed in a traditional Carnival costume nodded, but said nothing. Bastian patted the empty chair beside him. ‘Come and join us, the more the merrier!’
This time the man only shook his head. When Bastian wore a mask, he thought there was no better device. But when someone else was wearing a mask it annoyed him immensely. Who knew who was behind the mask, especially when it was coupled with a hood and tricorne hat?
‘Fine,’ said Bastian, spinning back to his table.
‘So, the bet about Orelia?’ said Marco, annoyance playing on his features.
‘Orelia, isn’t that a pretty name?’
‘Yes, very pretty. Have you kissed her yet?’
‘Yesssssss,’ answered Bastian. ‘Get your 50,000 ducats ready because she loves me, she loves me, sh -’
‘Then where’s her chemise as proof?’ demanded Marco, interrupting Bastian’s drunk song.
‘Well, I haven’t lain with her just yet.’ Bastian saw Marco’s grip on the handle of his mug relax.
‘If you’re so sure she loves you, why haven’t you?’ said Marco.
Bastian started laughing so hard he almost spilt his ale.
‘What?’
‘I’m engaged.’
‘What? To whom? Not Orelia . . .’
‘To Angelique Contarini.’
Now Marco started laughing. ‘You’ve completely lost your mind.’
‘I had no choice. It was that or be sent to Padua. Padua that smelly place.’ Bastian waved his hand in front of his nose.
‘There’s no way you’re going get Orelia to lay with you now that you’re engaged to her friend,’ said Marco with a smirk.
Bastian gulped down his ale and shook his finger. ‘But you see Angelique was trying to capture my affections with a love potion, which I found out about from Orelia. So as far as either of them knows, I’ve fallen victim to the love potion. It’s perfect, I couldn’t have planned better myself. And when the moment is right, I will snap out of it and Orelia will fall into my arms.’
‘But you’ll still be engaged,’ said Marco, his voice filled with spite.
‘Wrong,’ said Bastian, smiling like a happy fool. He watched the vein in Marco’s neck pulse, as it always did when he was angry. It was so easy to get to Marco. ‘Nobody outside the family knows about the engagement,’ continued Bastian. ‘Her father will not let us marry until the older sister is wed, so I suggested we keep the engagement a secret. Her father will be pleased when I call it off and my father . . . well I’ll be long gone with my winnings anyway. So long, Venice!’ Bastian raised his glass triumphantly in the air.
At that same moment, a chair at the table next to them crashed to the floor. Bastian turned to see the man who had been coughing earlier hurrying towards the exit without stopping to pick up the fallen chair. ‘Do you think he’s all right?’ Bastian asked Marco, almost falling off his own chair from craning his neck.
‘It’s not our concern,’ snapped Marco. ‘So what makes you think Orelia is at home pining for you right now? She could already be in the arms of another man, one who is not presently engaged to her friend.’
Bastian sat still and quiet. The thought of Orelia with another man made his heart pound more than his head already was. He remembered their dance on the first night of Carnival. He remembered her face as she watched the canaries fly off into the night. He remembered the kiss they shared at the Gambling house. The realization hit him.
‘I love her,’ said Bastian to himself, standing up. ‘I love her.’ His head was foggy from all the wine he’d drunk but he knew this for certain.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Marco.
Bastian didn’t answer. All he could think as he walked out of the tavern about was how he was in love with Orelia. And how love would only complicate things more.
Rain lashed at the windows of Orelia’s bedroom, drops running down the length of the glass like uncontrolled tears. The walls shook with the constant thunder and it seemed to Orelia that all the paintings and mirrors on the walls would crash to the ground. And if they did not, Orelia certainly felt capable of doing it herself.
Orelia didn’t think she’d ever been this angry. And she didn’t want the anger to go away like the storm eventually would. She wanted to hold onto it and use it. She rolled over in bed, kicking her legs in frustration. To think, if she hadn’t decided to try and talk with Bastian she would be none the wiser about his wickedness.
It was a day ago that she had discovered the shocking truth. She had been reading over and over the letter her father had written to her mother and realized what a precious thing love was. She thought of her poor mother who had lost the man she loved in the most tragic way and the pain she had kept hidden all those years. Though Orelia would not admit it aloud, she loved Bastian – a crazy, unexplainable love – and she had needed to know if he loved her back.
And so yesterday at noon, she had stood outside the Doge’s Palace, appearing to be no different to those meandering about in the square. She had considered sending a note with a messenger asking Bastian to meet with her, but she wasn’t sure if words on paper would be strong enough to reach him through the fog that surrounded him.
