Cross My Heart

by Sasha Gould

  We turn down a grubby alley and reach a cracked and stained wooden doorway. Allegreza takes out a key and turns it in the lock.

  “There isn’t a recital for Paulina and Nicolo, is there?” I say.

  “Not quite.” She smiles.

  “Then where are you taking me?” I start to back away.

  “Please don’t be alarmed,” she says, catching my arm. “I’m sorry for the deceit. It was to keep your father from suspecting anything.”

  She opens the door and ushers me in, then closes it behind us and locks it again. At our feet, steep stone steps lead down. Allegreza has to stoop to avoid the low ceiling. Moss and strange little white stalactites hang from above, as if we are in a cave, and the smell of damp hangs in the air. I pause at the base of the stairs.

  “Come, come. You’re one of us, Laura. There’s no need to be afraid.”

  A few candles cast a dim glow ahead, and the space opens out into a large cellar lined with old racks and bottles. Six or seven of the Segreta wait in their expressionless masks. I haven’t brought mine, and for a moment I feel so exposed I might as well be naked. I recognize Grazia in her black cat mask. I know your secret, I think, fighting back the temptation to denounce her then and there; to tell her that I saw her in the cathedral yesterday. But the door is locked behind me. Reveal her secret now and it would blossom and die unseen. In all likelihood, I would die with it. I swallow thickly.

  “What will happen when my father finds out there has been no recital?” I whisper to Allegreza.

  “He won’t find out.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because nobody will tell him.” She says it as if it’s a steadfast fact. She puts on her owl mask and her eyes fix on mine, as if daring me to challenge her.

  One of the dark figures brushes my shoulder. It’s the woman in the fox mask.

  “Hello, Laura,” she says, and hands me a mask decorated with peacock’s feathers. As soon as I put it on, I feel strangely safer.

  “Welcome, sisters, to this special meeting,” announces Allegreza.

  I wonder if I’m the first item on the agenda. Will there be retribution for my attack on Bella Donna? Will they want to know why I haven’t secured a new member?

  But then I realize that they consider me part of the crowd—no more a focus of attention than anyone else.

  “I would like you all to meet someone. Maria!” Allegreza beckons with her long fingers. “Please bring our new guest forward.”

  One of the masked women opens a door to an antechamber. She leads out a girl dressed in golden satin, a black band tied about her eyes. My throat is dry.

  It’s Paulina.

  Maria takes off the blindfold. Paulina trembles, staring around the room. “What do you want from me?”

  Paulina, fiancée to the Doge’s son—a perfect recruit for the Segreta. Did they tire of waiting for me to deliver her? I wish I could tear off my mask and run to her and take her away from here. But if I stay hidden I may be better able to protect her.

  Allegreza explains the rules of the Society in solemn detail, just as she did to me. Paulina nods. She tells everyone she has a secret, and there’s that unsettling swollen silence that I’ve heard before.

  Paulina stands firm, looking around. “What I have to tell you is that there’s another secret society. A society that Count Raffaello established.”

  Some of the women bless themselves at the sound of the dead man’s name.

  Paulina’s voice grows more confident as she continues. “Raffaello was the founder of a gambling society. He’s been gaining members throughout Venice and beyond, stirring people up to get involved. He sat at tables during which great fortunes were won and lost. Every day the stakes grow higher and higher.”

  Horrified, I remember my father’s argument with Raffaello that day while Carina and I sat in the courtyard. I think of my mother’s missing jewels, the blank spaces where pictures used to hang.

  “He was playing a very dangerous game,” she continues. “Most people who knew what he was up to are surprised it took this long for him to meet his end.”

  I knew it. Raffaello was murdered.

  Paulina is ushered back into the antechamber. We huddle together to deliberate on the value of her secret while she waits.

  “How much value is this to us really?” one woman says. “The dogs on the streets know that Raffaello’s death was not an accident. Everyone knows that someone killed him, poisoned him probably.”

