by Sasha Gould
But I don’t recognize that girl anymore. The glint in her eye, the promise that seems to linger about her, both have gone. All that remains of the girl I was is this portrait.
Roberto fooled me back then, when he was Giacomo the painter. Perhaps he’s fooled me as Roberto too.
35
I can’t live like this. Allegreza is being tortured and the Segreta are in more danger than I ever thought possible. Meanwhile, we each sit in our separate homes, gazing listlessly out of windows or picking at meals. How can we call ourselves a society, I think, when not one of us is doing anything to help our leader?
And just like that, my decision is made. I call to a servant boy to fetch my shawl. Before anyone else in the household can notice, I slip out and summon a gondola. Soon I am gliding down the liquid paths of the city and I emerge beside a small market where a beggar always sits in the shade of a stunted tree.
I drop a coin into her hat. Few would know that this toothless unfortunate, with her blind eye and hunched back, is a trusted messenger of the Segreta. I’ve learned never to underestimate anyone.
I kneel beside her. To onlookers, I’m a well-to-do lady with a soft heart. Little do they know that Margarita needs no one’s pity.
“God bless you,” she says.
“I need you to send the message out,” I tell her. “To meet in the carpenter’s basement.”
Margarita raises an eyebrow. “These are dark times,” she says. “I hear Allegreza is having her fingernails torn from their beds even as we speak.”
I can’t help wincing and Margarita notices, cackling with laughter.
“And who are you to make such a request?” She gives a gentle burp, staring brazenly into my face.
I reach into my velvet purse, pulling out a soft leather pouch that hangs heavy with coins.
“How many?” I ask.
Margarita grins, revealing black holes in her gums. “All of them,” she says, snatching the pouch from me. She doesn’t bother to count, stuffing the leather into her filthy cloak. She shifts herself on the ground. I straighten up and reach out a hand to help her, ignoring the creases of dirt in the wrinkles of her palm.
With a grunt, she’s on her feet.
“By seven this evening, Margarita.”
She’s already moving away from me, leaning heavily on a crutch.
“Make way for the lady!” shouts a stallholder, and his friends break into laughter. I shake my head as I watch her depart the square.
A candle sputters in the draft as the carpenter’s door opens for only the fifth time. Five of us, out of the whole of our number—dozens of women, perhaps more. The last of the five slips into the room, her face hidden behind her feline mask.
I look around. I remember the first time I encountered this small, damp room with its low ceiling. I thought I was coming to a music recital. Little did I know where the low doorway would lead. Back then, glittering masks crowded the room. Now I stand with four women only. None wears the silver ring of seniority, but what can I expect after my performance at the convent?
“Is this it?” I ask, despairing.
One of the faceless women shrugs. “I came against all my better instincts. There’s a curfew, you know. Pamphlets spreading evil lies about the Segreta. We’re risking our lives, just to be here.”
“I’ve seen the pamphlets, but we cannot rest when our leader languishes in the Piombi. We must help her.”
“She wouldn’t want us to endanger ourselves,” says another woman. “The society is greater than any one individual.”
“So we should just leave her?” I say, my voice raised.
“All I’m saying is—”
Another woman pats the air. “We’re on the same side, remember. Let’s remain calm.”
There’s a sudden creak of wood and the stained door inches open. A slight woman steps into the room, glancing furtively over her shoulder. When she turns her face back to the room, I see a turquoise-lined mask. Paulina! Immediately, I feel my face flush. Last time we saw each other, she was cursing Roberto’s name, clawing at my hair.
But before I can say a word, she rushes over to me and takes me by the shoulders, pulling me to her.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers into my hair. “For everything I said. Everything!” She stands back and her eyes are rimmed with tears. “Please forgive me, Laura.”
I pull her mask back, the better to see her face. She looks dreadful, her eyes bloodshot, her skin sallow. She’s lost weight. “Of course I forgive you. Thank you for coming.”
“What do you want us to do?” asks a woman from behind a fox’s face, and her voice trembles.
