Cross My Heart

by Sasha Gould

  Lifting my skirts, I dash out the door and down the front steps. I leave the buzz and the scramble of the women behind me. I must find him.

  I’m grateful that the anonymous cloak I wore to the meeting will go some way to disguise me on this journey.

  A gondola wobbles in the water, its pilot fanning his face with his broad hat.

  “Please! Please, sir, take me to the Lido. I need to get to the artisan quarter.”

  He holds out his hand to help me aboard. “I’ll get you there as fast as I can. Sit, and catch your breath.”

  I do my best to keep calm and think logically. Giacomo’s secret has followed him across Europe like a lingering infection for which there’s no cure. His death warrant is signed and he doesn’t know it, but neither do many others. There is still time.

  As we drift behind a low warehouse, the gondolier wants to know where exactly to leave me. I feel a lurch of panic when I realize that I don’t know.

  “Do you know a man called Giacomo?” I ask, a foolish, frightened question, born of desperation.

  “I know several men of that name.” He smiles.

  There’s a choke in my voice. “He’s a painter. Do you know anyone who I can ask?”

  The gondolier steps out of his boat and takes me by the hand as I jump off. “Wait here a moment, Signorina, I’ll see if I can find out.”

  He walks away off into a dark lane telling me he’ll be back and it’s better if he goes alone. But I can’t just stand waiting for him. I have to run.

  Three ragged boys dangle their feet in the water and I rush towards them.

  “Do you know Giacomo?” I ask. They look at me and giggle.

  My gondolier comes whistling down the lane in a slow saunter. He seems surprised by my haste as I stumble over the cobbles.

  “The baker says he knows an artist called Giacomo,” he tells me. “Lives on Caligari, at number seventeen. Go to the end of this bank, take the lane that curves into the left, and walk until you get to Fellucci. Caligari is the third on the right.”

  I thank him over my shoulder as I run. My feet slap out a frantic beat.

  At Caligari, I slow, scanning up and down. What if he isn’t even here? Perhaps he has a commission elsewhere. A sudden image of him, paint-stained and whistling like a free boy, comes to mind. But he’s not free anymore.

  My fists feel like lumps of marble as I lift both my arms and bang hard on the door to number seventeen.

  “Giacomo!”

  Silence.

  Please be here, I pray.

  Annalena used to tell me that desperate prayers sometimes carry a fierce and exceptional power. I never used to believe her, but in this instance it is so. The door swings open.

  “Laura!” He smiles, and I can’t speak. Then his face creases into a frown. There in the doorstep with my heavy breath and my fearsome beating heart, he wraps his arms around me and I cling to him. “Whatever’s the matter?” he asks.

  “You’re in danger,” I say.

  He chuckles. “Your father?”

  “The de Ferraras. The vendetta.”

  That silences his laughter, and his face drains of color. His lips open a fraction. “Come inside.”

  He weaves his fingers through mine. The narrow wooden stairs creak as we climb. At the top is a planked, crooked-looking door. He pushes it open with his boot and pulls me inside. He lifts a bundle of my hair and buries his face in it and breathes in.

  The room is simple and bright—illuminated by two skylights, both open to the elements. A plain table stands in the middle of the floor, covered with books, sketches, notes and canvases, and a cot with tangled sheets is pushed into the corner. Paints and frames and easels fill the space on the other side. There’s a simple wardrobe beside the bed.

  “You know?” he says.

  I touch his chest with my fingertips and loosely he puts his hand over mine. I lift the chain that hangs around his neck. I drape the gold pendant over my hand and look at it very closely. I see it. The ducal crest.

  “Roberto.”

  He’s wrapped a blanket over me, for even with the heat I’m shivering. He crouches by his small stove as I pace the room, trying to explain what I know. For the second time, I break the oath of the Segreta. A tiny kettle bubbles on the fire and spills steam over its edge. With a cloth he picks it out and pours hot water into two cups on the dresser. His hand trembles.

