The Dark City

by Imogen Rossi

  Phew! Bianca grinned. That was a close call – but now she knew exactly where Marco and his troupe would be. Her heart felt ten times lighter as she hurried along the passages. She soon found herself looking out through the mural on the outside wall of the Horse and Apples, a restaurant on one corner of the Piazza del Ferranti. Thin beams of light poured into the dim secret passages through the cracks in the old barn door and as Bianca looked through she could see the swishing tails of the horses in the painting.

  Her eyes adjusted to the brightness and she saw that it was safe to slip out – there was a big crowd assembled in the Piazza, but they were all facing away from the Horse and Apples, towards the makeshift stage that’d been put up outside the master blacksmith’s workshop. Bianca smiled as she saw familiar figures in sea-creature and mermaid costumes dancing and tumbling. She swiftly unlocked the door, crossed the few feet of magical straw-covered space and hopped out onto the warm stones of the Piazza.

  Bianca hurried around the edge of the crowd, looking for the backstage area, as the audience gasped and applauded each time one of the performers sprang onto another’s shoulders or turned a somersault in the air. Bianca paused, her heart in her mouth, as the harlequin in his black and red diamond costume started to climb a tall pole on one side of the stage. She looked up and her stomach twisted – a tightrope wire was strung high above the stage, between the pole and the roof of the neighbouring smithy.

  ‘Ladies, gentlemen, knights and squires,’ the harlequin called out, balancing with one foot on the top of the pole. ‘Throw us a penny and we’ll walk this wire!’

  The mermaids sitting at the front of the stage unfurled a long strip of glistening green and blue silk, and a steady rain of pennies started to shower into it, making it ripple like the surface of the sea.

  The harlequin started his slow-quick-slow walk, back and forth against the high wire, wobbling far more than looked safe but somehow never falling. Bianca stopped to watch for a second, until she dragged her gaze away. The show was wonderful, but it wasn’t why she was here.

  There was a curtain strung up over the master blacksmith’s shop door with a sign pinned to it, painted in black on red cotton: BACKSTAGE, KEEP OUT. Bianca grinned and ducked through.

  The whole smithy had apparently been taken over by the troupe – boxes and trunks overflowing with costumes and props vied for space with the dangling collections of iron tools, pokers, shovels, gleaming flint-sharp scissors and horseshoes. Another curtain had been strung up across the centre of the room to form a makeshift dressing room. Actors and tumblers were milling about, chatting, painting their faces or struggling in and out of costumes.

  ‘Hey, no audience backstage! Oh, it’s you,’ said a voice, and Bianca turned and looked up into the smiling face of Master Xavier. ‘Welcome, Mistress Bianca. Are you enjoying the show?’

  Bianca grinned up at him, but before she could say it was wonderful, a voice rang out from behind the curtain:

  ‘Bianca?’ Marco stepped forward, beaming. His face was painted, half red and half black, with a diamond over each eye, and he was wearing a smaller version of the harlequin’s costume. Bianca ran over and stopped just short of grabbing him into a hug.

  ‘Can you talk?’ she asked. ‘Do you have to go on stage?’

  Marco’s face fell. ‘Well, I … I’m not … ’

  ‘You’ve got a few minutes,’ said Master Xavier. ‘The doppelgänger doesn’t enter until after the Fire Twins have finished their routine. I’ll call you.’

  ‘Right. Thanks.’ But Marco didn’t look at all relieved. Master Xavier gave Marco a stiff nod, then walked away to watch the stage through the curtain.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Bianca asked. Marco’s expression only became more miserable.

  ‘I’m just … ’ He cast an apprehensive glance over towards the stage and beckoned for her to come inside the makeshift dressing room. Bianca followed him through the curtain. The unlit furnace took up most of the space, but it’d been turned into a make-up table and held a large mirror, a scattered rainbow of greasepaint pots and piles of costume jewellery. Marco slumped against the furnace and folded his arms. ‘I don’t know if they’re going to want me much longer.’

  ‘What?’ Bianca gasped. ‘But your father … ’

  Marco lifted one hand to rub it across his cheek, but stopped himself before smearing his greasepaint. ‘It’s the high wire. I can’t do it. Every time I try, I just get this … ’ He shrugged. ‘Ech, it’s stupid.’