I start walking around the room again, moving from one person to the next. I feel hopelessly unsuitable for the role of leader. How can they respect a woman not even eighteen years old? What if they laugh at my plan?
“God knows what they are doing to her,” I say. “We have a power, and we must use it. Secrets!”
“What secret can free Allegreza?” says Paulina.
“Massimo is the key,” I say. “He holds the power to release our leader. And think, what do we know about Massimo?”
“The gunpowder …,” the fox whispers. “Teresa’s secret.”
“That’s right,” I say, pleased to see my thinking is shared. “If the news of the ruined explosives gets out, Massimo will be shamed—publicly disgraced.”
“It’s a risky move,” says the woman in the cat mask.
“If we were forced to make good on our threat to leak this information,” says Paulina, “that would be treason. And with our enemies waiting, Venice’s poor defenses are laid bare.”
I incline my head. “True. But what is more important? Loyalty to the city or to the man who has usurped power? Who has fought harder for us, do you think?”
I watch the others carefully. It’s impossible to read their body language, and their expressions are hidden behind their masks. I don’t even know if Allegreza would approve of this tactic. I could be casting my final die with the Segreta.
One by one, the other members nod.
“I’ll do it,” says Paulina quietly.
“Do what?” I ask.
“You’ll need a volunteer to deliver this message. Someone you can trust.”
“Are you sure?” I say. “I was going to do it myself.”
My childhood friend shrugs. “I have access to the Doge’s palace, don’t I? Why not put it to good use? I can make sure a blackmail letter lands in the right hands.”
I know she’s underplaying things. She’ll be putting herself in a position of extreme danger. If Massimo finds out who delivered the letter … He could lose his temper, drag her to the authorities or exact a colder revenge.
“Allegreza will thank you herself, one day soon,” I say, reaching for my friend’s hand. I squeeze her cold fingers.
36
I make my way back to the house and slip upstairs to hide in my room, picking up a half-finished piece of lace without much enthusiasm. How different are the two lives I lead.
We drafted the letter quickly, and Paulina has promised it will be delivered tomorrow. I urged her to be careful, but there was something so desperate about her this evening that I fear for her life.
Around ten o’clock, Faustina’s face appears in the doorway. She’s panting from climbing the stairs.
“Your father’s back,” she hisses, “and he has a guest with him. You’re expected to dine with your brother and his wife.”
I sigh and put down my lace. A guest—at this hour? “I’m not hungry,” I say.
“Your father insisted,” says Faustina.
She opens my closet and takes out a high-waisted mulberry velvet dress with ermine trim. I think about being stubborn, but I know this is a battle I can’t win. Besides, perhaps the guest is one of the Council. If he’s drunk, there may be information I can glean that could prove helpful to the Segreta.
Dressing quickly, I paint a smile on my face and rush downstairs.
But the moment I step into the room, the smile falls. I want to turn and run.
A man stands before me with a mouth of crooked teeth splitting into a grin. His shoulders are stooped, and his thin frame sags beneath clothes too large for him. Liver spots are scattered across his face like splotches of spilt ink.
Vincenzo.
“Good evening, Laura,” he says, flecks of spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth. He gives a deep, mocking bow before straightening up again—or straightening up as much as his twisted body will allow. My father watches from a corner of the room, his eyes dark as coal. Emilia looks aghast and Lysander not a little troubled.
“I … I don’t understand. How—”
“How is it that I’m back in Venice?” he says. “Let’s just say that the injustices of the past have been rectified. The Council have recalled me.”
But only one man had the authority to recall an exile—the Doge—and he would never have done so. The pieces fall into place. “Massimo must have summoned you weeks ago,” I say. Which means the rebel faction must have been in contact for some time.
“Let’s say our Admiral is a man of vision,” says Vincenzo. “He knows my fleet is second to none. Venice needs her friends now.”
