Votive

by Karen Brooks

  At once, he froze. His hand dropped away and he released her quickly, as if she were a burning coal. He stepped back, the redness in his cheeks fading. He tried to look away, but could not; he was drawn into her gaze, deeper and deeper. He began to whimper. His throat made strange, gulping noises. He started to shake. His hands fluttered in front of his face, clawing at his neck. Tallow took a step towards him. He wanted to back away but could not. He was rooted to the spot, trembling like a wet cat. A triumphant smile split Tallow’s face.

  ‘You like it rough, do you, Jacopo? Sì, I felt that when you touched me, felt how you like it. I know what you are, what you do to women. No, not women, to girls, cousin.’ Her eyes were the colour of a molten metal.

  Jacopo staggered, banging into a chair. He fell to his knees. ‘No, no! I didn’t mean it. Please –’

  Tallow reached out, her hand poised above his heart.

  ‘Tarlo!’ Giaconda stood in the doorway, taking in the scene before her. Tallow kept her gaze locked on Jacopo, but slowly withdrew her hand and, with a noise of disgust, moved away. He slithered into a corner, panting.

  ‘Get up, Jacopo,’ said Giaconda coldly.

  Without taking his eyes off Tallow, he stood, using the sideboard to heave himself upright.

  ‘Leave us,’ said Giaconda. ‘I will come and find you later.’

  He fell over himself in his eagerness to be out of the room. They heard the unevenness of his footfalls as he limped down the corridor. A door slammed.

  With her usual serenity, Giaconda poured herself a cup of cafe. ‘Do you want to discuss what just happened, Tarlo?’

  ‘No,’ said Tallow.

  Giaconda sat down, and blew across the top of her cup, even though it wasn’t hot. Tallow waited for what she knew would come next.

  ‘I don’t care what Jacopo did; you’re not to touch him again. You may have changed, Tarlo, but our rules have not. Am I clear?’

  Tallow laughed. It wasn’t a nice sound. ‘Bene. If you say so.’ She went to leave and paused in the doorway. ‘But, Signorina, if he touches me again, I will not be responsible for what happens.’

  ‘Wait!’ ordered Giaconda as Tallow began to walk away. Tallow stopped and spun on her heels, her eyebrows raised. Giaconda stood and covered the distance between them quickly. ‘Sì. Tarlo,’ she said softly, sweetly, ‘you will be. We will hold you responsible, and believe me when I tell you this: you will pay. Which means,’ said Giaconda, dabbing her mouth with a handkerchief, ‘so will all your kind.’

  Tallow looked at her for a moment longer then, with a brief curtsy, went to the workshop, her heart heavy, her mind clouded.

  UPON LORD WATERFORD’S THIRD VISIT to Casa Maleovelli, instead of being escorted from the ground floor to the piano nobile and supervised until either Signor or Signorina Maleovelli could be found, he was left alone just inside the water-gates while a servant he hadn’t seen before dashed around the piles of bales and stacks of barrels to find a member of the household who had permission to go upstairs.

  Admittedly, he had not given notice of his intention to visit – it had been impulsive. Returning from an interesting meeting with one of the capi or heads of the Council of Ten, Signor Nicolotti, he’d been going over their discussion in his head when he recalled what had been said of Signorina Dorata. Having seen her a number of times now, he was always struck by the way she … he searched for the right word … contained herself. It wasn’t self-control so much as a holding together of component parts. He thought it must be something to do with being a courtesan, though, of the many he’d met lately, only Signorina Dorata struck him as being so extraordinarily disciplined. While the others sought to flatter the men they consorted with, or those who had bought their favours, concentrating on always being entertaining and witty, Tarlo Maleovelli applied herself effortlessly to the part. She always seemed to do very little to attract so much desire. Maybe that was the trick. She was a great beauty; of that there was no doubt. Yet, as he watched her, his eyes like so many others being drawn as much by appreciation as desire, he was always left with the feeling that she could do and be so much more. He wondered if he was the only one aware of this. Certainly, women did not have much value in this city – unless it was measured in what they could do for the men. In that regard, Tarlo Maleovelli was considered priceless for, as Signor Nicolotti said, what she had already done for Ezzelino Maleovelli could not be costed in accurate terms. She had not only just enhanced his reputation, she’d built him a fresh one. That usually took generations. Tarlo Maleovelli had accomplished this in mere months.

