by Sasha Gould
Faustina sighs. She picks up the fallen gown, placing it on a dressing table, then puts her old arms around me. She murmurs that she wishes she could make everything better the way she always could when I was small and when the troubles I had were solved by a kiss and a pastry from the kitchen. But my mind is still on the night Beatrice died.
“Do you think she went to see Vincenzo?” I ask, thinking of her fiancé.
But Faustina shudders and holds her knotted hands up in front of her face.
I hear my father’s heavy footfall and he pushes open the door, his faded cloak flapping. His eyes are bright, his stance no longer defeated but upright and purposeful.
“The time for crying is over, Laura. There’s life to live and business to attend to. You have responsibilities now—and a duty to ensure the dignity of our family.”
He offers me his hand. I take it and he leads me from the room. Faustina’s fingers clutch at mine as we pass, her eyes dimmed with sadness. Dread twists in my stomach. What is it she fears?
I look at my father’s profile as we go downstairs. He catches my eye as we reach the hall.
“Don’t look so worried. It’s good news. And besides, it will take your mind off our loss.”
He brings me to the courtyard, where we sit near the outstretched branch of the cypress tree. An arm’s length above us, it has hundreds of tiny glistening insects crawling in and out of its crevices.
“You know that Vincenzo was an excellent match for your sister,” says my father. “You know that they were to be wed in the spring?”
I did know that, of course, but I had heard almost nothing else of Beatrice’s betrothed. For a moment I see the Abbess’s face glowing in the light of the holy candle flame with which she burned sinful letters, eliminating the impure thoughts contained in dangerous ink. Maybe my sister’s thoughts about Vincenzo never reached me. Perhaps he’s handsome and smiling. Maybe there were burned letters that talked about Vincenzo’s love for her, and hers for him, and other things they might have whispered secretly to each other.
“He’ll be devastated,” I said.
“Upset, yes. But this is not an irretrievable situation.”
His words, so oddly businesslike, make me stiffen.
“How can it possibly be remedied?” I ask, staring at my father. “There can be no wedding without a bride.”
Dark lines thicken on his brow.
“Of course there will be a wedding,” he scoffs. “Why else do you think you’re here?”
I might as well be La Muta again. I can say nothing.
“Cousins of the Doge will be there!” my father says. “No fewer than seven members of the Grand Council have already accepted invitations. There’s still a chance we may even be honored by the Doge himself because of Vincenzo’s connections. How can we possibly turn down such an opportunity?”
The evening is warm, and when I go up to my bedroom without dinner Faustina is there, opening my window. The flames of a citronella candle jerk inside a little colored pot beside my bed. It’s supposed to keep the insects away, but it’s not doing any good tonight. A mosquito drones and buzzes somewhere nearby.
With a sharp “Hah!” Faustina claps her palms together, declaring victory.
“I don’t have to do what Father asks, do I?” I say, slipping into bed. Faustina smooths out the cool sheet over my body, then sits beside me, stroking my forehead.
“Darling, we must do what we are told. It’s better for us in the long run. Men are the rulers of the world.”
It might be one more thing I need to add to my catechism. She’s right, I know. Even in the convent, I think. Even in a world where no men set foot. I remember how my father spoke to me in the courtyard, the way he beckoned me with that small flick of his fingers back into the parlor.
I touch Faustina’s rough hand. “What’s Vincenzo like?”
“Oh, my darling,” she says, “I really cannot tell you. I’ve seen so little of him. He rarely came here, and when he did, it was only to talk business with your father in his library.”
“Is he handsome?”
The bed ripples as Faustina shifts, turning towards the open window. “He’s a member of the Council,” she says. “Tall, with good bearing and a fine lineage.”
“But what if I don’t like him?”
When she faces me again, there are big tears quivering in her eyes. She brushes them away with her wrinkled hands.