  ‘No, go on.’ Bianca hopped up so she was sitting on the huge, cold iron anvil beside Marco.

  Marco gave a deep sigh. ‘Remember the fire?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Bianca said simply. She didn’t think either of them would ever forget it: the fire that Filpepi had set to kill di Lombardi. The fire that had destroyed her home.

  ‘I was up on that roof,’ Marco blurted. ‘There was all the fire and smoke below and I couldn’t climb back up to the window and the roof – the roof was getting hotter and hotter … ’

  Bianca remembered. The copper-tiled roof had been like a burning island in a river of black smoke and flickering flame.

  ‘So,’ Marco said, with a miserable shrug. ‘It’s stupid. But every time I get up on the high wire, it’s like I’m back there. I smell smoke and I can’t see properly, and my feet start to feel like they’re burning. I can’t do it, I –’

  ‘Marco!’ Marco flinched as his father pushed through the curtain. ‘It’s your cue.’ He glanced at Bianca and then laid a heavy hand on Marco’s shoulder. ‘You’ll be fine when you get up there.’

  Bianca wanted to think so too, but Marco had gone pale as a ghost. He looked more likely to throw up than anything else.

  ‘I’ll be here,’ she said. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it hard for a second. ‘I’ll be in the crowd – you can look at me and that’ll tell you that it’s fine and we both got out of the fire. OK?’

  Marco nodded, but didn’t look any less frightened. He headed for the stage like a man being led to the gallows, and Bianca ran outside and pushed through the crowd in the baking sunshine of the Piazza right to the front of the stage.

  Up on the high wire, the harlequin was applauding from one side as the Lotti sisters twirled their flaming staves and bowed, then ran nimbly across the high wire, dropped the staves, flaming end first, into buckets of water on the stage and slid down the pole. The audience whooped and cheered.

  The actor playing the Wicked Duke swept onstage in a dramatic rustle of black and blue. The audience booed and jeered, and the Duke threw back his cloak to reveal Marco, standing with his head and arms hanging limp. ‘Now that stupid harlequin’s tricks will end forever – I will replace him with my own harlequin, and then nobody will know I’m the one pulling the strings!’ At a sweeping gesture from the Duke, Marco seemed to come alive. He bowed to the audience, who booed even more – but laughed, too – and, after a pause that only Bianca saw, started to climb up the pole.

  With every step, Bianca’s heart beat a little faster. Was it her imagination, or did his hand shake before he grabbed the next rung? She willed him forward, wringing her hands in front of her. The crowd applauded again as he reached the top of the pole, turned to bow … and wobbled. The crowd gasped. Bianca’s hand flew to her mouth, and then she forced herself to lower it again and smile up at Marco. She had to show him she believed in him, even if he couldn’t believe in himself.

  Marco straightened up slowly. He seemed to be scanning the crowd – was he looking for Bianca? I’m here! she thought, turning her face up to the light, but she didn’t dare distract him by waving or shouting. Marco’s hands were shaking, but his legs seemed steady as he took one step forwards onto the high wire. It bent a little under his weight and he took another step, and then another. The Wicked Duke climbed swiftly up the pole after him. Marco raised his hand with a flourish. He’s going to do it! Bianca grinned. He’s going to be –

  But then Marco’s chest heaved and his knees gave way
. Bianca gripped the front of the stage, ready to spring up and try to catch him, but Marco didn’t fall – he just crouched on the wire, clinging on with his fingers and toes. A drop of sweat fell from his face and splashed on the stage in front of Bianca.

  The harlequin raised his hands and turned to the crowd. ‘Ha-ha! No silly puppet could walk the tightrope like I do! Get back to your master!’ And with that, he hurried along the wire to Marco, bent down and lifted him to his feet. He thrust him back along the wire. Marco flailed, his arms windmilling at his sides, but the Wicked Duke caught him securely, shook his fist at the harlequin and then hooked Marco’s belt onto the rope and lowered him down to the stage.

  The audience roared with laughter and applauded as Marco’s feet hit solid ground. Marco’s face was white. He dipped his head in an attempt at a bow, and then turned and staggered offstage, pushing past Bianca and through the curtain. Bianca hurried after him.

  Marco dived into the dressing area and Bianca followed, in time to see him kick the furnace hard. He yelped and hopped on one foot for a second, then sank down on the anvil.

