Heart of Glass

by Sasha Gould

  “Go home and get some sleep.” She takes up a shawl that was lying on the arm of the couch and throws it over my shoulders to cover my soiled dress. “There is much you will need to be strong for.”

  The door to the drawing room closes behind me. The old woman is waiting to see me out, smiling victoriously now that my time in the house is at an end.

  When I emerge onto the streets of Venice, men are setting up their stalls. Another day has begun.

  9

  I wander through the streets, barely hearing the conversation that passes among the stallholders. A woman selling lace sets out her skeins of ivories and creams, while a man carrying a wicker basket of fresh sardines teases her.

  “That would make a nice hem for a wedding dress,” he comments, pointing at a roll of lace. He gives her a fat wink. The woman throws me a smile, rolling her eyes, but I duck my head and hurry past. It galls me that they should talk of weddings, when the prospect of mine has vanished in an instant.

  Arriving home, I hear the sound of raucous singing mixed in with the dawn chorus of the birds. Are people still up? I feel a jolt of alarm, but then realize that Father won’t question where I’ve been. He’ll be too drunk.

  I find them in the dining room. Father has dragged Lysander in here to carry on where the ball left off. The two of them crouch around a bottle of port and two small glasses on a silver tray. Father’s singing an old naval song, as though remembering the ribald youth at sea that he never actually experienced. He throws his head back, his arms spread wide as he uses language that a daughter should never hear.

  I stand in the doorway and wait. On the last verse, he notices me. “The lady of the household joins us,” he says. “Where the devil have you been?”

  “Laura!” Lysander cries out. “Leave her be, Father. She’s young and in love.” He smiles knowingly, though what he imagines the past few hours have brought my way could not be further from the truth. He waves me into the room.

  It’s clear my brother has been drinking too. Well, at least he and Father are no longer quarreling.

  “Where’s Emilia?” I ask as I settle into a chair opposite them.

  “Gone to sea!” Father shouts, then laughs uproariously at his own joke. Lysander and I share a glance.

  “Which is more than we can say for you,” I reply. I mustn’t let either of them know what I have seen tonight. I must smile and pretend.

  Father’s laughter dries up. “I beg your pardon? I am a member of the Grand Council. I’ll ask you not to forget that.”

  “Yes, but you’ve never climbed a rope in your life,” Lysander teases, miming a sailor’s shimmying hands behind Father’s back. “You get seasick in a gondola.”

  Father looks over his shoulder, and Lysander quickly drops his hands, painting an innocent expression on his face.

  “You two!” calls a gentle voice from the hallway. “Stop teasing an old man.”

  Emilia steps into the room. She must have fallen asleep in her gown. The silk is crumpled, and there are other creases in her cheek from where it’s been pressed against a pillow. No matter—she still looks beautiful.

  “My darling,” Lysander calls with an exaggerated flourish of the hand. “Come to me!”

  Emilia ignores him and pads over to plant a kiss on my temple.

  “Old man!” Father protests. “I’m not old!”

  Emilia must have noticed the look on my face, because her brow furrows with concern. “What is it, sister?”

  I feel privileged that Emilia already feels close enough to address me so. The strain of the past night weighs down on me and suddenly I feel my whole body shaking.

  Emilia draws me to her. “Shush now, shush …”

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” Lysander reaches across the table to take my hand. Father pours himself another drink.

  “It’s nothing. Too much excitement.” I wave a dismissive hand through the air. “I’m tired, that’s all.” I wipe my eyes with the hem of my sleeve.

  There’s a loud tutting noise, and Faustina hurries into the dining room, mopping spilt port from the table. “You should all get yourselves to bed,” she chides. “The servants will be up and at their duties soon. Do you want them to see you like this?” She throws me a pointed glance as if to say, What ails you, child? But I cannot answer any more questions and, weak as a lamb, I allow Emilia to lead me up the steps to my room, careful to keep Allegreza’s shawl wrapped tightly round my shoulders, its length covering the stains on my dress. I will have to hide it and dispose of it when I can.