“Shush, darling. It’s so much better for you to be married. At least you’ll be out here in the city, and not locked away where we can never see you! And old Faustina will always be here for you. I promise you that.” She smiles, though tears fall freely over her cheeks. “I’ll miss having you here, that’s all. But soon you’ll be a grand woman with a home of your own, children will arrive and your worries will be few.”
She begins to hum. I’ve known this tune for a long, long time. She sang it to Beatrice and me when we were tiny, and when we grew older we sang it to each other. Stellina, stellina, bella stellina. Beautiful little star. For a little while, those words sound like the beating of my own heart.
As night draws over the sky, I can’t sleep. Slipping on a robe, I go out into the garden. There I spend an hour gathering Beatrice’s favorite flowers by lantern-light. The smell of the lavender is strong enough to make me feel dizzy. I pick the blossoms of nutty gorse and pull the powdery wild roses away from the garden’s tangled bushes. I carry my hoard indoors and arrange the flowers around Beatrice’s body so that she’s nestled in a haze of fragrant greens and purples and blues and pinks.
I imagine what it will be like to meet Vincenzo and to talk to him. He might help me to stay close to her—to keep that memory alive. He is a perfect match for me, she said in one of her letters. In another she talked about how her marrying him would serve us all well. And I do remember her saying that he was kind and good. At least, I think I remember her telling me that.
I weave a crown of white blossoms into her golden hair. But the luminous petals make her look even emptier, and now that I’ve torn them from their natural places, they have started to die too. What did I think? That framing her face with flowers would bring her back to life? Her body is a broken instrument and it’s never going to sing again.
I kiss her chilly forehead. There’s a stack of wood by the sooty grate, and I build a fire. I stand beside the coffin, gazing at her waxy face.
“Beatrice, remember when I got stuck at the top of the cypress tree in the courtyard? I jumped and you caught me. You rolled us over and you tickled me and we laughed so hard that tears fell from our eyes.” I hold her limp hand in my own and laugh at the memory of it, amazed that my body is still able to produce such a sound.
And that is when I see something strange. My disconcertment condenses into fright, like warm breath meeting the cold of a windowpane. There is a pale mark on her finger, in the place where her ring of sisterhood should be.
A coldness rushes through me. I look at my own ring of twisted gold and Beatrice’s handwriting seems to appear in front of my eyes: I wear our ring of sisterhood. I’ll never take it off.…
Faustina pads across the hallway holding out a plate of peaches on a silver tray. She tells me I must eat and scolds me for being thin.
“Faustina. Where is Beatrice’s ring?”
She sets the tray down on a low table beside the door and moves closer to me. “What ring, love?”
“The ring she always wore. You know? Exactly the same as this one.” I hold my hand up in front of my face like a fan. “Did she have it on the day she died? Was she wearing it?”
“Darling, I can’t remember. There was so much happening, I—”
“Someone must have taken it,” I say.
Faustina takes my arm and leads me away from Beatrice. Her movements are slow and weary. “There’s nothing we can do about any of this now, little one. Please try not to get so upset. It’s not going to bring her back to us.”
But my head is thumping, an
d I feel something new inside me getting swollen and sore like a boil. Who took my sister’s ring?
Faustina picks up the tray of peaches and she ushers me back up the stairs. “Come, child. Eat. For me.”
The peach tastes bitter. I spit it out into my hand.
“Stellina, stellina, bella stellina!”
Beatrice’s voice wafts into my bedroom. It brings our old song floating on the morning. I throw the covers off my bed and pad over to my door, along the corridor and up the stairs towards that hopeful and happy sound. For some reason she’s in the servants’ quarters, on the upper floors of the palazzo.
She’s come back to me. All is not lost!
The voice becomes clearer and clearer. My loneliness for her starts to peel away as my bare feet rush across the cold marble. The first of the upper chambers is locked. I slap my hand against the door with a growl, then run to the next room. The handle turns. I burst inside to find Faustina folding sheets. Her gentle old face is startled.
“Sweetheart!” she says. “What on earth are you doing?”
