by Karen Brooks
He picked up the glass of wine and downed it in one gulp before refilling it. His hands were trembling. The song of the castrato rose, filling Waterford’s ears and soul. He swilled the glass, holding it to the light, watching the way the flames of the fire and candle exposed unexpected depths and currents.
Other lives depended on him. His countrymen, gods help them, depended on him and what he was brought to Serenissima to do. He had better play his part well, whatever the cost.
If he didn’t, if he failed, it would be his beloved wife, son, and all of Albion, of Farrowfare, who paid the price.
Waterford drained his glass and then, with unaccustomed frustration, dashed it into the fire. The flames hissed and sparked before consuming the shattered fragments. With shaking hands he picked up the jug and began to drink from the lip.
THE MIDDAY BELLS IN THE CAMPANILE had long tolled when I entered what I quickly christened the workshop for my first lesson with Baroque. Situated just off the courtyard at the rear of the casa, it was a large, dark room, the only light coming from a grubby window beside the door. A fire was burning in the small grate, the wind whistling through the open door threatening to extinguish the flames. The thick wooden mantelpiece surrounding the hearth had shelves above it, upon which were stacked a range of materials that piqued my curiousity. Not far from the fireplace was an internal doorway that, I quickly discovered, was the entrance to Baroque’s bedroom. A huge trestle table stood in the middle of the main room. On this lay an assortment of objects. I could make out a couple of pestles and mortars, a few boxes, some candles – mainly tapers – as well as bunches of herbs and a few small vials with liquid in them. Underneath were a pile of dented pots and a variety of containers.
Baroque came out of his bedroom wiping his hands on a towel that, as soon as he set eyes on me, he tossed over his shoulder. ‘Forgive me, Signorina Tall – Tarlo. I did not expect you so soon.’
I curtsied and felt strangely self-conscious. ‘Lunch was finished and the others went for siesta, so I thought …’ My voice trailed off. I felt my cheeks growing hot.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I am not criticising. You’re punctual. I like that.’ He glanced behind me into the courtyard beyond. ‘They let you come here unescorted?’
I knew to whom he referred. ‘Sì. Giaconda is resting as she is … busy tonight and Hafeza has gone to the mercato.’
‘I see. We’re alone then. Bene.’ He rested his hands on the tabletop and nodded thoughtfully. The bruises and cuts that had so distorted his face were healing. He looked more like the man I remembered than a victim. I found the old resentment starting to churn inside me. I tried to swallow it and waited for him to commence.
Aware of my agitation, he sought to distract me and reached over to one of the shelves, pulling a piece of fabric from a pile. It was an apron. He passed it to me. ‘Put this on. You don’t want to damage your dress.’
I nodded my thanks and pulled the apron over my head and tied it around my waist.
He dragged a stool over and indicated that I should also find one and sit on the other side of the table. There were two propped under the window. I grabbed one and perched on it.
‘So,’ said Baroque after almost a minute. ‘I am to teach you.’
‘Sì,’ I said slowly.
I felt Baroque studying me. I didn’t look at him, but stubbornly remained focused on the tabletop.
Finally, he sighed. ‘Look, Tarlo. This isn’t easy for me either. I am not a teacher. I’m a spy. A man few trust and who has made a life out of double-dealing and death. The Maleovellis hired me to find you. I did what I was paid to do. I know you don’t like it; but that’s the way it is.’ He paused as if waiting for me to comment. I didn’t.
He rubbed his hands over his face. ‘I am old, tired and loath to pass on what I know to someone … to someone like you.’
My eyes widened.
‘But I’m forced into this position, so I’ll do my best.’
‘Forced? How?’
‘The Maleovellis. They have something of mine that I want. That I need.’ He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s my problem.’ He gave a half-laugh.
‘You’re not being paid for this?’
‘Not exactly. My expenses are covered and, if it all works out … who knows?’ He shrugged.
I thought for a moment. ‘Why don’t you want to teach me what you know? Is it because I’m a woman?’
