Heart of Glass

by Sasha Gould

  Why has he come? What could he possibly want now, after the last time he showed me from his quarters with so little ceremony?

  “Don’t go to him!” says Faustina. “He can’t be trusted.”

  “I’ll be down in a moment,” I tell Bianca. I fetch out the first dress I find—my lemon silk. My hands twist around behind me, struggling to tighten the strings of my bodice and fumbling with the tiny satin-covered buttons of the dress.

  “What are you thinking?” asks Faustina. “People will talk!”

  “Then perhaps you should practice silence,” I tell her.

  I hastily plump out my skirts and brush the hair off my face, while loosening my curls. Taking a few deep breaths to compose myself, I descend the stairs. The double doors to the library are open a crack, and I see Halim gazing at the books on the shelves.

  As I step inside the room, he trains his eyes on me. I close the doors on Faustina.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask. I don’t have the energy for polite conversation.

  “I’m sorry for your deep suffering,” he says.

  I will not break down now. Not in front of him.

  He reaches out and takes my hand, raising it to his face. The gesture so takes me by surprise, I don’t stop him. His lips brush against my fingertips and I feel goose bumps tighten. “I never wished to cause you harm.”

  Now I pull my hand away from his as the tears well in my eyes. Before I can brush them away, Halim offers a handkerchief to me. I hesitate—this man has sealed Roberto’s death—before taking it.

  “I know what you must be thinking,” he says. His face creases in pain. “But I’ve acted the only way I can.”

  “Roberto wouldn’t murder an innocent woman. He simply couldn’t. Venice is a brutal city, but he is the gentlest soul I’ve ever met.”

  I could say more. I could tell him that I cried daily when Roberto was away in Constantinople, and of the longing in his eyes when he returned. Those lips, when I kissed them, were not lying to me. I would stake my life on it.

  Halim’s look is one of heartfelt pity. He’s stood up for what he believes to be true. What is the truth—his version or mine? Is it possible that we’re both in the right? I saw the strength of his feeling when he learned of his sister’s death. We’re each fighting for what we believe in.

  I’m unable to break his gaze, and now I see there’s something else there whom I barely dare acknowledge. I feel the heat emanating from his body and realize that we haven’t pulled apart since he wiped away my tears. With a sudden, awkward movement, I go to sit down and indicate another chair at a fair distance from me. “Please, take a seat.”

  Halim shakes his head and casts a despairing glance around him. “This place—this city—you deserve better.”

  “It is my home.”

  “Then I hope you can find happiness again—somehow.”

  “Happiness?”

  He must see the wretched look of shock on my face. “Your soul is too good to be trapped in grief.”

  As he hurries to the door, I follow. I don’t want us to part like this. Our differences are great, but we share something greater I don’t yet wish to relinquish. He turns in the doorway, and we collide.

  “Oh,” I murmur.

  His hand is on the small of my back.

  “You mustn’t …,” I begin to say.

  “Mustn’t what?” Halim asks. His breath smells like cinnamon.

  Our faces are so close, our bodies too. His eyes are all I see.

  “Mustn’t grieve too much for your sister.”

  There’s a sudden movement and the door is pushed open wider. Emilia stands there, staring at the two of us, her mouth hanging open. “I’m sorry. I …”

  Halim draws away, but slowly—as though we have nothing for which to apologize. As for myself, I can feel my cheeks flaming.

  “I should go,” he says, looking past Emilia and into the hallway for his servants. He walks past her without a backwards glance. I retreat into the room and curse silently as I hear Emilia follow me.

  “What just happened?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “I need to rest,” I murmur.

  It’s the grief, I think, sinking onto a couch. That’s all. I need to rest.

  31

  Even in my wretchedness, sleep took me, and now a bleak new morning has arrived.

  I force myself to get up and go through the motions of preparing for the day. Bianca fills my copper bath and I am grateful for the clouds of steam that hide me from the world.

  Outside, everything is christened by morning dew. Emilia is waiting for me by the gates; she has promised to come with me for support today. The two of us greet each other silently and move over to a canal, where we summon a gondolier.