  Can she really not see the truth before her eyes—that the killers stand among us now? For the first time, I wonder if there are secrets even within the Society. Depths of shadow. Or is this all an act for my benefit? Perhaps I’m the only one here being kept in the dark, and behind these masks the women are laughing.

  “True,” Allegreza replies, “but the real point is the information about the gambling club. That’s something that is valuable for us to know. She may be able to tell us more. Who the other members are, perhaps.”

  My father among them, I think. Despite everything, I can’t bear to think of him brought to public shame.

  “I propose we vote to accept her into the Society,” Allegreza concludes. “All those in favor, say yes.”

  A flurry of yeses bounces around the walls.

  “All those against, say no.”

  There’s silence. No one would heed my lone dissenting voice, so I say nothing—La Muta.

  “Our decision is made,” announces Allegreza.

  We move apart. Silk and feather swish past wood and stone, and Paulina is summoned.

  She stands tall and expectant in the middle of the room, and the ritual of welcome is conducted. Allegreza takes her hand and scores the palm with the tip of her knife. We watch as a line of blood appears. Paulina is serene, still, smiling. Does she have any idea what she’s getting herself into?

  Grazia gives her a glorious dark purple mask shaped like a blowsy flower, the eyeholes edged with turquoise stones. “And now, Paulina, is there anything we can do for you?”

  Paulina’s smile becomes a little coy. “There is a girl …,” she begins. She speaks of the young woman we met that day by the street performers, the one who sniggered behind her fan. A daughter of the man Paulina’s uncle worked for, I remember. Paulina says hesitantly that she wants this girl—Perlita is her name—to suffer an embarrassment, in public. It’s a petty, malicious desire, and though the masks prevent me from seeing the reactions on the other women’s faces, I’m not surprised when Allegreza shakes her head. “Such a thing is not becoming,” she says. “We behave according to a code of honor.”

  I almost scoff and Paulina flushes. “Well, I … I …”

  “No matter,” Grazia interrupts. “There will come a time, I’m sure, when we can help you.”

  Paulina regains her composure, and the women break away to talk among themselves. I draw close to her side. “Congratulations, Paulina.”

  I can see her eyes widen behind her mask. “Laura?” There’s a sliver of dismay in her voice. “Is that you? You never …”

  “Shh,” I interrupt. I lean towards her, so that only she might hear my words. “Be careful. The Society isn’t what it seems.”

  “But you’re a member,” she replies. “What do you mean?”

  Allegreza is suddenly beside us, like an apparition. “Paulina, excuse me, but I need to have a word with Laura.”

  She gestures for me to come to the edge of the gathering and I do as I’m bidden.

  “You seem troubled, Laura. Is something wrong?”

  “Why, should there be?” I reply.

  She takes off her mask, and looks at me directly, so I do the same. “Venice is a dangerous and frightening place,” she says gently. “We must trust one another.”

  Who is she trying to fool? She must think I’m as stupid as Giacomo does. I see Paulina chattering to the women the way she does when she’s at any party. They’ve lured my friend into their web, and they spin the gossamer around he
r.

  “I don’t believe you,” I say.

  Her face flinches as though I’ve slapped her.

  I move towards the door. “I have to go home. Carina will be calling soon, and I don’t want to let her down.”

  Allegreza doesn’t try to stop me. She follows me up the stairs and unlocks the door to let me out. “Be careful,” she says. Her voice is deep and concerned. “Remember, Laura, how I said you are bound to us? Well, we are bound to you too. If ever you’re in danger, come to me.”

  I nod and walk off into the afternoon sun, but I can’t imagine ever asking for their help again. When I glance back, she stands there, a tall shadow in the doorway.

  Carina is waiting for me in the salon, a pale and thin version of herself. Bianca is laying out a jug of lemon juice mixed with water and sugar. She pours it into two goblets.

  “Where have you been?” Carina asks.