  “You could have told me,” I say.

  He comes to me again and hangs his head down onto my shoulder, and I hear his breathing.

  “It’s been so long since someone called me by that name,” he says. “I never wanted to deceive you.”

  “I understand,” I say, “but now others know too. Grazia will surely tell her husband.”

  “We don’t know that. It’s possible that the news may not have spread beyond the women there today. They are the Society of Secrets, after all.” He speaks with a composure that makes me feel I will faint.

  “It isn’t worth the risk,” I reply. “You have to get away from here.”

  He sits and digs his elbows into the table, holding his head.

  “I’ve spent so long running away.”

  A sharp rapping on the door makes us jump.

  “It’s them!” I say. “They’ve come already!”

  “Stop worrying so much,” he whispers, and touches my face. “Not even the gossips of Venice could mobilize everyone that quickly. But whoever it is might be looking for you, and you mustn’t be found here.”

  He pours away one of the cups of tea and opens the old oak doors of the wardrobe that stands on the opposite wall. It’s full of his clothes: soft white shirts, black cotton trousers and two jackets, one with a missing button. A pair of leather boots.

  “Please be careful,” I say, stepping inside.

  He kisses me on the lips as the visitor below knocks once more. Then he closes the door, leaving me in a blanket of darkness with only the smell of him. There’s a thin strip of light where the doors meet. I lean against the crack and stare.

  First I hear a woman’s muffled voice, but here in this enclosed space, and with my mind swimming, I can’t tell whose it is. Has Grazia come alone? I hear footsteps, but no panic in them. Then a figure enters the room.

  She wears a black cloak, and stands facing away from me. Roberto is opposite, with a look of confusion on his face. As the woman draws down her hood, the shock of her red-gold hair tumbles free.

  “Hello, Carina,” says Roberto.

  Grazia’s daughter titters, and her profile catches the light.

  “Well, well,” she says. “Where have you been hiding?”

  “I’ve been painting,” he says guardedly.

  “Hiding in plain sight,” she says. “I see now why I never spotted it. You’ve changed so much.”

  “Did your mother tell you?” he asks.

  “She’s in quite a fluster,” says Carina. “But why didn’t you tell me you were back in Venice? How did you expect me to recognize you in these clothes, doing this job, living this life? I consider it most unfriendly of you.”

  If she has found him, I’m thinking, others can too.

  “A lot has happened since we were children,” he replies. “You know I couldn’t have come back without a disguise.” He sweeps his hand around as if everything there explains what he means.

  She walks towards the wardrobe. I freeze, with my eye pressed to the crack, and she seems to look right at me, but I see from her solemn face that she doesn’t.

  “The curse of childhood,” she mutters. “I can help you, Roberto. That is why I’m here. I know how you could come back into society. I have a way.”

  “I don’t think it’s possible,” he says. He watches Carina closely, his hands at his side, neither comfortable nor relaxed.

  Carina, with her back to him still, smiles. “Imagine being able to hold your head up high as the son of the Doge. Imagine walking around St. Mark’s in your fine clothes, with everyone knowing who you are, n
ever having to look over your shoulder again.”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “There’s a lot to be said for the life of an anonymous painter.” He glances over to where I’m hiding. I’m holding my chest, trying to calm my breathing.

  Carina looks around his simple room. I think I see a little sneer. Whatever it is, it crumples her smooth face, and makes her look ugly for a second. “You really think there’s merit in living here? Like this? Surrounded by peasants?”

  He digs his fists into his hips in the way I’ve seen before. “It’s not for everyone, I admit.”

  “All I have to do is say the word,” she says. “All I have to do is talk to my father. Then you’ll have freedom and power. No one will care about that stupid vendetta anymore. For goodness’ sake, it’s all such a long time ago. I can’t even remember who started it. Anyway, I would be able to convince them how meaningless it is.”

  As I watch, she takes a few steps towards him and places her hand carefully on his shoulder. His eyes settle on her fingers.

