DELUGE

by Lisa T. Bergren

  She paused, irritation tightening her features for a moment. “I don’t think you should cover much of your pretty yellow hair, veil or no. But off you shall go, after we get you fitted for slippers. A bride in our household cannot be married in those frightful things!” she muttered, nodding toward my old, worn slippers. I knew they weren’t the best, but I couldn’t help feeling a little offended. Besides, any others chafed my toes and gave me blisters…

  “Send a messenger to Lord Forelli,” said the dogaressa. “Tell him we’ll return by the noon hour.” She was already in motion, expecting us to follow, and so we did. I knew the guys wouldn’t be wild about the idea of us heading out into the city without them, but we had six ducale guards in attendance—four in front of us and two behind—and Celso and Matteo trailed us. At least the silly umbrella-dude didn’t come too. It was hard enough to make it through Venice’s winding, crowded streets in a procession of any size without that huge thing.

  We exited the Palazzo Ducale and headed right, under the heavy archway that led to the market district of the Rialto. We turned left, and then right, crossed a tiny bridge and paraded down a thin sidewalk alongside a narrow canal. People gaped at us and pointed. Some shouted “She-Wolf! It’s the She-Wolves!” when they recognized me and my sister. But we barely had time to wave and smile.

  We turned and walked through a brick tunnel, so short that we had to duck our heads, then down a road that again forced us to move into single-file order. This was the street of the mascherari, or mask-makers for Carnivale. Through the open doors, we spied gruesome masks with long, hooked noses, spooky white faces with different expressions, along with elaborate masks connected to hats of all colors and embedded with jewels. The dogaressa paused before one. She clasped her hands together and tapped her lips with her fingertips. Then she reached out to one of her ladies and grabbed her hand.

  “What if…on the wedding day we hosted a carnivale?”

  The lady’s eyes widened in excitement. “That would be a spectacle, for certain, Serenissima! We’ve never had a carnivale before Martedì Grasso.”

  “Well, that would set this apart, would it not?”

  “Indeed, Serenissima!” said the lady.

  Oh boy, I thought. The guys are definitely not going to like that idea either. It was one thing to have a feast and a city-wide celebration like we’d seen the other night. It was a whole other deal with Fiorentini in town. And masks. Potentially Fiorentini in masks.

  I’d never been a fan of clowns. And masks were vaguely reminiscent of them. Yet I’d always wanted to experience Carnivale, and what an opportunity—to see it in its early stages, before it became the commercialized, touristy event of our own modern era. We wouldn’t make it back up north come Spring for the pre-Lent festival, and next year was out with what was to come…so this was pretty much my one opp for a while. So when the dogaressa looked to me for permission—not that she actually needed it—I was able to give it to her.

  Gabi hooked her arm through mine and stared at me in surprise. “Really?” she whispered in English.

  “Why not?” I returned. “The rest of this thing is so far beyond my file folder of wedding ideas…right?”

  She laughed under her breath, and we entered the cobbler’s store at last. On his shelves were boots and slippers of all kinds, mostly for men. But when he looked up from his workbench and saw who had entered, he smiled in welcome.

  “Serenissima!” he cried, immediately coming around and bowing repeatedly. His elderly, drooping eyes moved to us, and then he crossed himself, as if angels had appeared. “The She-Wolves,” he breathed.

  “Indeed,” said the dogaressa. “We are in need of your help, Signore Veraci. Lady Betarrini is marrying within the week and needs to be fitted for slippers to match her gown.”

  “Of course, Serenissima,” he said. “Of course!” He gestured to a chair for her. He took my hand and led me to a wooden step on which he had painted outlines of feet, apparently in different sizes. The paint was well worn and the wood was stained with the oil of what I guessed had been hundreds of pretty dirty feet—based on the clearly delineated toe prints—but I held back my disgust, stepped out of my slippers, and climbed on top.

  “Forgive me, my lady,” he said, apologizing for his touch on my bare skin as he adjusted my feet to line up with the back. Then he reached for wooden markers with a number on each of them from a rack to his left. “There, I have it,” he said. He turned his gaze back to the dogaressa. “I assume you want the finest leather I can find?”