  “Take us to St. Mark’s,” Emilia says in a soft voice.

  I can’t speak. I’m going to watch my beloved die. To watch him die.

  The gondolier must see the look on my face, as he doesn’t try to engage me in conversation. Instead, he whistles softly, a plaintive tune that fits my mood well. Mist seeps off the canals, and the houses of Venice look more beautiful than ever in the morning light. For once the streets are clean and empty of people. They’ll all be gathering in the square.

  Emilia’s fingers rest beside mine on the velvet cushion. I suddenly feel the need to explain yesterday’s encounter, when she interrupted me with Halim. If I cannot clear my conscience to Roberto, I must to someone, before he is gone.

  I clear my throat. “What you saw yesterday—” I begin.

  “You don’t have to tell me anything,” she interrupts. “I realize I should never have asked. It’s none of my business.”

  “It’s no one’s business because nothing happened,” I say. I can hear how high and tight my voice is and I force myself to calm down. Think of Roberto. Always Roberto. But that’s the wrong thing to tell myself—my throat constricts and I don’t know how I’ll get the next words out. “I would never betray …” I can’t finish.

  Emilia pulls my hand into her lap. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to tell me. I understand.”

  My shoulders shake with suppressed sobs. The gondolier’s whistling has stopped. Please, God, let today be over.

  We reach the canal that runs parallel with the square, cluttered with other boats. As we climb out of the gondola, supported by the pilot’s hand, a column of smoke streaks the sky.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  He shakes his head and tuts. “Did you not hear? Arson! During the night someone set fire to part of the palace. Rebels, they say. The Doge is losing his hold, that’s for sure. Did you see his performance on the stage yesterday? Kicking and jerking like an invalid.” He nods at the thick black clouds that drift above our city. “No one has faith in him anymore.” Then he climbs back into his gondola and pushes off, the stern of his boat parting the water.

  Emilia and I share a glance.

  “What is happening to this city?” she murmurs. “Lysander always had such good things to say about his home. And now …” She doesn’t need to say anything else; I feel certain we’re both thinking the same thing.

  We make our way towards the square. As we approach, we see youths scrambling up statues and sitting in rows along high stone walls, craning to see the stage. Food-sellers with trays are weaving among the spectators.

  “Imagine!” a woman walking beside me says. “Executed before all of Venice.” She holds a linen handkerchief to her mouth. Emilia shakes her head at me, warning me not to take any notice.

  As we draw nearer the stage, jostled by other people, I spot the wooden planks covered with straw to soak up the blood. My empty stomach squirms. Roberto’s life will draw to an end up there. The heart I’ve loved will beat no more. I rest against a pillar, feeling faint, struggling to compose myself.

  I’ve heard tales of previous executions in Venice. The man who was suspended in an iron cage, surviving on bread and wine, until he was brought down and hung. A criminal whose bod
y was stripped and dragged through the streets behind a cart. How one man was cut into four pieces and his head stuck on a lance-point for all to see.

  The executioner, a giant of a man, already wears his canvas hood and cloak. He sits on a stool and has a whetstone braced between his feet, against which he sharpens the blade of his ax. It’s all a performance, designed to get the crowd in the mood. The ax glistens. Carina will be disappointed today. Not a blunt blade in sight.

  Emilia leads me through the gathering crowds towards the front of the stage. Today, I don’t care that a noblewoman should not be amid the throng. Now that I no longer wear the disguise of a servant, people recognize me as Roberto’s betrothed and step away, lowering their eyes in respect. Justice is about to be done; no one need hate me anymore. Soldiers line the front of the stage, wearing cloaks and carrying leather shields. Executions can become animated, and these men will stop the baying crowds from climbing the stage and attacking the prisoner. They’ll also stop the condemned from escaping their fate, I think bitterly. I haven’t eaten in who knows how long and feel light-headed. But I must stay strong. I won’t let him down.