  I go to her and take her cold hands in mine. “I’m so sorry. I …”

  She’s started to cry, so I fold her in my arms. “Bianca, leave us, please.”

  I take Carina by the hand and lead her to a soft chair. I offer her a handkerchief.

  “I feel so lost without him,” she says after a time, “and if I could find …” She looks at me, and there’s fear within her. “Can I trust you, Laura?”

  “On my dear sister’s memory,” I say.

  She takes a deep breath and glances towards the door.

  “Bianca has gone,” I say.

  Carina nods. “They have spies everywhere.”

  “Who?”

  “You know,” she whispers.

  Her look implores me to utter the word, to break my vow to Allegreza. But even now I can’t.

  “The Segreta!” she finishes.

  I take a sip of juice. In all likelihood, Carina doesn’t know of her own mother’s involvement with the Society.

  “I think they killed Beatrice too,” I say. It’s the first time I’ve given voice to my suspicions, and saying the words strengthens my conviction.

  Carina sits up, frowning. “Do you have proof?”

  I shake my head, and relate as well as I can the evidence I have seen with my own eyes. I omit my own involvement with the masked women but the gaps in my story are obvious, and Carina reads the empty space for what it is.

  “My God!” she says. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?” She begins to stand, but I beg her not to go.

  “One of them in name, but not in nature,” I say. “They tricked me, with the promise to break my engagement to Vincenzo.”

  She sighs deeply. “If what you say is true, then you—then we—must tread carefully.”

  “I swear on my mother’s grave, on my sister’s too, that I’m not lying. There must be someone we can tell—someone on the Grand Council, perhaps.”

  Her face is hard. “No! Raffaello knew of them too, and Beatrice, and look what happened to them. We must keep this to ourselves, until we’re sure.”

  “I am sure,” I say.

  “Until we are sure it’s safe.”

  I wish I could talk to Carina about Giacomo, about the gnawing sensation like hunger in my stomach. But I still feel foolish for believing his sugared words, and my hurt seems nothing while the shadows of the Segreta loom over our conversation like squatting vultures.

  After she’s gone, having first extracted a promise that I won’t behave rashly—“and under no circumstances talk to your father”—I kick off my shoes and throw myself onto my bed. In the convent I would be heading for evening prayer about this time. Back then my life was so ordered that every moment of each day was accounted for; now I feel like a gondolier who has left the safety of the canals, steering through twisting currents and trying not to be swept out to sea.

  There’s a little rap on my door. I snatch up my mother’s book of love poems from under my pillows and pretend to be absorbed in its pages.

  It’s Bianca. She looks like she’s trying not to smirk.

  “That man has called again,” she says.

  “What man?”

  “You know, Giacomo. The painter.”

  I scramble from the bed and stand on the cold floor. “Well, you must tell the painter to go away this instant, and not to come here again.”

  Bianca opens her mouth to interrupt, but I hold up my hand.

  “You must tell him that I won’t sit for him today, or any other. Make sure he gets my message. And come back and tell me when he’s gone.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. He’s already gone. He just came to deliver the painting.”

  “Deliver it? It isn’t finished.”

  “He says it is,” says Bianca. “He left it in the atrium.”

  He can’t possibly have finished it. Only yesterday it was just a ghostly outline. There were supposed to be at least two more sittings. Bianca must be mistaken.

  “Give me a moment,” I tell her.

  As I find my shawl and put on my slippers again, I smile perversely at the thought of my father’s anger when he sees Giacomo’s shoddy workmanship, when he’s brought back in disgrace and forced to explain himself. It will be no less than he deserves. I expect to hear my father’s roar of fury with each step.

  I pad down the corridor to the atrium and find Father already there. Between us is a stand, on which I can see the back of the canvas.

  “Father?” I say.

  My father stares at the painting. There are no furrows in his brow and he seems quite calm. I think he may even be smiling.

  “Come,” he says tenderly. “Come around here and see how the boy has captured you.”

  My chest swells with nausea. I walk round, giving the painting a wide berth, to where my father stands. The whole world holds its breath with me.