  “I fear even your charms aren’t that great, Carina.”

  “What happened to our friendship?” she asks. “I thought I would’ve been the first person you’d look for when you came back.”

  “It was difficult.”

  He steps away, but she moves closer to him again.

  “I thought we were going to be more than friends. I was sure. We were only just old enough for love when the terrible fight happened and everything changed.”

  “We were only children,” he says.

  “I thought you were dead.” She touches his chest, softly this time, and I wish she wouldn’t. Her hand trails down across his stomach. “If I’d known that you were alive all these years … why, I would have …”

  She lifts his shirt up slowly, and I hold my breath. He lets her do it, and inch by inch his torso is exposed. A wide, jagged-looking scar stretches almost completely across the left side of his tanned chest, stopping near his heart.

  “Carina, stop,” he says, pulling away.

  “Oh, come, Roberto,” she says, “I’m just looking.” She brushes his chest and places her hand flat upon it. His back is against the crooked door. I can only watch. “They said no one could survive that wound.”

  “What are you doing here, Carina?” His voice is thick, and his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat.

  “I’m here,” she sighs, “because I have a secret too.”

  “Yes?” he says, smoothing his shirt down.

  Carina turns away again, and lowers her eyes to the floor.

  “If you want to know the truth, I’ve actually known about your being here for months,” she says. “I’ve just been biding my time. Waiting for this chance to talk to you.”

  I can’t see her eyes. Is she lying?

  Roberto frowns, clearly as confused as I am. “Who told you?”

  “Aha,” she says. “You must know. Think about it.”

  For a long time there’s silence. Roberto looks straight at me, then says quietly, “Beatrice.”

  “Women can’t keep secrets,” laughs Carina. “Didn’t you know that?”

  “Then she trusted you with a grave secret,” says Roberto.

  “And I never told anyone,” says Carina. “Though I could have.”

  “I sincerely hope that is true,” he says.

  Carina seems to ignore this. “And now I’ve heard,” she says, “that you’re close to the other sister. I’m sure you already know of her grasping father’s foul, territorial temper.”

  Her tone drips with contempt. She looks at him with satisfaction and anticipation. She seems swollen with a kind of power.

  “I want you to leave,” he says, moving towards the door.

  A ripple of fresh affection sweeps over me. I want to be out there, standing by his side.

  “Beatrice was a fool,” continues Carina. “And Laura is no better.”

  The transformation has happened before my eyes. Carina, stripped of her loveliness, spits out her words brutally.

  “Beatrice was my friend,” says Roberto. “And her sister is far more.”

  Carina rounds on him with a brittle laugh. “Far more?”

  “Yes. Far more. I love Laura della Scala, and I think that she loves me too.”

  Carina’s body stiffens.

  “Don’t speak like a fool, Roberto. Laura is nothing but a convent girl. Unrefined. Ignorant. Inexperienced. She can’t satisfy a Doge’s son.”

  “She’s the most beautiful woman in Venice,” he says. “The fear that I am not good enough for her is all that haunts me now.”

  “Well, if that’s all you’re frightened of, then you’re more of a fool than I thought,” she snaps. But her body changes; she runs a hand through her hair and her voice becomes softer, honeyed, heavy. “I’m a widow. I’m free—and I can set you free too.” She reaches for him again, but he pushes her hand away.

  “No,” he says, opening the door to let her out.

  “Don’t you find me attractive?” she simpers. “Don’t you think we’d make a fine Venetian pair?”

  “Please go, Carina.”

  She’s flushed. She steps from him and brushes down her dress. She takes two deep breaths, then shakes her locks back over her shoulder.

  “Fine,” she says. “I will give you time. There are men all over this city who would chop off their own arms for my hand in marriage. Think on it, then send me your answer.”

  She sweeps away. I hear the pressure of her slow steps on the staircase, and finally the slam of the outside door. He comes back over to the wardrobe and throws it open. Our lips meet with me still half standing inside, and his hands on my waist lift me out. He carries me over to the tousled bed.