  A drumroll sounds from a young drummer at the side of the stage. The executioner takes his place beside the block, and a herald steps forward. “Bring forth the prisoner!” he shouts. At my side, I hear Emilia’s breath catch.

  The drummer takes up a slow rhythm. I close my eyes for an instant, but when I open them again the boy is looking uncertainly at the herald. He gives the drummer a quick nod, and the drumroll continues as the older man darts from the stage. Murmurs pass through the crowd.

  “What’s happening?” Emilia whispers. I shake my head; I have no idea.

  After slow, agonizing seconds, the herald appears back on the stage, his face flushed. He goes to talk to the commanding officer of the soldiers. Beside him I notice for the first time the Doge, cloaked in black robes, sitting in a low chair at the side of the stage. The Duchess Besina is absent, presumably unable to bear the agony of watching her son die. Guards stand on either side of the Doge. He needs their protection more than ever, with the vultures circling. He looks pale and old. People are pushing forward now, and the row of uniformed men raises their shields, leaning their weight back into the crowd and looking over to their leader for instruction. Even the executioner looks impatient as he shifts his ax in his hand.

  Something is wrong. I begin to move through the crowd, trying to get closer to the stage, Emilia’s hand grasping my arm.

  “Back, you!” a soldier orders and shoves me away. The Doge’s eyes meet mine and widen in recognition. He gets to his feet, leaning heavily on the arm of his chair.

  “Bring her to me!” he calls over. Now the murmurs and whispers that surround me become audible voices.

  “It’s the murderer’s girl,” says one woman.

  “Have some manners!” I hear Emilia tell her.

  My cheeks burn with humiliation. A soldier helps me onto the stage, taking my hand to pull me up. My wrists are still sore from Carina’s bindings, but I brace my feet against the edge of the stage and lever myself up.

  “Thank you,” I say. I glance down at Emilia who watches me, wide-eyed. Then I brush down my skirts and approach the Doge. Despite his rich cloak and peaked cap, he looks frailer than I’ve ever seen him, and I can see that the fits have drained his strength.

  “Come,” he says as soon as I’ve drawn close. “We must visit the jail. I’ve heard … Well, come, let us go.” He grasps my arm, and pulls me after him. As we vacate the stage, the crowd begins booing and jeering. They’ve been robbed of their morning’s entertainment—for now. I can only hope that Emilia will get home safely.

  “What’s happening?” I ask as we hurry through the corridors of the palace, heading towards the secret passage. At last, we climb the wooden stairs that lead to the hidden entrance to the Piombi, the rings on the Doge’s fingers now cutting into my skin. I pull my arm free, and he looks round at me, his face wretched.

  “I don’t know what we’ll find,” he admits. “But it sounds bad.”

  Horrible thoughts assail me. Has Roberto killed himself, finding suicide less humiliating than being executed as a criminal? I follow the Doge down the narrow corridor towards the cell where I last saw him, crumpled on the floor like a pile of rags. A group of men stand at the open door, their faces grim. Sweat streaks their shirts. The heat is still overwhelming up here, even at this time of day.

  We come to stand before the cell and see a covered body being lifted off the stained floor by four men. The Doge lets out a cry of pain and reaches for me. I put an arm around his frail shoulders, feeling my own body drain of energy. My heart flutters in my chest.

  “It can’t be,” I mutter.

  The Doge stumbles forward and pulls away the bloody sheet. A gray face. Unseeing eyes. Smears of blood. Thick eyebrows and a smattering of warts.

  It’s the jailer who took me to visit Roberto.

  “Where’s my son?” asks the Doge. I look into the empty cell and then at Roberto’s father.

  “He’s escaped!” I gasp. A flicker of joy passes across the Doge’s face; then he quickly hides it from the men who watch us. His hands tremble as he reaches out to cover the dead man’s face again.

  “Tell the executioner he can go home,” the Doge says. “There’ll be no more death today.”

  “What happened here?” I ask the men. They share doubtful glances, their faces flushing.

  “Tell us!” the Doge orders. I catch a glimpse of the man he was until recently—powerful, assured, ruthless.