  And so it was, as he passed by the canal entrance that led to the Maleovellis’ casa, he ordered his gondolier to turn. They passed under the bridge and into the narrow waterway, pulling up outside the water-gates until a huge craft taking up the space was unloaded and Lord Waterford could disembark.

  Being left to his own devices while his hosts were found suited his intentions very nicely. Instead of remaining where he’d been asked to wait, in the way of the men who were busy sorting cargo and checking manifestos, he decided to take the opportunity to explore.

  From where he stood, he could see a courtyard. He headed through the doors at the end of the corridor and into the small cobbled space. The sun was fierce against the stones and he regretted almost immediately his decision to leave the cool interior. He looked around the imposing grey walls, noting recent repairs. There was a shiny bucket for the well and the grand stairs that led to the upper floors had been cleaned and the stone balustrade scrubbed. Despite fresh paint and some newly acquired statuary, the garden had not been tended. At least, the vine crawling over the wall clung like a dying man to the stones; the fruit trees in a raised garden bed were withered and barren. Brown weeds choked what he thought must be a failed attempt to grow herbs. He was about to go and examine the soil when something caught his eye. Moving around the dimness of a large room tucked away under the external stairs was a woman. Assuming she was a servant, he was about to turn aside when he saw, with some surprise, it was Signorina Dorata – Tarlo Maleovelli.

  Instead of her usual golden gown, she was dressed in black and silver. Her long, dark hair cascaded down her back. But the reason he’d mistaken her for a servant was because she was wearing an apron. He quickly darted out of sight and leant against the wall of the casa, the shade a brief reprieve. What was she doing wearing the garb of a servant and in such a utilitarian room, the toast of Serenissima? He slowly crept towards the window.

  Peering through the grubby glass he watched as she walked around an old table, picking up what looked like a dead plant. Rubbing the leaves and raising her fingers to her nose, she set the plant aside. He craned his neck further as she began to wander out of view. She reached behind her to a shelf and pulled down a box.

  Unaware of his scrutiny, she was lost in her own thoughts. He could see the little frown puckering her brow, the sweep of her long lashes against her white cheeks. He had rarely seen her unmasked before. Gods, she was lovely! He saw her lifting the lid from the box and drawing out what looked like two tapers. She held them up, her eyes appraising them before she returned them to the container, shaking her head. Then, she took what appeared to be two smaller candles, the type that burned in the churches here – votives – and placed them in front of her. Focused on what she was doing, she moved with grace. He saw her cup her long fingers around the glass holders in which the votives sat and shut her eyes.

  Waterford inhaled sharply and his mind began to work furiously.

  ‘Can I help you, my lord?’

  Waterford almost leapt out of his skin. He spun and found himself face to face with an older man of medium build who was wiping his hands on a drying sheet, squinting in the bright light. Where had he come from? There was a noise in the workshop. A hasty scurrying, a door clicking shut, and then, silence.

  ‘Ah, I am looking for Signor Maleovelli,’ he said in Serenissian.

  ‘Well, you won’t find him here,’ said the man, n
ever taking his eyes from Waterford’s face.

  ‘No. No. I can see that.’ Waterford began to collect himself. Who was this rather corpulent man staring at him as if he were one of those dirty feral cats that wandered the fondamenta? Did he know to whom he was speaking?

  ‘I am Lord Waterford – a friend of Signor Maleovelli. And who, may I ask, do I have the honour of addressing?’

  ‘You may ask.’

  The man’s grey eyes continued their appraisal. Waterford felt beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. A rivulet coursed down his right temple.

  ‘If you won’t tell me who you are, perhaps you can tell me if that was Signorina Dorata I saw in there?’ He jerked his head over his shoulder.

  The eyes boring into his narrowed. The hands stopped their action.