This at least is true. I wonder if Massimo has already shared details of the defective gunpowder with people he trusts. If war comes, then Venice requires all the ships and ammunition she can muster.
“I look forward to dining with old friends,” says Vincenzo. He grins at me, and though he’s no longer a threat, I struggle to feel anything other than revulsion for him.
“Welcome back,” I say, lowering my body in a curtsy. Father smiles, and I know I have done well by him. It makes my insides churn.
Vincenzo steps closer, his robes rustling as he moves. Clearly, exile from his homeland has treated him well. His doublet is embroidered in gold thread and is deeply quilted. Sable lines his cloak, which he now throws over a shoulder, the better to reveal the heavy gold chain that sits on his chest. The Doge generously let him keep his fleet when he was banished, and business must have been good.
He takes my hand. Before I can snatch it back, he raises it to his lips and kisses my fingers. I feel the wet touch of his lips.
“Still no wedding band, I notice.” He drops my hand, his face full of wicked delight. My whole body is rigid with tension. “So like a dove,” he adds, his gaze traveling shamelessly over me. “Pure and white, cooing softly.” He laughs.
I look over his shoulder at Father. A servant speaks quietly to him, and he begins to stride over to the dining room.
“Let us all catch up over dinner,” Father says, leading us from the library. Emilia and Lysander follow, my new friend throwing me an alarmed glance.
I take my place at the long table. Of course Father has arranged to have me seated beside his old ally. I feel a foot tap against my satin slipper and hastily tuck my feet under my skirts.
As the servants pass around soup plates, Vincenzo takes a wineglass and gulps noisily from it. Then he leans back in his chair.
“I thought I’d never see the city of my birth again,” he tells us. “Despite what they said about me, I was always loyal.”
I choke a little on my wine. Emilia and Lysander look confused. They weren’t in Venice the day he was driven out of the city in disgrace, his machinations for the Duke of Milan exposed.
“I was honored when Massimo’s representatives contacted me. Now the Doge is taking a …” He pauses. “As he is resting, I will do all I can to ensure the city is safe from the heathens who threaten our shores.”
He bursts out laughing, the sound transforming into a hacking cough. We all wait in silence for the fit to end. Even Father looks a little discomfited. I see now that the challenges facing the Doge in his route back to power will be almost insurmountable. Too many are ranged against him.
Finally, Vincenzo draws a deep, ragged breath and continues as though he has not just made a fool of himself. “Of course, now that I’m here I can find out who was behind the trumped-up charges that saw me thrown out. I blame this conniving Segreta that everyone’s talking about. Only a gaggle of women could concoct such a monstrous lie, wouldn’t you agree?” He sends a long, meaningful glance around the table, his eyes landing at last on me.
“Quite so, Vincenzo,” my father agrees, bowing his head. “They’ll be ferretted out soon.”
“I hear they do good too.” Shy, gentle Emilia is standing up to this monster. “Haven’t you heard about the charitable homes for destitute women? Rumor has it that they’re funded by the Segreta.”
Vincenzo shakes his head dismissively and raises a soupspoon to his lips, slurping noisily. “Destitute women! What do we care for them? Throw them in the canals!”
“My sister died of drowning in a canal,” I say. “Surely you remember; after all, you were once engaged to be married to her.”
“Laura!” mutters my father.
“I’m sorry,” Vincenzo says, his eyes darting around the table as he realizes his mistake. “That was clumsy of me.”
Father nods his head. “No matter,” he says quietly.
Lysander is glaring at Vincenzo, anger narrowing his eyes. He turns to Emilia.
“I wouldn’t talk about the Segreta,” he advises her. “You know so little of Venice.”
Emilia’s face colors, and she suddenly stands up from her place at the table. “Please excuse me,” she says. As the dining room doors close behind her, I feel certain I can hear a muffled sob.
I stare at my brother. What’s wrong with you? I say with my eyes. I think of following Emilia, but I sense that she needs some time alone.
Dinner proceeds with dull conversation about shipping taxes. The bowls are taken away and the second course fetched in.