  Lost in a deep slumber, I find myself dreaming of Carina. I’m kneeling beside the water’s edge, gazing down at my reflection as it bobs and shifts with gentle waves. I can’t seem to look away, no matter how hard I try. Then the water parts and a hand thrusts up towards me, fingers clawing the air.

  “Get away!” I try to yell, but my mouth won’t work. Then the hand’s around my throat, grasping my collar, trying to drag me down into the water. I struggle and fight back, but my body tips over, over.… With a rushed intake of breath I sit up in the bed, pushing the sheets back and scrambling up against the pillows. I gaze around me, failing to recognize my room until sense settles and I understand that it’s all been a bad dream. My nightdress is damp with sweat.

  “Just a dream,” I tell myself. “Only a dream.”

  I wait for my breathing to calm down; then I ease myself out of bed. I hear voices from the courtyard and quickly dress. I’ve slept late. Then the reality of the previous night hits me like a blow to the stomach. Roberto. The dead girl. It cannot be as it seems.

  I wander outside and find our young maidservant Bianca is on the steps, weaving straw into hanging decorations for the garden. Lysander is sitting with Father. They’re both pale, and Lysander’s hair is not as neatly combed as usual. “Drink this,” he says to our father, pressing a tumbler into his hand.

  “What is it?” I ask, drawing near.

  Lysander smiles up at me. “Good morning, sister!”

  “Don’t be so cheerful,” Father grumbles, “it hurts my ears.” He downs the concoction, and grimaces.

  “It’s a mixture of milk, honey and lavender,” Lysander explains, crushing more lavender between the palms of his hands for a second drink. “It can soothe the soul of the devil himself.” Father is too busy rubbing his temples to pick up on the joke.

  A messenger boy rushes into the courtyard, shielding his eyes against the sunshine. He clearly doesn’t see us grouped beneath the olive tree, for he goes to where Bianca sits on the steps. She puts aside her work and smiles up at him.

  “Have you heard?” he asks. Immediately my senses jolt awake and I listen intently. Lysander has fallen silent also.

  “What, you silly boy?” Bianca asks. She doesn’t even think to warn him that members of the household are close by.

  “Murder!” he says.

  I squeeze my eyes shut tight and put a hand to my waist. I can hardly bear to hear what comes next. “A woman’s been killed in Venice. They say it was … it was … Roberto, the Doge’s son!”

  Now Bianca is on her feet, roughly pushing him out of the gate. “Shut up!” she hisses.

  “What?” he says. “What is it?”

  Father leaps to his feet and grabs a pottery tumbler, throwing it after the boy, who ducks just in time. “Get out of our house with your vile words!” he calls after him. Bianca watches us, tears brimming at her eyes. Servant girls who lose their jobs can starve on the streets of this city.

  “And you, Bianca,” Father says stiffly. “Never speak to that boy again.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she gabbles. “I’ve no idea what he’s talking about.” She disappears into the gloom of the house, her sobs carrying on the air back to us.

  I sink onto the bench that circles the olive tree. So, word is out. But not just any words—evil, twisted stories. I feel the eyes of my brother and father on my face, but I cannot erase the worry that I know must crease my brow.

  �
�It’s all lies,” Father says. “Isn’t it, Laura?”

  “Laura?” Lysander asks quietly.

  “Of course it is! Roberto could never harm anyone.”

  “Rumors always dog Venice,” Father blusters. “Half of them are nonsense.”

  My brother sinks to his knees before me and takes my hands. “I don’t mean what that boy just repeated. But Roberto and this dead woman—do you know anything? Last night, you …”

  I pull my hands free. “You cannot ask these things,” I whisper.

  Father shakes his head in disgust, and turns away. “I cannot afford my family’s reputation to be tainted in this way. Association with a murderer!”

  “I’m going to get that boy back here,” Lysander announces, running into the house. “Find out the truth!”

  I follow him into the shade, and watch from the main doorway as Lysander races down the drive after the boy. He takes him by the shoulder, and drags him back to stand before me. The boy stares hard at his feet.

  “What did you hear?” Lysander asks. “Tell us.”