But I turn and rush from the room. I’ll find her. I know she’s here somewhere waiting for me. The song gets louder. I stumble as I race back to the landing and up the final set of stairs—the highest in the palazzo. At the top is a small chamber that used to be my mother’s sewing room.
This is where the sound is coming from. I open the door.
It’s Bianca.
As she sings, she stitches the seam of a red velvet dress, expensive and luscious, embroidered on its breast with a lattice of jewels. It’s so rich and deep in color and its beads and stones are so dazzling that the sight of it shatters my desperate fantasy. Beatrice isn’t singing; Beatrice is dead.
I slide to the floor, panting for breath.
Bianca jumps up. “Signorina! I didn’t realize …” She rummages among the baskets of fabric and thread and pulls out a handkerchief, its borders embroidered with an orange-blossom pattern. She hands it to me and I press the pretty cloth to my damp face.
When my breathing has slowed I smile at her. “You have a beautiful voice,” I tell her. “How do you know that song?”
Her face softens. “Your sister taught it to me.”
I hear Faustina’s slow footfall on the stairs. Bianca takes my hand and pulls me upright as I steady myself against the collapse of my foolish hope.
Faustina rounds the doorway, her brow drawn in concern. But she smiles when she sees the red dress and hobbles forward to stroke its soft folds. “Bianca, this is wonderful—it’s almost ready!”
“Ready for what?” I ask.
Faustina’s eyes twinkle. “For you, my love. You’re to wear it tonight—when you meet Vincenzo.”
I haven’t been able to eat. I can’t relax. A party, Faustina tells me. A gathering of the nobles of Venice at the Doge’s palace. I’ve spent the morning drifting around the courtyard, imagining what this evening will be like and trying to comprehend that I am to go to a party, while my sister’s body lies still and cold.
Our midday meal is over. Faustina, Bianca and I cluster in my room. They wash and dress me, but it’s nothing like the cold baths at the convent. Everything feels heavy with expectation: the splashing of the water; the mixing of the oils; the drying of my body; the dabbing of the scents. The whispering of the rich, deep-red dress Bianca brings down from the sewing room. It swishes along the floor, rustling conspiratorially—ribbons, silk, velvet and satin. Bianca lowers it over my head. An intense silence settles. I should be dressed in black, as is custom for those in mourning. But black isn’t attractive, and I must be nothing less tonight. Faustina has told me that they have been instructed to create a masterpiece. She stands behind me, drawing tight the laces of the bodice while Bianca adjusts the neckline. Her face is solemn and focused on the challenge.
My dress fastened, Bianca brushes my hair until the tresses are completely free of knots. Annalena would be proud. Faustina cleans and shapes my fingernails and rubs a tiny drop of olive oil into my palms to soften them. Bianca murmurs for me to lower my head and fixes two bone combs, embedded with precious gems, into my hair.
They stand back to study their work. Bianca nods approvingly and Faustina pushes me gently into the anteroom, standing me before the mirror.
“Look at you,” she whispers.
I’ve spent years in shabby brown and black and gray, my hair hidden under a headdress, my hands rough with work. Now I’m looking into a dream. The girl reflected in it is nothing like me at all. She never appeared in my secret shard of mirror at the convent. My hair is so shiny that it almost glistens. My nails are white. I’m smooth and sparkling. I can’t stop looking at myself, and feel a crinkle of excitement shudder through me.
Faustina holds me by the shoulders, looking at the mirror with her old cheek pressed against mine. “Sweetheart, you’re perfect.”
Bianca doesn’t agree. “Hmmm,” she says, frowning. “Almost, but not quite. I know what should be the finishing touch.”
She rushes from the room, returning with a dark wooden box that I recognize. It’s where my mother’s jewels are kept.
“No!” Faustina shouts at Bianca, and she hurries over, trying to pull the box from her hands. “You don’t have permission.”
Bianca holds the box high, out of Faustina’s reach. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, her day is here: she should have the rubies. They’ll be perfect with the dress. She’ll look like royalty and her father will be so pleased.”
