GIACONDA PUT THE FINISHING TOUCHES to her ensemble and then lifted her mask to her face. Coloured in varying shades of green, it matched her dress as well as her eyes, which glinted behind the wide, jewel-bordered slits. Hafeza quickly reached to help her, but Giaconda pushed her hands out of the way.
‘I can do this myself. I want you to make sure Tarlo is completely ready. Don’t look at me like that! I know you prepared her all afternoon, but it does no harm to check once more. Make sure she’s remembered to put the belladonna in her eyes. Then, I want you to wait ten minutes before bringing her to the portego. Carry her cape. I want Papa and Baroque to see what those at the reception will. Only they can appreciate the enormity of her transformation.’ Giaconda waved her away.
Hafeza bowed and left the room silently.
Giaconda began to pin the mask into place. ‘So, Papa, what’s the weather like?’
Ezzelino turned from the window and gazed upon his daughter, taking a few seconds to reply. ‘Almost as lovely as you.’
‘Come, Papa, save your charm for those we encounter at the function. Is it still snowing?’
‘No. The sky is bursting with constellations and the wind has dropped. It’s a perfect silver backdrop for our little golden star.’
Giaconda’s lips curled. ‘She will cause a sensation, you know.’
‘Oh, I know.’ Ezzelino waited till Giaconda had finished sliding the pins in her hair and turned her head a few times to ensure her mask was secure, before offering her his arm. ‘Shall we?’
‘Grazie,’ said Giaconda as she placed her hand on her father’s arm and stood. She towered over him. Her emerald gown flashed in the light of the candles, in the firelight, the folds of her dress shifted like the waters of the canal, suggesting depths and variation. Ezzelino held his breath. It wasn’t only Tarlo who would do well tonight, he thought. Giaconda tapped him with her fan.
‘You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?’ she sighed, but there was no trace of annoyance. ‘I said, this is it, then, Papa – the end of all our plans, our years of hoping and waiting culminate tonight. It all comes down to Tarlo – will she succeed or fail? Will we be discovered or will she perpetrate the greatest deception of all times?’ She studied her father’s face. He frowned for a moment before his amber eyes became unreadable. ‘I’m a little scared, Papa. I admit it. If we should fail …’
‘Hush, bella. We will not fail, Tarlo will not fail. This is not the end. It is merely the beginning.’ He laid his hand over the top of hers, where it rested lightly upon his. ‘Now, I want you to pretend you’re the Dogeressa – all the while remembering that in the not-too-distant future, you will no longer have to imagine.’ He picked up her gloved fingers and kissed them one by one before patting them back into place.
‘Ready?’ he asked.
‘As I have never been before,’ answered Giaconda.
Allowing them a moment to compose their features, Ezzelino escorted her from the room.
STEPPING UNDER THE ARCHES THAT formed the entrance to the Doge’s palazzo and into the huge central courtyard, I steeled my resolve. I would not think of Renzo’s bloody execution, which had taken place just feet away from where I now stood waiting to ascend the Scala dei Giganti, the huge stone staircase that led to the first-floor loggia of the Doge’s residence. I would not dwell on thoughts of discovery nor of failure. Not now. Not ever. Calmed by this, I fixed my expression and waited for our escort.
We’d deliberately delayed our arrival and the reception had already begun. Servants who had started to wander away from the staircase, assuming all invitees were present, quickly scurried back into place when they saw us, bowing, apologising and leading us up the stairs. From the looks on their faces, they were impressed with the spectacle we presented. Giaconda and Signor Maleovelli had choreographed our entrance down to the last detail. They would walk ahead of me and, once we reached the palazzo’s main chamber, which, I understood was on the second floor, they would be introduced before I would be officially presented.
My heart hammered as I went up the stairs, conscious of my towering zoccoli, of the yards of fabric swirling about my feet and of keeping my cape wrapped around me until such time it would be removed – at the top of the stairs, just outside the ballroom. I caught a glimpse of two enormous statues – remnants of the time of the Estrattore – one each of the gods of war and sea. If only there was a god for money, Serenissima would be captured in statuary.
We rounded the corner at the top and walked along an external walkway and, while Giaconda and Signor Maleovelli exchanged a quiet laugh, I took the opportunity to slide my hand out of my glove and stroke the stone balustrade. Silky smooth, it gleamed in the moonlight, made as it was from Istrian marble. I quickly extracted its strength, the focus of the workers who, with back-breaking patience, had hammered and chiselled the blocks that were now wonderfully symmetrical. I drank in their spirit and found my heart ceased to pound and the anxiety gnawing my stomach eased. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, watching as it poured from my mouth in a misty vapour. It was a cold, still night and yet I felt afire.
Giaconda had described the final staircase we would climb, the massive internal one, the Scala d’Oro, before arriving at the main room, but even so, it took me aback. Made entirely of gold, it glittered and sparkled, the lavishly painted ceiling and walls and tiled floor making it feel as if we’d stepped into a treasure chest. The intense glow reflected off every surface. I scrunched my eyes and searched for each step with the toe of my shoe. I felt like a dislodged gem.
At the top of the staircase were two huge golden doors. Liveried servants, also masked, reached for our capes and Signor Maleovelli’s hat. Amid all this gold, I unwound my black cape, handing it to a servant whose jaw dropped as he caught the first glimpse of my dress. I thought I was simply merging with the background – how wrong I was. Signor Maleovelli handed a man more intricately dressed than the other servants – the maestro della casa or major domo – his card and the huge double doors began to swing open. Giaconda gave me the merest of nods, her lips curled beneath her mask, before she turned her back and we prepared to enter.