She had come to accept that Angelique’s love potion had truly worked. It was not something she would have been able to believe before coming to Venice, but this city had taught her that some things, like the love potion or her mother’s past, could not be explained, they just had to be accepted. Orelia was not very well informed on the workings of love potions, but she hoped that if Bastian saw her and if he truly loved her, the effect of the love potion would wear off.
Wearing a black veil to hide her hair, she had found a spot along the Riva delgi Schiavoni, the popular promenade between the Doge’s Palace and the Grand Canal, from where she could watch the entrance.
She tried not to take her eyes off the door but had found it hard not to examine each person that passed as if they might recognize her and accuse her of being a witch. But none had and a short time before darkness fell she had seen Bastian walking down the promenade. He did not see her, or if so, he did not stop. Something had told Orelia to follow him, which is how she had come to see him enter the tavern.
Overwhelmed by wanting to know who he was meeting there, she had put aside the idea of meeting with him. The first thought that had come to her, was that she needed a disguise. A proof, she realized, of how much she had taken on the mind of a true Venetian.
As sh
e wandered the streets looking for inspiration, she spied a young woman walking with a basket of washing. The woman had not been able to take her eyes off Orelia’s pet-en-l’air jacket and petticoat, both in printed cotton with a gold polka-dot overlay. According to Angelique, it was supremely fashionable.
Orelia had offered to trade her jacket and petticoat for a disguise. The woman had done better than a disguise; she made Orelia into a man – breeches, stockings, cloak, hood, bauta mask and tricorne hat.
It was the first time Orelia had worn the bauta mask, the full-face mask with the projecting chin. She had then fully understood what it meant to walk about in absolute freedom. Completely unrecognizable, Orelia had gone back to the tavern and took a seat at a table within earshot of Bastian and his friend. What she had heard there was as shocking as it was unbelievable. She would never have believed the story if it hadn’t come from Bastian’s own lips.
Lightning cracked across the dark sky. The girl Orelia had once been, would have blamed herself for being foolish enough to love such a man, but that was not who she was anymore. Bastian was to blame. He was responsible for a web of deceit.
And to think, if it were not for the guilt she had felt for betraying Angelique, she might have given herself fully to Bastian on the night of their kiss at the Gambling house. Perhaps she should have had, then he would have won his bet and been gone before she’d had a chance to fall in love with him. But that love was dead now.
Staring up at the ceiling above her bed, Orelia heard a quiet knock and her bedroom door opened. She sat up as Angelique slipped into her room and closed the door. She was wearing a thin chemise and her eyes were big and wide. ‘Can I share your bed?’ she asked.
Orelia nodded and shifted over. Angelique scurried across the room, flinching when another flash lit up the bedroom. She dove into the bed and wriggled close to Orelia until their arms were pressed against each other. ‘I hate storms,’ whispered Angelique, pulling the blanket up to her chin. ‘I’ve never seen one this bad before.’
Angelique appeared so delicate and so vulnerable; Orelia felt the urge to wrap her arms around her. How could Bastian pretend to be in love with Angelique just to escape his responsibilities? And how could he sleep at night when he had no intention of honoring the engagement?
True, Angelique was not innocent either. In that way, maybe they deserved each other. But as Angelique gripped Orelia’s arm through another clash of thunder, Orelia knew her cousin’s only crime was love, the love that fooled people into doing irrational things.
The kindest thing to do – and probably the only revenge she was capable of – would be to confess the truth to Angelique. But before Orelia could formulate what she wanted to say, Angelique rested her head on Orelia’s shoulder and spoke. ‘I want to thank you for being so supportive. It seems that no one wants Bastian and me to marry, not Veronica, not my father. Even Aunt Portia doesn’t fully approve. You’re the only person who has not opposed me. I’m so glad you’re here.’
Orelia sank further down into the bed, heavy with that realization that Angelique would not believe the truth about Bastian if it came from Orelia’s lips. She needed proof.
‘Please,’ begged Angelique. ‘I’ll never ask you for another thing as long as I live.’
Veronica rolled her eyes, reluctantly sitting up in bed.
‘If you don’t, I’ll never speak another word to you,’ said Angelique, running around to the side of the bed so that she could fling her words directly at her sister.
‘Is that a promise?’ said Veronica.
Angelique gave out a frustrated scream. ‘What fault do you find with him?’
‘Who are you speaking about? Bastian or Luca?’
‘Since you brought it up; both of them.’
‘Bastian is an immature and arrogant boy. He will use you, then toss you aside.’
‘Then why would he bother marrying me?’
Veronica had no immediate answer. ‘Something is not quite right and I will find out what that is.’
‘Oh no, you won’t! Stay out of it,’ said Angelique, slapping her hands down on the bed and leaning forward. ‘Worry about your own love affairs. Tell me, what fault do you find with Luca?’