He gave my question some consideration. ‘No. It has nothing to do with your sex. It’s because of what you are. The gifts of an Estrattore are … special. They’re not meant to be used in the way I believe the Maleovellis want to use them. The way they want to use you.’
‘You don’t think I have some say over the matter?’
He seemed surprised by my question. ‘No, I don’t. Do you?’
I spluttered at the honesty of his reponse. ‘No. Not really.’
‘Good. I didn’t think you were stupid.’
Before I could reply, he continued. ‘So, whether we like it or not, for a few hours a day, we’re stuck with each other. We’d better make the most of it, hey?’ He chuckled at the expression on my face. ‘Now, before I begin to tell you what I know, I want you to show me what you can do. Show me what you used to do with the candles.’ He slid one of the creamy tapers towards me. ‘Go on,’ he urged as I hesitated.
It wasn’t working with the candle that gave me pause. The familiarity of its form and texture excited me. It was what Baroque had said. He wasn’t being paid, he was being coerced; he was not a willing agent of the Maleovellis. For some reason, this made me see him in a different light. Perhaps I’d judged him too harshly.
I slowly picked up the candle and turned it over in my hand, feeling the smoothness of the wax. I held it to my nose. Beeswax. ‘These are good quality,’ I said.
‘Sì,’ agreed Baroque. ‘I was to buy the best.’
I twirled it in my fingers. ‘What would you like me to show you exactly?’
Baroque considered this for a moment. ‘What was it you used to do with the ones that were so successful in the Candlemakers Quartiere?’
‘Without going into too much detail, I used to infuse them with happiness.’
Baroque snorted. ‘Really? That was it?’
‘Sì, basically,’ I said sharply, my cheeks colouring. His derision bothered me. He hadn’t seen what they could do, the contentment they brought to people. ‘But remember, I would make them from scratch. I was able to hide the strength of the extraction. I’m not practised in changing candles that someone else has made. This will take time to get right.’ I held up the taper. ‘I will have to be very careful. I will make many mistakes.’
He weighed my words. ‘But you can do it?’
‘Sì, but it will be strong – maybe overpowering.’
‘What harm can happiness do?’
I recalled my early efforts – the happiness of the alchemist and his wife, of Francesca, the fruiterer’s daughter Lucia and her amore. I almost recoiled. ‘You may be surprised to learn, Baroque Scarpoli, it can do a great deal of harm. Excess of emotion is not good.’ Dante flashed into my mind. I pushed him away.
‘Ah.’ Baroque lowered his voice. ‘Then you have already learnt the most valuable lesson an Esttrattore can teach. What they used to both practise and preach. Excess in anything is to be avoided. Something I am yet to learn.’ He patted his belly with a wry smile.
I felt a rush of warmth. The Estrattore would teach such things?
Sensing my glow of pleasure, Baroque smiled, revealing his gold teeth. I found myself responding.
‘How do you know this?’ I asked quietly.
‘The resident expert has not told you?’ He jerked his head upstairs. I knew he referred to Jacopo.
I giggled. ‘No. Should he?’
‘I would have thought it was the most important thing about Estrattore you have to know.’ He saw the look on my face. ‘I was a spy, Tarlo. I had to know about Estrattore
so that when I was asked, I could track and capture them.’
‘Did you? Find any, that is.’
His eyes took on a faraway look. ‘Once, I thought I had.’
And –’ I urged.
‘Funny. We were always told to look at the eyes. The eyes were what gave your lot away.’ His own gravitated to mine and then away again. ‘But this man I found, this man I caught, couldn’t even see.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was accused of being an Estrattore. I was sent, along with some soldiers, to bring him to the Doge. In our excitement, we didn’t listen to the pleas of his daughter. Not until it was too late.’
‘Too late?’
‘It was only after he was executed in the piazza that we realised he was blind. What we thought were the silver eyes of the Estrattore were, in fact, cataracts.’ He sighed. ‘Of everything I’ve done, I most regret that.’
I stared at him. ‘Sometimes we don’t see what’s in front of us.’ My voice was barely a whisper.