  “Beatrice never told me,” I say, still a little angry that this is another secret.

  “I asked her not to tell anyone. I let my mask slip in a moment of weakness. She was so kindhearted, I never dreamt she might tell someone else.”

  “She trusted Carina. So did I.”

  On the narrow bed, I rest my head on Roberto’s chest, and slide my hand under his loose shirt. He shivers a little as the smoothness of his skin gives way to the rough tissue of the scar.

  “Did it hurt?”

  “I hardly remember,” he says. “We were fishing, my friend and I, just after dawn. We didn’t see the men until they were close by. Didn’t see the swords they held until it was too late. I thought that I’d been shoved, that’s all, and fell into the water. But there was a lot of blood.”

  I let my hand trace the line of his ribs. “Poor you. Only eleven years old.”

  “Julius’s men left me for dead, and my friend rushed for help. I don’t remember being fished out or taken back to the palazzo. A fever set in later, but after I’d recovered they sent me away at once with Mathieu. He looked after me for years in Paris.”

  “So the tomb in the chapel …?”

  “Empty. My mother insisted on a closed coffin, claiming I’d received a terrible injury to my face too. Only a handful of my father’s most loyal subjects know the truth.”

  I prop myself up on my elbow and look into his eyes. He tries to kiss me, but I place a hand on his chest. “You must consider Carina’s offer.”

  His eyes widen. “Why?”

  “If Julius would attack an innocent boy, he’ll come after an innocent man just as surely. Marrying Carina is the only way of putting a stop to all this.”

  “Is that what you want?” he asks me. “Please don’t tell me that’s what you want me to do.”

  “Of course it’s not. But this is your life we’re talking about.”

  “Laura, if I married that woman, I would never breathe a single happy breath again as long as I lived.”

  “But if you don’t marry her, you can’t stay in Venice.”

  I know it’s more serious than that; if he doesn’t marry her, he won’t be safe anywhere in the world. Carina has him in checkmate. Now she waits for him to consider his options and to realize tha
t there’s no choice.

  “But if I marry her,” he says, “then I won’t be able to do this.” He brushes his lips against my collarbone. “Or this.” He kisses my lips. “I’d never even be able to hold these hands in mine ever again.”

  His touch sends a thrill across my skin, and I don’t want him to stop. But through the veil of passion, a darker shadow lurks.

  “Someone is going to kill you,” I say, my voice a soft whisper. “They could be coming for you at this very moment.”

  He kisses me again and tells me everything is going to be all right.

  “My mother used to say that,” I tell him. “And she was wrong.”

  “Right,” he says, springing up off the bed. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do.”

  He strides over to his little desk, laying out his plan. He’s going to write to Carina and tell her how things are. That they cannot be together because he doesn’t feel for her as a lover. Then, when she’s pacified, he’s going to talk to Julius himself, man to man, and persuade him that the vendetta has no value anymore. That it will serve no purpose. I’m not sure, and tell him so, but he insists he will try. His confidence carries me with it.

  “What about your parents?” I say, remembering that night at the palace when Julius and Grazia were turned away. “Your father has kept the pretense well. Too well, perhaps. Julius will be furious.”

  “As far as my father was concerned, for many years I was as good as dead. I never saw either of my parents for over nine years.”

  “But—”

  “No buts,” he says. “Julius is an old man now. His grief is old and well-worn. He will understand.”

  He slides a drawer out and rummages in it. He presses flat a piece of creamy parchment and dips a quill into a little pot of black ink. I watch as he writes his note of refusal. He says he’s going to fetch his friend Mathieu, who will take the message to Carina.

  “Don’t be mad,” I plead with him again. “Stay here.”

  Roberto smiles at me. “I’ll be back soon,” he says, “and I’ll bring a bottle of Vin Santo to celebrate.”

  “Celebrate what?”

  “Everything. Life. Liberty. Love.”