  ‘Beolin!’ called a familiar voice and, to Waterford’s relief, Giaconda Maleovelli appeared at the top of the stairs. The sunlight bounced off her hair and the jewels sewn into her gown. ‘How on Vista Mare did you end up there? Baroque, grazie mille for finding our unexpected guest. Attend to your duties, please. I will take him from here.’ She began to descend.

  Baroque grunted and stepped aside so Lord Waterford could pass. Giaconda joined Waterford in the courtyard. He bowed his head and she offered her cheeks for him to kiss.

  ‘Oh, the Signor was not disturbing me.’ He turned round, but Baroque had disappeared. ‘I was merely asking him to clarify something for me.’

  Giaconda took his arm and led him back into the coolness of the lower floors. ‘And what might that be, my lord?’ asked Giaconda pleasantly, dodging the men who raced past her with practised poise, heading for the stairs. ‘You became lost, did you?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Waterford. ‘I just thought I would take it upon myself to find you. I have been waiting some time.’

  ‘Oh, my lord, mi dispiace.’ Giaconda smiled. ‘I came as soon as my servant let me know you were there.’

  ‘I apologise if I have done the wrong thing, Signorina. I am still learning your customs.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ replied Giaconda over her shoulder in a tone that suggested they both knew he was lying.

  Without another word, they reached the landing and Giaconda drew him into the portego. She gestured for him to take a seat. A servant detached himself from the wall and poured chilled vino into a glass. Waterford sipped it gratefully, a quick glance around the room telling him much had changed since his last visit.

  ‘So,’ he said, beaming at Giaconda, ‘can you answer something for me? Your man, Baroque, was it? Seemed very reluctant to help me.’ For a fraction of a second a look of irritation crossed Giaconda’s features. He knew she’d heard his question to Baroque. His heart quickened.

  ‘What was that?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, it may have been the heat playing tricks, but I was certain I saw Signorina Dorata in that dark room under the stairs. She was doing something with what I was sure were candles.’

  Giaconda stared at him for a fraction too long before opening her fan and giving a long, trilling laugh.

  ‘Signorina Dorata? In our dirty old workshop?’ Her laugh ceased and she snapped her fan shut and rapped Lord Waterford on the wrist, the playful slap stinging and leaving a red welt. ‘It was the heat, my lord. I tell you, it was the heat.’ She offered him her profile, gazing out the window.

  Lord Waterford regarded Giaconda with twinkling eyes. She was unsettled. Something was going on here. He knew the exquisite Signorina Dorata when he saw her, even without her usual golden surrounds.

  ‘I thought it might have been,’ he chuckled finally. ‘As you say, what would she be doing in there.’ He set down his glass and began to chatter about the weather. Slowly Giaconda relaxed, but the look she gave Signor Maleovelli when he joined them was heavy with meaning.

  As the afternoon progressed and Waterford allowed the conversation to stay on safe routes, he knew he had to get to the bottom of this mystery.

  ORGANISING HIS DESK, Waterford carefully extracted a piece of parchment from the pile he kept and trimmed the quill. Pulling the candles closer, he began to compose a letter to his queen. He wouldn’t raise false hope, but something told him the Maleovellis were a far more interesting prospect than he’d first believed. Zaralina would want to know.

  Since he’d been in Serenissima, he’d heard all about the Estrattore, the boy who made candles and who, some months ago now, had revealed himself and then disappeared. There was talk of Bond Riders, these people who gave their soul to the sacred monoliths on the mainland or some such thing being involved; there were whispers of prophecy, heresy and all sorts. If he’d heard any of this before Queen Zaralina had come to Farrowfare, he would have dismissed it as superstitious nonsense. He now knew better.

  That he’d seen Tarlo Maleovelli holding candles – not in any ordinary way either, but with reverence and care – had to be more than coincidence, didn’t it? Nobiles, or courtesans for that matter, didn’t do that.

  He dipped the quill in the ink and was about to begin writing when he paused. Before he alerted the queen to anything, he needed to find out when Signorina Dorata first came into the Maleovellis’ life. As far as he was aware, no one had heard of or seen her until that night at the Doge’s palazzo. It was as if, as some described, she’d just materialised, like one of the goddesses of old, fully formed from her father’s, or in this case, guardian’s, head.