  “Actually,” she said, moving to lift the flap of a small, square purse at her hip and fish inside, “I was hoping you might die a leather to match this.”

  It was a small piece of the blue tapestry.

  “Hmm,” said the cobbler. “To die the leather in indigo and get the shoes sewn by…”

  “Saturday,” she supplied.

  He seemed to pale a bit. “Saturday!”

  He was beginning to shake his head when she reached back into her purse and produced three gold florins. “To compensate you for putting other orders on hold as you see this one done,” she said gently, assuredly, no doubt in her mind that she could make anything happen. “Payment for the shoes themselves will come upon completion.”

  His small, dark fingers closed around the florins. “Yes, Serenissima. They will be ready on Saturday morning.”

  “Friday night,” she corrected, rising. “Lady Evangelia shall want to wear them a bit the night before to stretch them. No bride wants to be in unworn shoes the day she is to dance more than ever before!”

  “Nay, Serenissima,” said the cobbler, nodding and bowing repeatedly as we left the store.

  I thought we’d head back to the Palazzo Ducale at that point, but the dogaressa had another stop in mind.

  “Earrings,” she said, lifting my hair and looking at my lobes as if visualizing what would look best. She gaped. “What is this?” she asked, leaning forward to peer at the tiny holes in my pierced ears. I never wore earrings to keep from calling attention to them.

  “A custom in Normandy,” Gabi filled in for me easily. “One we abandoned when we reached Toscana, as it seemed the ladies did not wear them.”

  The dogaressa frowned. “No lady of Normandy in my court has ever had pierced ears.”

  “Our parents are merchants,” I said. “It was an island we visited that gave us the idea to pierce them.” Inwardly, I winced. The more complex the lie, the more challenging it was to remember.

  “I see,” said the woman. “Well, come along. We’ll see what this jeweler can find to suit.”

  We followed her and moved down the street and along another. As we turned a corner, we saw them. The Fiorentini—Lord Barbato and Lord Foraboschi—and their men. Their eyes widened in surprise…and delight.

  “The Ladies Betarrini and Forelli!” cried Lord Barbato, clasping his hands in pleasure, his smile deepening as he saw our two knights, trapped behind four others. He leaned in closer. “What brings you out to the streets of Venezia?”

  “We are shopping for Lady Betarrini’s nuptials,” the dogaressa said, like a proud parent. “You will need your finest, Lord Barbato, come Saturday. It will be the event of the year.”

  “Indeed, indeed,” said the little lord, chin in hand, staring at me and then Gabriella. “The last time I was about to see one of the Ladies Betarrini married, it became quite the event as well.” His dark eyes hardened, then, at the memory. We had foiled his attempt to marry my sister off to Lord Greco—once a man of Firenze.

  “I trust you shall not interfere with this wedding,” Gabi said, edging forward, pressing so close that the little man was forced to take a step backward. “I would hate it if anyone ruined the dogaressa’s plans for this lovely occasion.”

  Smart, my sister. Reminding him that messing with us this time was messing with the doge’s court itself. I swallowed a gloating grin.

  He gave her a confused look, as if he didn’t know exactly what she
was getting at. “We shall be the consummate guests,” he said, with a tuck of his head and a flourish of his hand.

  “See that you are,” Gabi said, brushing past him. But, as the dogaressa turned to lead us out, he and Lord Foraboschi fell in step with us.

  “We are not seeking company, Lord Barbato,” Gabi said.

  “Only a word, that’s all I ask,” he said lowly, so as to not to call the dogaressa’s attention. “Tell me of Lord Greco. I hear tell he took a bride of his own. The poor waif we rescued?”

  “The woman you manhandled and abused,” Gabi hissed back. “Say no more, or I’ll call my men down on you. Just the thought of Alessandra begs me to pull my dagger and slit your throat myself.”

  “Here? In the streets?” he said doubtfully. “You are a wilding, this is true. But ’twould cause a most unpleasant uproar and displease our hostess, would it not?”

  Gabi’s cheeks colored with rage, and she walked a bit faster. I looked over my shoulder, relieved to see Celso and Matteo right behind us now, their hands on the hilts of their swords, awaiting any order from us.