“Bianca, do not open that box,” Faustina says. There’s a strange tone to her voice—not authority or annoyance, but panic.
Bianca whirls away, laughing, from Faustina’s clutching hands. She holds the box in front of me, quickly flipping the hinged lid over. Her smile turns to dismay.
There’s nothing in there at all. Not a single ruby. Not a stone.
“They’re gone!” shouts Bianca. She tosses the empty box aside and it clatters on the marble floor. “We must tell Signor della Scala. There’s been a robbery!”
With a sigh, Faustina runs her fingers through her gray hair. She sits heavily on the bed, her shoulders slumped.
“No, there has not been a robbery,” she says firmly.
I sweep my skirts over my arm and stoop down to rescue the box. Closing the lid, I hand it to my nurse. I know something is wrong.
“Faustina,” I ask. “What happened to my mother’s jewels?”
“Your father sold them,” she said. “His income is not what it was. I had hoped”—and she glares at Bianca—“to explain it to you more gently.”
Faustina sends her to see that the carriage will be ready to take me to the party. I sit on the bed and Faustina tells me that my father has been stripping the palazzo of its treasures. This is what the empty spaces on the walls mean. I don’t really care. The greatest treasure is lost to me already, her body lying in her coffin.
The carriage awaits. Bianca walks beside me to the door, beaming.
“Are you excited about seeing the Doge, signorina?” she asks.
I cling to the stone banister as I move down the wide, curved staircase, fearful that I might trip over the folds of red fabric and tumble down to the marble floor.
“Are you?” Bianca insists. There is a tinge of sadness in her voice, and I realize that many girls in this city would envy me tonight.
I squeeze Bianca’s hand. “If I meet him I’ll tell you every detail.”
My father emerges from his library, looking twice his normal size in fine hose and great padded shoulders of tan velvet. When he sees me, he smiles and his face softens.
“My sweet Laura,” he says, and I blush at the unfamiliar praise. “How wonderful. You’re just the thing.”
He takes my arm and we step out into Venice.
As the carriage clatters along the cobbles, my father pats my hand and tells me what I’m to do and how I’m to behave at the Doge’s palace.
“Vincenzo will be the center of attention, of course, and so will several mem
bers of the Grand Council.” He leans forward to brush an invisible speck of something or other off my cape. “Remember, Laura, that you’re not a child anymore. You’re on show this evening. Our future depends on it.”
At the edge of the Grand Canal we step out of the carriage and onto the barge. My heavy skirts mean that one of the young bargemen has to lift me over the side. His hands around my waist are broad and flat, almost like the oar that rests dripping over the water. He smiles as he places me on the deck, but quickly looks away as my father clambers on board and sits at the prow, his pale hands and his wrists folded in front of him.
I take my place beside him and the great whale of a boat lumbers towards St. Mark’s Square. We pass the Rialto—that arch of dark wood linking the east side of the city to the west—and glide into more open water. My father doesn’t seem to notice, but I can feel it: the chill of my sister’s last moments. Where did she fall? It was somewhere near here. I lean out a little and look down into the inky liquid grave.
We pass the sparkling buildings and lights of Venice. The great tall houses cast their stretched reflections onto the water, where they mingle with that of the moon. Distant laughter bounces off the hard surfaces of stone.
My father’s expression is taut in the succession of shadow and light, and I realize that his face is powdered, to smooth the tired lines. I wonder if he is worrying about the impression I will make. There will be things he’ll want me to do and to say—rules I don’t know and rituals I’ve never had a hand in, patterns of talk that I’ve never been part of. I’m able to chant glories to God for hours. I can force oil of peony root into the mouth of a crazed man, breaking him like some restless colt. I can sit silent and still for hours in a cell, pretending to be at prayer. But I don’t know anything about parties.
The air seems to thicken as we get closer. I sit with my fists closed and my elbows pressed hard into my ribs, and my father laughs.