“Allegreza is close to cracking, I’ve heard,” my father says, suddenly shifting the subject back to the Segreta. “She’ll soon spill the names of her gaggle of harridans.”
At this, my spine straightens. As gently as possible, I lower my cutlery beside my plate.
Vincenzo shovels veal into his mouth as he talks. “The Bear knows how to get answers.”
“How can you talk of torture over dinner?” I say, my voice coming out high and strangled.
“Laura’s right,” says Lysander.
Vincenzo wheezes with laughter again, and taps his knife against his empty wineglass. A servant scurries to refill it. He stares at me, eyebrows raised in amusement, as though inspecting a fool. “We must do whatever it takes to keep our city safe.”
His hand disappears beneath the table and grips my thigh. I push him off, resisting the urge to call him a lecherous traitor. Father at least has the decency to look uncomfortable and clears his throat.
“And do you have a wife in your new home?” he asks.
Vincenzo rolls his eyes. “No wife, only lonely nights.” He rubs his hands together, looking from Father to me and back again. “But who knows what could happen now. Back in Venice, a return to power, happily ensconced in my rightful place. A new bride by my side?” He grins at me. A servant dips between our bodies to clear the plates, but when she steps away, Vincenzo’s leering smile is still there, waiting for my reply.
“I wish you good luck in finding a willing bride,” I say coldly. “My father will have told you that I’m engaged, I’m sure.”
“Indeed,” says Vincenzo, looking uncertainly at my father. “Engaged to a …”
There’s a cough in the doorway and when I look up, Emilia is standing there.
“Laura, could you come and help? There’s a moss stitch that I just can’t get right in this embroidery.”
Vincenzo snorts. “Embroidery? Yes, yes—go and keep your soft little hands amused with skeins of silk.”
For a moment, I picture his skull smashing against cobbles tones. I drag a hand across my forehead, clearing the image from behind my eyes. I push my chair back roughly.
“Of course,” I say, ignoring V
incenzo’s insults. “Let me see what I can do to help.”
Emilia holds out her hand to me as she waits in the doorway. I smile at her gratefully.
“Goodbye, sweet dove!” Vincenzo says as I leave the room.
In the doorway, I turn, my hands resting on the handles. “Good night, Vincenzo. May your return to Venice bring you everything you deserve.”
His smile falters, and he seems uncertain how to respond to my words. But I don’t give him the chance. I back out of the room, Emilia following, and shut the doors behind us.
37
In the days that follow, it feels as though Vincenzo’s return has cast an even more somber cloud over Venice. Each morning Faustina whispers to me over breakfast about the latest rumors heard in the market.
“Vincenzo’s ships are still docked in the harbor,” she tells me on Sunday. “It’s as if he’s taken control there. His crew struts around the harbor as though they own it.”
The curfew is still in place at night, but aside from the soldiers visible on the streets, Venice is returning to herself. The markets still trade, the gondolas still float down the canals and Allegreza is still in her stinking cell. Another pamphlet denouncing the Segreta has left the press, this one even more vitriolic than the last. It urges the men of Venice to question their wives, their sisters and their daughters, so that “we may cleanse this city of the stain in its heart.”
Paulina sent word that the letter was delivered, but there has been no response. Does Massimo really mean to call our bluff? If so, can we carry out our threat to share his secret? One word is all it would take to spread like wildfire across the city. And what if word got out beyond? We could end up hurting Venice rather than protecting her.
And still there’s no word from Roberto. There seems little doubt that he’s fled the city, abandoning his father and mother to their fate. Abandoning me to loneliness and shame. Each time I hear the quick patter of a messenger’s footsteps, I wonder if he will bring a letter—even a few lines to let me know he’s safe. Each time I’m disappointed. More and more, I find myself thinking about how he lived for so long in disguise, posing as a lowly painter, and I wonder whether our engagement was simply another form of pretense. After all, Roberto’s past is still a secret to me. Perhaps he fooled everyone.