  “I’m not sure, I wasn’t here when—” one guard begins.

  “Well, bring us whoever was here!” The Doge’s face is red with fury. The guard looks over his shoulder and motions to someone standing in the shadows. Another guard steps forward, his brow heavily bruised. He stands looking at his feet.

  “Tell the Doge what happened,” the first guard demands. He looks relieved that the attention is on someone else now.

  “The prisoner escaped,” the man mumbles.

  “How?” I ask. Though already I think I know. The Segreta’s vote, despite my worst fears, must have turned in Roberto’s favor. But would they have killed a man?

  The man shrugs. Behind him, other guards hurtle down the stairs and call out Roberto’s name to each other, throwing doors open and kicking buckets out of the way. The guard we are questioning licks his lips nervously.

  The Doge’s face darkens. “If you don’t tell us everything you know, you’ll be in a cell yourself.”

  The heat makes my skin prickle. Now the corpse is being carried down the narrow stairs, men grunting with the exertion. One of them stumbles, and the body slips from their arms, its feet knocking against a wall. Hastily, they recover it and resume their descent. When they’re out of earshot, the guard starts talking again.

  “I was on duty, when an armed band broke into the prison during the night. I’ve no idea how. This palace is so full of secret corridors.… They killed the jailer and overwhelmed the others.” His words come out in a rush now, as though he wants to be rid of them. “Then they freed Roberto and locked us up. It wasn’t until the new guard arrived this morning that we were freed. We didn’t have time to tell anyone!” His voice has turned pleading.

  The Doge shakes his head. “Get out of my sight!” The two men clatter down the wooden stairs, and finally silence descends. Roberto’s father casts me a glance.

  “This is bad,” he says. “Justice must be seen to be done. Especially as things stand. The power balance in Venice is … precarious.” But he cannot hide the glint in his eyes. Neither of us says it out loud, but I know we are both thinking the same thing.

  Roberto is free. He lives another day.

  32

  The Doge invites me to his private rooms for refreshment. Beyond the walls, we can hear the crowds calling angrily. A servant hastily goes to shut the window.

  A marble table laden with fruit and jugs of water and wine
stands at the far end of the room, and paintings line the wood-paneled walls. A couch upholstered in mulberry satin sits in the center of the room, beneath a chandelier, and the Doge indicates that I should sit. He nods curtly to a servant, who hastens over to the table and fills a plate, bringing it to us.

  I reach out for a slice of melon, but as I lift it to my lips, nausea squirms in my stomach. Carefully, I place the fruit back on its plate.

  “You must eat,” the Doge tells me, smiling kindly. He’s lost one son to death and now another has disappeared into the streets of Venice, yet he’s concerned about my welfare. There is more to this man than power alone.

  As I try to eat again, the Doge clears his throat.

  “It is important you know the truth,” he says, rubbing his brow. “I had nothing to do with Roberto’s disappearance.”

  I’m sure he can’t read my own dark suspicions about the Segreta’s involvement. “But where could he be?”

  There’s a noise from the doorway, and a servant is standing there.

  “You have a visitor,” he announces, looking awkward. “Prince Halim requests an audience.”

  “Then you must show him in,” the Doge says. I catch the merest tremble in his hand as he adjusts his doublet.

  A moment later, Halim strides the room, his eyes sparking. Palace soldiers accompany him and station themselves around the room. The prince’s own men follow him, empty scabbards at their sides, as they’ve had to relinquish their weapons. Halim’s steps falter for a moment when he sees me, but he focuses on the Doge. “Justice has deserted Venice,” he says.

  The Doge gestures to the table. “Help yourself to refreshments.”

  Halim’s eyes narrow. “I was promised that my sister’s killer would meet his end today.” The prince doesn’t even look at me. “Roberto should have lost his head by now. Instead, I hear rumors of escape. It seems … convenient.”

  The Doge shakes his head. “Come. Sit down. No one here had anything to do with Roberto’s disappearance. I’m as surprised as you are.”