‘Vero,’ he said warmly. We exchanged a long look.
‘All right,’ he said, slapping his hands together, breaking the moment. ‘Happiness it is then. What do you need?’
‘For that, nothing,’ I said. ‘I store it in here.’ I touched my breastbone. ‘What I’ve extracted and altered from other things, other people, it’s all inside me.’
‘Do you feel it, the happiness?’
I shook my head. ‘It doesn’t work like that; at least, not for me. I don’t know how to use what I have extracted to change the way I feel, only others.’
‘Then how do you use it?’
I cleared my throat, picked up the candle and wriggled on the stool until I was more comfortable. ‘Watch,’ I said. I closed my eyes and slowed my breathing. I shut out the noise of Baroque’s steady wheeze, the crackle of the fire and the wind blowing through the courtyard. I focused inwards and began to plunder my memories. I knew exactly which ones I would use to transform this candle.
I thought back to my escapades with Dante. Of our times together hiding in the campo, watching the antics of the nobiles and courtesans during Carnivale, gobbling cheese on the awning of a shop on the salizzada, dashing away from the soldiers as they searched for those who had thrown the fruit at them while they snoozed in the sunshine with their backs against the basilica wall.
They were joyful times, wonderful moments. I extracted the pleasure from deep within myself and, with great caution, transferred it to the candle.
When I opened my eyes, Baroque’s face was the first thing I saw. He was transfixed by the candle in my hands. But the lines that creased his face had been smoothed; a softness twinkled behind those steely eyes as he recalled something from his past too – something that made his cheeks rosy and the corners of his mouth turn upwards.
‘Now, we light it,’ I said.
Baroque grabbed the tinder box and, using the flint and spill, lit the wick. In seconds, a sweet smell filled the workshop. I watched as Baroque’s smile broadened. He inhaled deeply a few times and then let out a long sigh. ‘Amazing. I feel it. I –’ He struggled to find the words. He patted an area on the left side of his chest. ‘I feel something here. And just when I thought I no longer had one.’ His voice thickened and he quickly slid off the stool, staunched the candle with his fingers and turned to the shelves, but not before I saw the tears in his eyes.
I pretended not to notice as he opened a box and pulled out two more candles. He added them to three others on the bench and pushed them all towards me. ‘Can you change these in the same way?’
‘Sì, I can. Why?’
Baroque put the lid back on and replaced the box on the shelf. ‘The Maleovellis are going to use them. They will burn them for the Signorina’s clients to enjoy. They hope they will help make them the friends they currently lack and even bring old ones back. Open their circle of acquaintances.’ He raised doubtful eyes to mine.
‘If you like, I can make sure they do,’ I said.
‘You can?’
‘Sì. I think so.’
Once again he sighed. I had the strong sense that there was an undertone of disappointment, but it wasn’t directed at me. ‘Then you had better do that too. I will let them know. They will be very … pleased.’
I nodded and applied myself to the candles. Baroque’s eyes were upon me, admiration, curiosity and a tinge of misgiving behind them.
After I finished, he reached past me and held aloft one of the tapers I’d transformed. ‘I can smell them from here.’ His eyes widened and he stared at me with something akin to respect. He began to chuckle. ‘When I heard about this in the Candlemakers Quartiere, that something had been done to the candles, I didn’t really believe, even though I wanted to. But they’re changed. Whatever it is you’ve done, no-one lighting them and breathing in their scent will be the same as they were.’ He placed them in a different box. ‘And when we’re talking about Serenissian nobiles and some of our merchants, that’s not necessarily a bad thing.’ He winked at me.
‘Is that all I have to do?’ I asked. I was surprisingly weary.