Veronica crossed her arms. ‘He wants to marry me.’
‘And the problem with that is?’
‘He does not love me! How could he? He hardly knows me and when we meet it is to battle wits.’
Angelique crossed her arms, mirroring her sister. ‘But you’ve always said that you never want to hear a man say he loves you.’
‘Not the type of love you talk about, all games and appearances. I do want love, the type of love that only exists in books.’
‘Luca is a writer! How much closer can you get? I overheard him the other night speaking with Signor Cello about how deeply in love he is with you. He said he loved you to the moon and back.’ Angelique pressed her hands to her heart. ‘He has even written you a sonnet!’
‘Just to the moon? Perhaps if he had said to the sun and back...’
‘Stop jesting.’
‘But you are the one jesting. Did anyone else hear these wild claims? Orelia?’
‘No . . . she was still in the dining room.’
‘How convenient. Regardless of how Luca feels, I do not love him.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Angelique. ‘You say that with as much conviction as you say you hate peacock, but I know you sneak down to the kitchen for leftovers.’
‘I do not!’
‘I beg you, just go to Luca alone and see if you do not feel anything. My happiness depends on you.’ Angelique’s eyes had taken on a watery sheen.
Veronica sighed. This would not end until she gave in. Maybe it would be easier to concede. Her painting had failed catastrophically. Maybe Luca really did love her? Maybe she really did love him? Were hate and love two very different things?
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Veronica. ‘Now would you please leave my room?’
Veronica applied a smear of rouge to her lips and then, just as swiftly, wiped it off with the back of her hand. This was not her. She did not paint her face or apply patches, unless it was at the corner of her nose to convey boldness.
She stood and walked to her bedroom window. It was nearing midnight. Traffic on the Grand Canal had decreased to a few ghostly vessels passing by silently. Veronica’s own gondolier was waiting for her downstairs, probably wondering where she was. When her family had returned from the theatre not long ago, Veronica had quietly pulled Antonio aside and requested that he take her to the Rialto when everyone else had gone to bed. He had been reluctant at first, given the trouble he’d been in after ferrying Orelia unchaperoned, but Veronica had persisted and in the end he’d given in. And now she was keeping him waiting.
Earlier that day she had sent a note asking Luca to meet her at midnight on the Rialto Bridge. Luca had sent a reply saying that he was looking forward to it. Veronica was not. She was only doing this for her sister. She was giving away everything, her freedom, her future, Alessandro, so that Angelique could marry the man she loved.
Veronica put down the rouge. Enough stalling. It was time. She picked up her black cloak and columbina mask. Silently, she left her room and went downstairs to the water entrance.
‘Off for a secret tryst?’ asked Antonio, helping her in the gondola.
‘Something like that,’ replied Veronica.
As they approached the Rialto Bridge, Veronica let her eyes wander up to the middle of the stone structure where a figure was standing. Antonio let her off at the foot of the bridge. The stalls that normally traded beneath the arches had been packed away and there were no other people around.
Veronica walked up the steps slowly. Her heart beat a little faster at the sight of Luca. This was it.
‘Miss Veronica, you look lovely in the moonlight,’
said Luca when they met on the middle of the bridge.
‘Thank you,’ she said, briefly meeting his eyes.
‘I’m guessing that we are not here to play chess, though I’m disappointed that we have not had our re-match yet,’ said Luca with a grin. ‘Why did you call me here?’
Veronica took a deep breath. ‘I’ve come to tell you that, although it makes my heart turn to stone, I consent to marry you.’
Luca raised his eyebrows and cocked his head. ‘You consent to marry me?’
‘Do not pour vinegar into my wound by making me repeat those vile words. I take no pleasure –’
‘But I do not want to marry you,’ interrupted Luca. ‘I don’t know where you got such an idea.’
Veronica stepped back, blinking rapidly. What was he saying? She searched her memories and realized that her father had never actually said that Luca had wanted to marry her. She had only assumed it because her father spoke of Luca so often in those terms. The next thought that passed through her head was that she was going to kill Angelique.
‘In fact,’ said Luca, ‘I would rather wear a belt of thorns as sharp as your tongue around my waist that would stab me with every move I make. I’m sorry but your love is unrequited.’
‘My love? I could never love you, just as a cat could never love a flea.’
‘Or a hull could never love a barnacle,’ added Luca.
‘I’m glad we’ve cleared that up.’ Veronica spun around and began walking back down the bridge.
‘Would you like me to return your gift?’ called Luca. Veronica paused and looked over her shoulder.
‘What gift?
‘The painting you made for me.’
‘That was not a gift. That was a warning.’
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