  ‘They knew I couldn’t do it!’ he said. ‘They had a whole bit worked out to rescue me!’ He hung his head and let out a long growl of disappointment.

  ‘I’m sure they –’ Bianca began.

  ‘No. I know what they’re saying. A tumbler who’s scared of heights is useless. Go on.’ He gestured to the curtain. ‘Look.’

  Bianca didn’t want to, but she couldn’t help herself – she peeked through the curtain into the rest of the shop. Marco’s father, Olivia and two more actors were standing in a little group, talking with their heads bowed together. Master Xavier’s shoulders were slumped just like Marco’s. Olivia tried to take his hand, but he shook her off.

  Bianca turned back to look at Marco. He met her eyes and shrugged. ‘Useless. I’ll have to leave the troupe.’

  ‘I’ll help you get over it, I promise!’

  ‘How?’ Marco asked bitterly.

  ‘Well, I don’t know yet, but I’ll figure it out, I’ve got to.’

  ‘Why do you care?’ Marco asked, sounding like a sulky kid.

  ‘Because I’m feeling so rubbish at everything else, being a good friend is something I should be able to do.’

  She plopped herself down next to Marco.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, his voice softening.

  ‘You know Master di Lombardi’s will was read yesterday,’ Bianca told him. ‘Duchess Catriona gave me his studio to run.’

  Marco’s mouth made a silent ‘O’.

  ‘And I don’t think I can do it,’ Bianca blurted out. ‘I might’ve been our master’s secret favourite or something but I haven’t got the first clue how to actually do what he did! And Cosimo and Lucia know it, and they’re being horrible. So even if I could have managed I won’t while they’re around. Now our first commission is going to be late – and probably all the rest too, unless I quit.’ She looked up and shrugged at Marco’s stunned expression.

  ‘Wow,’ said Marco. ‘I had no idea. Sorry.’

  Bianca reached into her pocket. ‘And there’s more. Master di Lombardi left me a letter.’ She unfolded the letter and showed Marco its nonsensical, blurry squiggles. ‘A letter I can’t read! How’s that for useless?’ She leaned against the furnace and stared at the letter, unfocusing and crossing her eyes, but it was no good – the writing still didn’t make any sense.

  ‘Wait!’ Marco said, springing to his feet. ‘Hold still! Freeze!’

  ‘What?’

  Marco grabbed her hands and held them still. He squinted over her shoulder.

  ‘To make a … storia … take one bottle of lux aurumque,’ he said slowly. ‘Add a spoonful of animare to a fifty/fifty mixture of water and ether … ’

  ‘What?’ Bianca spun around and found herself face to face with herself. Or rather, her reflection in the dressing-room mirror.

  ‘It’s written backwards!’ Marco took the letter and turned it so the writing reflected in the mirror. Bianca stared, her mouth dropping open in amazement, as the unreadable scrawl turned into a blurry but readable list of ingredients.

  ‘It’s a recipe!’ she gasped. ‘But why? Why would Master di Lombardi leave me a paint recipe?’ At first she felt a little disappointed – she was half-expecting some kind of message. But as she and Marco stood and read the letter together, her stomach twisted with excitement – she’d never seen this recipe before. Or anything like it.

  To make a storia, the letter read, take one bottle of lux aurumque and add a spoonful of animare to a fifty/fifty mixture of water and ether. Drop in a single one of your hairs and wait until it has completely disappeared. Add two crushed, fermented Indigofera leaves, a single flake of gold leaf and two hairs from a black cat. Mix with crushed bone until the paint takes on the texture of thin cream.

  Speak the words: mio cario, narrare storia.

  Paint the storia onto a plain canvas.

  ‘You have to try and make it,’ Marco said. ‘Have you got all the ingredients?’

  Bianca nodded. ‘I think they’re all in Filpepi’s storeroom … everything except my hair and the hair of a black cat. It’s very odd, I’ve never used hair in a paint recipe before. I didn’t know you could. And I don’t know where I’m going to find a black cat that’ll let me pull its hair out!’ she added.