‘For today. But Signorina, you know this is just the beginning. Tomorrow, and in the days to come, I am to teach you everything I know – about potions.’ He pointed to the vials on the shelf and then to the plants drying on the bench. ‘About herbs, about the way all these things, when mixed together and in specific quantities, can make people feel certain things, act in particular ways. I’m to teach you about these so that you can collect what you learn and store it in there –’ he pointed towards my chest ‘– and use that knowledge to change more candles, distil into the wax just as you did then. By the time we’re finished, there will be very little by way of feelings or emotions, let alone physical complaints and remedies, that you won’t be able to induce in others through your candles.’ He paused. ‘I’ll also teach you what I’ve learnt over the years about people – their behaviour, expressions, how they can say one thing with their mouths, something else with their bodies – what their reactions really mean. Though I have a feeling you may already know a great deal – more than I think you will ever reveal.’
I swelled with pride at the compliment.
‘For what purpose am I to learn all this?’
I already had a fair idea, but I wanted to hear it from Baroque’s mouth. ‘So the Maleovellis can use your candles to manipulate whomever they want. So their rise to power will be swift and without doubt.’
I studied my hands for a moment. ‘I thought so. I just wanted to make sure we both knew what we’re doing.’
Baroque looked me straight in the eye. ‘You can reconcile this, with your conscience? Your soul?’
‘Can you?’ I retorted.
He regarded me for a moment before turning back to the fire and poking the embers. ‘I have no choice – not anymore,’ he said quietly. ‘But you –’
‘I have no choice either, Baroque Scarpoli. Not anymore. If I ever really did.’ He didn’t reply, but began stacking the boxes back on the shelves and rearranging the vials. I watched him in silence.
The afternoon shadows grew, plunging the room into darkness. Baroque added some more wood to the fire and lit the candles at the other end of the table. He began to hum. Wandering into his bedroom, I heard him rummaging through some paper.
‘Is there anything else for me to do?’ I called.
Baroque’s head appeared around the door. He was chewing. ‘Goodness. Mi dispiace, Tallow … I mean, Signorina Tarlo. I thought you’d gone. I didn’t notice you sitting there. Lesson is over for the day. I will see you tomorrow.’
‘Bene,’ I said and slid off the stool, dropping him a small curtsy. ‘Don’t apologise,’ I said as I straightened. ‘I have become quite used to blending in over the years. I’ve learnt how not to be seen.’
‘Then that’s something I believe the Maleovellis will want you to unlearn. If I understand their intentions correctly, they want you to be noticed by everyone. Just n
ot yet.’
I stared at him then nodded. ‘Grazie, Baroque. Grazie mille. I enjoyed my lesson.’
‘Anche me. Me too,’ replied Baroque.
I hid my smile by turning away. I wandered out into the courtyard. As I ascended the stairs, I knew if I turned round, Baroque would be in the doorway watching me.
DAYS BLURRED INTO WEEKS AS HISTORY, reading, writing, manners and dress, herbal lore and candle fixing filled my time. I could not think of it as candlemaking, not when I’d played no role in giving the wax its form, but I enjoyed working with my beloved medium, practising my talents, refining and adding to my knowledge.
I’d thrown myself into the lessons. I needed distractions, something to keep me from thinking too deeply about what I was doing; how easily it could all go wrong. I also found that keeping myself occupied prevented me from touching the little harlequin that glimmered invitingly in the afternoon light, urging me to extract what I continued to place in there – my feelings for Dante, which arose every time a fresh memory was plumbed, as well as my doubts and qualms about the entire Maleovelli enterprise.
Even though there was still a great deal I didn’t know about the family, they’d shown me nothing but an extraordinary generosity. I wasn’t so naïve that I didn’t know they’d eventually demand their price; but they’d been frank with me about that. So far, they’d given me a splendid roof over my head, clothes such as I had never even dreamt of owning and delicious food. And they were educating me. At least, that’s what they called it.
Every morning, Giaconda would come into my room and, with Hafeza in tow, talk about my ‘toilette’; how to make sure I was clean in the areas that count. For a lady, this was my face, my armpits, in my décolletage and between my legs. I was to perform this ritual daily and, once a week, I would enjoy a bath and wash my hair that, owing to my healthy diet, was growing quickly. It already swept my shoulders. I often touched the wisps that would escape my coiffure, twining them around my finger.