  “And you, my lady? I also hear tell that the She-Wolf is not in heat, but soon to have her own litter.”

  Gabi stopped and turned, clearly enraged. “You, Lord Barbato,” she said, leaning forward, all in his face, “overstep your bounds.”

  He glared up at her, obviously itching to touch his cheek, but too proud to do it. Celso and Matteo stepped between us and the Fiorentini. The dogaressa turned and began making her way back to us.

  “You dare much to offend my lady,” Celso grit out.

  “Forgive me, forgive me,” Barbato said effusively, as if it had all been a misunderstanding, but his eyes were cold. “You shall not have to bear my company for much longer. Good day, ladies.”

  He cast her a sly look, turned on his heel and left us, just as the dogaressa reached us. I wondered what on earth he meant. Was he not coming back to the Palazzo Ducale? To court? To the wedding? All I knew was that there was something in his tone that sent prickles down the back of my neck…

  “Who were those men?” the dogaressa asked. “Do you want me to set my men upon them?”

  “An old enemy,” I said, watching Barbato and Foraboschi disappear into the crowds. “But I believe he is leaving the city. There is no need to trifle with him.”

  The dogaressa sniffed and turned away. “Come along, then.”

  “What does he want?” Gabi whispered, as we walked, arm in arm. “What could he possibly be after from us?”

  “Most likely torment and agitation is all he’s after. He’s still chafing after we bested him last time, stealing Alessandra away…securing Castello Paratore for Greco. The list is long, in that man’s book, in terms of reasons to hate us.”

  “No more than we have reason to despise the cretin who took Lord Forelli’s life,” Celso said. He took up a position in front of us and Matteo behind. He spoke of Fortino, and memories of Marcello’s older brother filled my mind. Gabi had known him better than I, but I knew he’d been a good man. And the Fiorentini had used him to lure us to a town where they’d managed to kidnap Gabi…

  No, there was no trusting those guys. If there were means for them to get to us, to harm us, to bring us down in any way, they’d use them. I sighed. We’d be on public display with this ceremony, distracted…

  I could only take comfort in the fact that I was marrying Captain Luca Forelli, and I knew he’d take every precaution he could.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  GABRIELLA

  We were aboard Caterina’s boat on our way to Borano when Marcello and Luca heard about our encounter with Barbato and his bud.

  “Why would you not tell us immediately?” Luca asked, frowning.

  “There wasn’t time,” I said. “We reached the palazzo and we only barely had time to change and leave with you.”

  “What did they want?” Marcello asked, closing our circle.

  “To agitate us,” I said. “They said nothing of consequence. Honestly, I think he only wants to get back at us any way he can.”

  “Which is what concerns me,” Marcello said.

  “And me,” Dad added, coming up behind.

  “What can he do, here?” I said. “We are under the protection of the doge and dogaressa. He won’t want to endanger that.”

  Marcello crossed his arms. He and Luca were in the casual clothing of the Forelli knights for our outing—leggings and tunics, belted at the waist. Overcoats to shield them from the damp wind. He turned to the rail and studied the horizon of the lagoon, thinking.

  “The Fiorentini’s relationship with Venezia is tenuous at best. They are here to try and secure a new trade agreement. But what if…” He looked at us over his shoulder. “What if they were here for wicked reasons, and only used that as a shield for their true goal?”

  “Surely they would not come all this way just to poke at us?” Mom said. “Firenze and Siena are enjoying their first months of peace in years.”

  Marcello shrugged. “Lord Barbato makes money from battle. He raises horses and has a good deal invested in the metal guild. The more swords his smiths forge, the more he makes. Foraboschi, too. He builds wealth through his mercenaries. Mercenaries who while away the time at home with sparring and eating; these do not make a man money.”

  This made sense. I knew, firsthand, that the knights we employed at the castello were costly. And yet we had little choice. An unmanned castle was soon a conquered castle. We received a stipend from Siena as an outpost to assist in our defense, but it was only a quarter of what we needed.

  “So,” I said slowly, “the best way to stir up battle again is to taunt and tease us? That hardly seems enough to instigate a war.”