  The boy shakes his head, but Lysander gives his ear a sharp slap.

  “Tell us!”

  The boy’s started crying, but he tells us his story. As he talks, there is a movement beside me, and a cool hand slips into mine. It’s Emilia. I give her a grateful smile as she places an arm around my shoulders. Together with Lysander, we listen. The boy tells us of the whispers about Roberto’s bloodstained hands, the corpse on his floor, the running feet of the guards and the shouts of horror that emerged from Roberto’s open doorway. Thankfully, there is no detail of a woman escaping from a first-floor window.

  As the boy’s words falter to an end, I lean heavily against the doorway. Lysander’s face is serious and even Emilia looks worried. From inside the house, we can hear Father shouting.

  Lysander slips a few coins to the boy and sends him on his way.

  “He’s just a child,” Emilia says. “He’s probably made the whole thing up.” She tries to make her voice bright, but she doesn’t fool me.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  My brother is shaking his head. “No, it’s impossible. He knows too many details for something he’s made up.”

  Father has arrived to stand behind us. “Is my family ruined again?” he asks plaintively.

  Lysander shrugs and attempts a smile. “If Roberto is innocent, I’m sure there’ll be an explanation.…”

  “But until then, you’ll continue to believe the worst?” I say. “Is that it?”

  My brother reaches for my arm, but I pull back and walk on my own into the house.

  10

  I dress quickly, with Faustina fussing around me and asking question after question.

  “What’s happened, my sweet?” she gently inquires as she draws the ribbons on my corset. “The servants are whispering the most scandalous things.” She gives an extra hard tug. “To think of Roberto coming to this!”

  “Roberto’s come to nothing,” I say. “These are all silly rumors. I will see Roberto and I will find out what’s at the bottom of this.”

  I have grown so much braver since leaving the convent, but this is a new test I never thought to face. I must be strong for Roberto. I have to be.

  Only one person can share the truth with me—Roberto. And to get to him, I must be granted an audience by the Doge. A lacquered black-and-gold gondola takes me to his palace. I pay with a few coins and step up onto the wide pavement. It’s the exact spot where once I saw a painter at work. I was fresh out of the convent, still as innocent and naive as any of the girls brought up by nuns. The man was sketching a lagoon, his simple clothes threadbare. He introduced himself as Giacomo. Little did I know his real name was Roberto. Back then, he was a prince in hiding. How far we’ve both come—I a member of the Segreta, and Roberto … I cannot bear to think. So recently come out of hiding, and now accused of murder. It can’t be true. It simply can’t!

  The palace rears up above me with its mosaic tiles, pale statues and balconied terrace. The stone form of a woman holding a sword aloft stands at the top of the palace, and I pray for even half of her strength before ducking inside.

  The covered courtyard is surrounded by more balconies. Immediately a middle-aged man in fine clothes steps up to greet me. I recognize him from my visits here with Roberto, but his face is closed, betraying no emotion.

  “Can I help you?” he asks. It’s as if we were strangers.

  “You know me,” I say, trying to stay calm. If I show too much emotion, I will surely be refused an audience. “I am betrothed to the Doge’s son Roberto.” When I say his name the man winces. I straighten my shoulders and cannot help the hard edge that enters my voice. “I would like to see the Doge.”

  The man backs away from me, bowing ingratiatingly. “I will speak to my superiors,” he says. “Please wait here.” As he leaves, other men file past, casting me glances. They are dressed in the cloaks and hose of the upper classes—they must be the Doge’s senior advisers, members of the Grand Council. Perhaps they’re meeting to discuss how best to clear Roberto’s name. Perhaps I need not panic after all.

  Then the Doge walks down the marbled staircase. His is a face I recognize all too well, first encountered in the infirmary of the convent. It was I who poured the peony root into his raging throat; it was I who pressed my weight against him to stop the rabid thrashing of his limbs. He doesn’t remember me from his time of ailment—and why should he want to? If rival powers in Europe, or even Venice, knew that this man was weak, our city would lose its leader and be thrown into chaos.