  I blink slowly, then open my eyes.

  “How about it?” says my father.

  I gasp—for it’s an astonishing thing that I see. The painting is radiant, and perfect in every detail. I step closer to examine every curve and nuance. My fingernails, the color and shadows of my collarbone, the blue of my eyes, the tumble of my hair. The shape of my eyebrows, the tilt of my head, the shimmer of the sunshine on my skin. How can he have caught the colors and arcs of me like this without having me in front of him? The paint is still wet, unvarnished, and seems like some living thing. The bodice of my mother’s dress sits lower on my chest than I remember, and there’s a defiance in my look that must be an echo of my disposition when we parted. And there’s something else that’s impossible to explain, and I feel myself blushing angrily at the thought. Because anyone looking at this picture might suspect that its creator knew more about me than I do myself.

  Faustina and Bianca scurry in to see as well. They clasp their hands together and gasp in delighted unison. They don’t see the insolence of the brushstrokes.

  “Yes,” says my father, “it is indeed a good likeness. Faustina, go to the courtyard and give him this.” He hands her a puckered purse.

  “But he’s already gone,” I say, taking Bianca’s word for it.

  “No such luck!” jokes my father. “Workmen never forget what they’re owed. No, he’s waiting out there, on Beatrice’s bench.”

  Before anyone decides otherwise, I’ve snatched the purse from a startled Faustina.

  “Here, I’ll take it to him,” I say, and I march out to the courtyard.

  My cheeks are burning. I will confront him. I’ll tell him that I never want him to come near this house again or to paint any more pictures of me or to send me misleading gifts of pretend concern and care.

  He’s sitting where my father said he was, his arms stretched across the back of the bench, his leather-booted feet planted firmly on the ground. When he sees me he stands up.

  “Laura! Thank you. Thank you for coming out. Please sit with me. I very much need to talk to you.”

  I don’t sit. My lips tremble no matter how much I wish they wouldn’t.

  “Do not call me by that name. I’m Signorina della Scala
, and you … you’re just a painter boy my father paid to do a job.”

  I throw the purse on the bench.

  He doesn’t even look at it. He stares at me.

  “But Laura …”

  “Stop it! You have no right. It’s wrong of you.”

  “I’ve lost all sense of what is right and what is wrong.” He sighs.

  “Then let me put you straight. I don’t want anything to do with you. I want you to stay away from here. The painting is finished, and you have been paid in full. There’s no reason for you to come back.”

  “Yes, there is,” he says. “And it’s the best reason of all.”

  I place both hands on my hips, as I’ve seen Faustina do with the drunken beggars who parade the streets. “Oh yes?”

  “Laura, Beatrice and I weren’t lovers. I promise you.”

  His broad smooth hand is splayed against his chest, crushing his soft white shirt. His eyes are candid, the color of burnished hazel. I can’t look at them, or I am lost.

  The bells of St. Mark’s start to chime, and I feel like my heart is keeping pace with them.

  “You have until the ringing stops to explain yourself.”

  Dong, goes the bell.

  “She came to me. We’d met at the unveiling of an altarpiece in the church of San Marziale, by chance.”

  Dong. I press my lips together and look at the ground.

  “I said I was a painter too, that’s all.”

  Dong. I stare at the strong lines of his shadow on the flagstones.

  “She wanted to learn. I wasn’t sure at first—I warned her that people wouldn’t approve. But she insisted.”

  Dong.

  “God, Laura, you must know how stubborn she can be!”

  Dong.

  He looks down for the fraction of a second, “I mean, how stubborn she was.”

  The sounds of the final chimes shiver above us, and he’s silent. I turn around, so that he can’t see the tears welling in my eyes. I do know how stubborn she was, and I remember her sketches as a girl. Of our mother, of the ships in the harbor, of me. The tears tumble out and slide down my face. I’ve been lied to so much, but the truth of his words shines brighter than the sun.