  Marcello weighed my words. “They’re testing us, trying to find a vulnerability. And likely they’re trying to get closer to Galileo and Orazio. I’d wager they’ve heard the tales they told and would like to see how to capitalize on them as well.”

  I took a long, slow breath. It would not do to have Orazio and Galileo say anything to the Fiorentini. The guys knew now that they’d said far too much in the early days—and were safely hidden away in Caterina’s palazzo until we could leave—but if they were captured…tortured…

  Marcello wrapped his arm around my waist and tugged me closer to him. “Cease your fretting, Wife,” he said, lifting my hand to his lips.

  “If the Fiorentini find out where we’ve hidden our cousins away—”

  “They shall not. Caterina is good at keeping secrets.”

  I lifted a brow. “And what of Nicolo?”

  Marcello and Luca shared a long look of concern. If Nicolo went out drinking, which he was likely to do, and started talking, which he was likely to do…

  And yet we’d had no choice. Considering our cousins had just been the doge’s prisoners, it was unlikely our host and hostess were ready to give their just-sprung-captives a room beside ours. And we weren’t permitted to leave. Only Lia and Luca’s wedding would give us the rationale we needed to leave court and sail home to Toscana.

  EVANGELIA

  In Borano, Gabi had a good time wrapping one lace after another over my head and around my shoulders. Obnoxious, heavy lace in ridiculous flower patterns that she knew I’d roll my eyes over… but then Luca approached, face serious, and Gabi and Mom filed out of the room. In his hand was the most precious, delicate lace I’d ever seen. And in this day and age, I knew it’d been stitched by hand, like all the rest. It was like the kiss of an ice fairy, blowing whispery thread atop a surface.

  “This, this is what you seek,” Luca said, green eyes glinting as he further unrolled the bolt of impossibly precious lace across his fingers. He lifted it up and across my head, then over, across my face. “Veiled or unveiled, Evangelia Betarrini,” he pledged, “I cannot wait to have you as my own.”

  I stared at him, partially blocked by the veil, and it was oddly stirring. “Nor I, you,” I whispered.

  He paused for two bre
aths, staring at me. “So this is it? The right lace for the veil?”

  I nodded.

  He grinned and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close. “In days of old, in arranged marriages, they veiled a bride so her husband-to-be wouldn’t back out before the vows were exchanged.” He lifted the lace up and folded it back. “If our marriage had been arranged, and I lifted your veil to discover your beauty, I might have fainted.”

  I chuckled. “My husband-to-be, the prince of overstatement.”

  “I do not overstate,” he said earnestly, cupping my cheek. “Evangelia Betarrini, you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.” His green eyes searched my face as if he was memorizing every inch of it again. “I cannot wait until you are mine. Wholly mine.” A glint sparkled in his eye. “Something tells me the rest of you will be every bit as lovely too.”

  I could feel the color rising in my cheeks, and he looked gratified. “I love that I can make you blush.”

  “I imagine you’ll delight in that all our life,” I said.

  He grinned and bent to kiss me. Softly, tenderly. We could hear my family outside, talking with someone, laughing. But it was like they were a great distance away, because my focus was solely on Luca. Luca, Luca. How I loved him…how could I have put this off so long? Now that our wedding was almost here, I could hardly wait to kiss him for hours, and let him kiss me…

  He leaned back and slowly slid the lace from my hair. I reached up and pulled his head toward me for a deeper kiss. Pleased, he held me closer, then edged me backward, kissing me all the while, until my back met the wall of the house and I was pressed against him. I kissed him and I kissed him some more, opening my lips, accepting his probing pressure, wondering about what it would be like to give my all to him. Just a few days away…

  It was a heady thought, that gift. The idea of lying with him, without anything between us. I couldn’t wait, on one hand. And on the other, I was terrified.

  His hands were so fine, so good. Warm and reassuring, and yet curious and wanting. They roamed my lower back, pulling me closer to him, every action strong, and yet soft. It was as if his touch was demanding, yet thoughtful, all wrapped up in one delightful package. Asking a lot…and yet nothing more than I was willing to give. Again and again I wondered where that line was. And yet, as his lips covered mine and his warm hands roamed around my hips, all I could think was, I can’t wait to be his. Wholly. Fully. His wife.