  ‘Oh, that’s easy!’ Marco grinned. ‘The master blacksmith has a fat black cat called Nimbus. She’s like a friendly, furry sack of potatoes! I’ll grab a couple of her hairs and meet you at the palace tomorrow.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Marco shrugged. ‘You said you’d try and help me. It’s the least I can do to help you. Anyway,’ he added, his face falling, ‘I don’t think anyone’s going to miss me too much if I’m not in the show tomorrow.’

  Bianca gave him a sideways smile. ‘All right. Thanks! I’ll meet you in the courtyard at sunset tomorrow and we can try it out then. I suppose I’ll have to be working in the studio all day.’

  The two of them sighed heavily at each other, and then Bianca caught Marco’s doleful eyes and they both cracked up.

  ‘Do you feel like you’ve aged about twenty years in the last two months?’ Bianca giggled.

  Marco snorted. ‘Make that a hundred!’

  ‘We’ll work it out,’ she said. ‘Both of us. I promise.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Mistress Bianca?’

  ‘Hmm?’ Bianca rolled over in bed and yawned.

  ‘Mistress Bianca, the Duchess requires your urgent attendance in the throne room,’ said the maid, bobbing a low curtsey.

  Bianca sat up, suddenly wide awake. ‘Erm, yes! Coming!’ She half-fell out of bed and let the maid pour her into a blue court dress, her mind in a whirl as she tied the medallion around her neck and tucked it away inside her bodice. What was it? Had something happened to Marco, or one of the apprentices? Or could it be something good – had the Baron and Filpepi been caught and arrested?

  She tried not to wear herself out with guessing as she hurried to the throne room, her thin court shoes slapping an uneven rhythm on the tiled floor.

  ‘Mistress Bianca, Court Artist-In-Residence!’ announced the footman, opening the throne room doors. Bianca tried to catch her breath as she walked inside. The throne room was lined with courtiers, and every one turned to watch her as she approached the throne.

  Duchess Catriona was sitting with her chin resting on one hand, picking at the lace on her ruby red skirt with the other. She looked at Bianca from under furrowed eyebrows. That wasn’t a good sign.

  ‘You called for me, Duchess?’ Bianca asked.

  ‘Yes, Mistress Bianca,’ said Duchess Catriona. ‘I did.’

  The sarcasm in the Duchess’s voice stopped Bianca in her tracks. Oh no, not you too!

  ‘I’ve been hearing some disappointing things,’ the Duchess said, sitting up and leaning forward. ‘Things I don’t want to believe … ’

  Bianca took a deep
breath and knelt before the throne. She could feel the gazes of the courtiers on the back of her neck. She hoped this would be over quickly so that Catriona could give the studio to Cosimo and they could all get on with their lives.

  ‘Your apprentices tell me that you arrived late yesterday and vanished after only a few hours. Is this true?’

  ‘Yes, Your Highness,’ Bianca said. ‘But … ’ She tried to think of a way to say But they were all being horrible to me without sounding childish.

  Duchess Catriona shook her head. ‘I didn’t put you in charge of the studios so you could throw your weight around! I put you there to work! Your apprentices also tell me that all of the open commissions will be at least a week late. How do you answer that?’

  ‘I … I don’t know, Your Highness,’ Bianca mumbled. She could tell that her face was turning bright red and briefly felt a stab of anger. Why couldn’t they have had this conversation in private?

  ‘Don’t know?’ the Duchess snapped. ‘It’s your job to know!’

  ‘Yes.’ Bianca cringed. ‘But the Cathedral commission –’

  ‘Yes, and what explanation do you have for that?’ Duchess Catriona asked. ‘That painting was your responsibility. Archbishop di Sarvos!’ She summoned the old priest over to the throne with a snap of her fingers. Bianca looked up into his sternly wrinkled face and swallowed. ‘Bianca, tell the Archbishop just how you’re going to make sure his painting is found.’

  ‘I … found?’

  ‘Yes. The painting went missing on its way to the Cathedral. Whether it’s lost or stolen or fallen into the canal, nobody seems to know.’

  Bianca wracked her brain. How could it have gone missing? Surely it wasn’t even finished? Or had the apprentices worked on it all day, only for it to vanish? ‘I’ll find out who saw it last,’ she said, ‘and, and … ’ Inspiration struck. ‘And if I can’t find it, I’ll have the studio make a new one – better than the last, more magical, at no extra cost to the Church,’ she said. ‘I promise.’