  He began to laugh. Is that what the Maleovellis were up to? Had Signorina Dorata emerged whole, complete from the mind of Ezzelino? Was she simply part of an elaborate scheme to restore the wealth of this formerly impoverished family? Or was something more complex at work?

  Before she was Signorina Dorata, the young woman was Tarlo Maleovelli. What Waterford wanted to know very badly was who the Maleovellis’ ward had been before she was Tarlo.

  Changing his mind, he pushed the paper aside and leant back in his chair. A warm breeze blew through the window, carrying with it the tang of the sea and other, less pleasant odours. He wouldn’t write to Zaralina just yet. He had to know more; he wanted something greater than mere supposition to present to his queen. Too much was at stake for guesses and instinct.

  He pried himself out of his seat and sat on the window ledge. Below him, the canal was filled with gondolas, gliding through the dying light. Courtesans, nobiles and others fortunate enough to attend the theatre or opera on this temperate night took briefly to the waters. Nearby, he could hear the strident notes of instruments being tuned, the scales of a pianoforte and even a voice or two being warmed ready for performance.

  As he stared at the scene below, his mind worked. How to get the answers he sought?

  Stars began to twinkle and the sky transformed from gold to rose to lilac, deepening and changing as he watched. Lanterns were lit and swung from the prows of the gondolas, making them look like huge, floating candle holders. The intense jade of the water was like one great receptacle upon which the gondola votives drifted. He laughed at his fancy. He was becoming obsessed with candles.

  Then, it occurred to him. He knew exactly who to ask. It wouldn’t be easy, but he knew that if he could get him alone, he was sure he could be persuaded to tell him what he wanted to know. After all, he’d seen the way he looked at Tarlo, the way his tongue wet his lips, the way his hands would become busy whenever he was in her presence.

  It was just a matter of getting Jacopo Maleovelli out of the casa and away from his protective, secretive relatives.

  Waterford slid off the ledge and began his preparations for tonight’s soiree. The prospect of yet another evening in the company of the Serenissian nobiles suddenly didn’t seem so unappealing.

  THOUGH BAROQUE HAD LONG AGO imparted everything he claimed to know about the arts of spying to Tallow, it was only when she was in the workshop, extracting and distilling, that she felt some sort of peace. She knew that everything she was doing was helping the Maleovellis rise to power and that, once this had been accomplished and the Est
rattore were brought home, her role and position within their household would be over. She longed for that day. It was what made Jacopo’s unwanted attentions, the endless evenings with strange men, the pretence, the danger, and the dark, acrid memories tolerable. It all had to mean something, didn’t it? This couldn’t all be for nothing, could it?

  She stopped what she was doing, her concentration momentarily broken, and sighed. She wiped the back of her hand across her brow. It was hot in the workshop, and the smells, while pleasant, were overpowering. She felt Baroque’s eyes upon her. He’d been hovering over her like a bee to a flower, ever since that Lord Waterford had spied her in the workshop. Tallow appreciated his presence, their silent communion shared over the crushed flowers, distilled essences and, above all, the candles she altered. There was something so familiar about testing the candles with Baroque: the mixture of excitement and concern they exchanged before Baroque would remove the spill from the tinderbox and, striking it against the flint, light the wick. The sputter and slow sizzle of the flame was like the introduction, and they would hold their breath until the wax began to melt and the core of what Tallow had infused in the candle was released.

  It reminded Tallow of what to her now seemed like happier times – her life with Pillar in his greasy old workshop. It was funny, thought Tallow, how current context or even a mood or feeling could change the way you viewed the past, colour it in more sympathetic hues. Pillar would occasionally slip into her mind and she would wonder what he was doing, if he ever thought of her. She tried not to think about him too much. She’d been told he’d left Serenissima and that information hurt – she suspected that was why she’d been told. Though she knew it was dangerous for him to remain, let alone to seek her, she had thought she meant more to him. He’d run after her on the bridge that awful day – called to her. If she shut her eyes, she could still see his face: gaunt, grey and yet so filled with joy to see her. And now he was gone – from Serenissima, from her life. Just like Dante, just like anyone who had ever been kind to her.