  But now I need the most powerful man in Venice to help me. As he walks towards me I fall to my knees and hold out my hands, ready to kiss the ring on his finger. But with a swirl of long robes, he strides past me through a doorway, where the other men wait. The door swings shut, and with a dull thud I am left alone in the echoing hall.

  The servant reappears. “The Duchess Besina will see you,” he says coldly as he waits for me to get back to my feet. Roberto’s mother! This may be better—one woman appealing to another.

  “Show me to her,” I say. The man sucks in his cheeks and turns on his heel, trotting up the grand staircase. I scoop up my skirts and follow, moving beneath paintings while gilded stucco detail illuminates the ceiling above my head.

  Finally, we arrive at the doorway to the Doge’s private quarters.

  “In there,” the man says, waving a dismissive hand. Then he’s gone. I gather my courage and step inside.

  The Doge’s wife waits for me on a rosewood bench covered in buttoned brocade. She wears a red robe with fine lace around her collar and a cloak embroidered with flowers. Two large pearls set in gold decorate her ears. We’ve met a few times since I became Roberto’s fiancée, but only at formal occasions. Her eyes have always danced with curiosity and happiness, but we have never had the chance to confide in each other before now.

  I move swiftly across the room. She takes my hands, and her fingers tremble. When I look into her face, it’s clear that she shares my pain. The rims of her eyes are red.

  “You have heard, then?” I whisper.

  The Duchess grimaces. “The head guard brought us the news,” she says. “My son is incarcerated and the citizenry call him a murderer. How dare they betray us so?” She turns her face away, and for the first time, she looks old to me.

  I sit beside her on the couch. “I need to see Roberto,” I say.

  “You know where he is?” the Duchess asks.

  I shake my head. I do not dare tell her that I watched him being dragged away.

  “In the Piombi,” she says, her voice breaking on the last word. I shudder. Everyone in Venice knows about this prison—the place where we send our most wicked criminals to rot. Commissioned by a former Doge, the entrance of the prison is two meters from the outskirts of the palace, but the cells rest above the palace itself, right under the leaded roof.

  “Why?” I gasp. “Surely he doesn’t deserve that
. Nothing’s been proven!”

  “The Doge says he cannot intervene. The law courts must go through due process, and besides …” Her mouth twists in a bitter smile. “He’s negotiating with the Florentine ambassador and preparing for the arrival of the Turks in a day or two. That’s why he could not see you. Negotiations are at a crucial stage, and my husband cannot be seen to be meddling with the law of our city.” She casts her eyes around the room, taking in the gold and marble, the countless oil paintings and lacquered surfaces. “Meanwhile, I sit in a gilt cage and go slowly mad.” Her gaze suddenly turns on me and her face burns with passion. “But you! You can go and see my son. Comfort him. If I gain you access, promise a mother you will do this!” She pulls my hands to her face and rests her cheek against them.

  “I promise,” I say. “I will do everything I can. I love Roberto.”

  The Duchess’s eyes brim with tears. “So do I. Tell him that for me.”

  I get to my feet and ask if a servant can call me a coach. The prison entrance isn’t far from here, but it’s best to be discreet.

  “Oh, I think we can do better than that,” the Duchess says, the light returning to her eyes. “Come with me.”

  She leads me down a warren of wood-paneled corridors. I glimpse cooks and maidservants, officials and guards, who pause in their duties to curtsy or bow their heads as we go by. I sense that we are passing through the entire length of the palace. Only once do we cross an outdoor courtyard, heading through what seems to be a part of the palace under renovation. We enter a rougher section of the building, half finished and uninhabited. We climb several flights of rickety stairs. Such are the quirks of Venetian architecture; I feel we’ve traveled in a circle. A rat has died in one of the dusty passages. Then ascend higher and higher, the air getting hotter and hotter. At last the Duchess pauses at a door, half hidden in the shadows. I put my hand against it and the surface is cold—it’s made of metal.

  “The Piombi,” I murmur. The leaded prison. There is another entrance. I taste the cruel irony of Roberto’s situation—locked in a jail under his own roof.