The doors swung inwards releasing a burst of noise, music and chatter. I stepped into the largest room I had ever seen – not even the golden staircase could have prepared me for this. It paled by comparison as panels of dramatic art framed by golden carvings blazed from every surface and journeyed across the ceiling, which appeared to go for miles, unsupported, just one long mural of intense hues and iridescence. Along the walls were enormous sconces laden with creamy pillar candles, their flames long and steady, casting radiance above and below.
We paused behind the maestro della casa, who thumped a huge staff against the gleaming floor.
‘Signor Ezzelino Maleovelli of the Eighth Casa of Nobiles’ Rise; his daughter Giaconda Maleovelli and, introducing his ward, Tarlo Maleovelli.’ His voice was throaty and loud.
I don’t know what I expected would happen, but nothing changed. Conversations continued uninterrupted, the music played, the people remained focused on each other. I felt a wave of disappointment. All this anticipation.
As if they were actors acknowledging their audience, Giaconda and Signor Maleovelli bowed and curtsied to the indifferent room and turned to face a large, low platform, upon which sat an old man – the Doge – in a garish, high-backed chair. His throne. To one side of him stood two men, both of whom resembled each other. I imagined they were the Princes, his sons. On his other side sat a pale man with blond hair who was dressed in peculiar clothes. This must be the ambassador for whom this function was being held. Behind him stood a tall, lean man in a rich, scarlet cassock. He had a matching cap on his head and the huge gold chains of his office dangled across his shoulders, meeting over his heart in a dazzling crucifix. The Cardinale. I swallowed hard.
The foreigner rose to his feet as our names were called and the Princes helped the Doge struggle to his. Once again, Giaconda and Signor Maleovelli sank into deep obeisance and only stepped away from me once it was my turn to greet the Doge. At that moment, I stood unaccompanied, exposed, at the base of the platform in the centre of the room.
It was then that conversation ceased and the music spluttered to a stop. All eyes turned in my direction. I watched as groups of men and other, elegantly clad women, spun to look at me, their mouths dropping open. The silence was complete. No murmurs, not a movement, only my breath in my ears, long, juddering.
Framed by the platform and the huge, dark painting that loomed behind it, I stood proudly, just as I’d been instructed, my head held high, my mask intact, my dress a work of art befitting this grand room. A voice in my head kept talking to me: smile, do not look around, bow your head, curtsy, keep your hands still.
The Maleovellis left me there for as long as protocol would allow, just enough time for me to catch some of the whispers.
‘Gold! She’s wearing gold!’
‘How dare she!’
‘Stunning.’
‘Good god, she’s beautiful!’
‘Who is this creature?’
‘Maleovelli, the wily old bastardo, where has he been hiding this vision?’
‘She dares to wear gold before the Doge?’
And on they went. As I rose out of my curtsy, I risked a quick sweep of the room. It told me that no-one else was attired in the metallic tint that seemed to dominate the palazzo – that was, until my eyes met those of the Doge. He’d shuffled forward to the edge of the stage, his face creased in a frown. Of all the nobiles clustered in this vast space, only he wore the colour in which the Maleovellis had chosen to attire me.
I sank to the floor once more, my dress billowing around me, the jewels that adorned the slashes in my sleeves and rimmed my bodice flashing in the candlelight. The feathers of my mask caressed the front of the Doge’s togati as I rose, running from his groin to almost his chin.
The old man regarded me steadily through his creased eyes. He held out a shaking hand. I placed mine ever so lightly in his. ‘Maleovelli, I didn’t know you had added another filly to your stable.’ I glanced at him quickly. His pitted tongue ran over dry lips. ‘She’s a beauty. A golden beauty.’ He nodded his approval, my hand still in his, holding me at arm’s length, appraising every aspect of my gown, his eyes lingering over my daring décolletage.
The silence that had held the room in thrall broke and the conversation quickly rose to a crescendo. I didn’t need to hear what was being said to know they were discussing me. It was only later I discovered that the Doge’s first words to me were paramount. He could have ordered me taken from the room, stripped, and my clothes burned. I could have been flung out into the piazza or, worse, the dungeons. Instead, he’d not only welcomed me but, through his greeting, also given me permission to be so bold as to dress like him. To wear the Doge’s colour: gold.
I had gotten away with breaking one of the greatest taboos in Serenissian society. No wonder the Maleovellis had insisted the dress be kept secret. It also explained the look of fear that crossed Hafeza’s face every time she laid eyes on it.
Before I could grasp the enormity of what had just happened, it was time to be introduced to the Cardinale. I knew not to offer him my hand. Giaconda had described him as a Roman puritan who, unlike other members of the church, did not seek a woman’s company. Nor a man’s, according to rumours. He was a celibate. Puzzling to Serenissian sensibilities. My heart hammered as I met his eyes, afraid he would see straight through my mask, notice the belladonna and denounce me on the spot. As we nodded to each other, I saw the disapproval behind the façade. He did not like what I represented – something the Church could not control in men or women: lust. I also sensed that he fought hard to control his own.
Then it was time to meet the Doge’s sons and the foreign ambassador.
After that, the evening became a blur. Every nobile and courtesan wanted to be introduced, to be seen in my company. I was like a new drink everyone wanted to try. Giaconda stayed by my side, keeping the conversation safe, the men at arm’s length. Many tried to get closer, but she would slap them playfully with her fan and warn them away.
We’d been there for what seemed like hours. The bells in the campanile had long since chimed midnight and, through the windows along one side of the room, I could see the sky was beginning to lighten.
Just as dawn’s timid fingers reached over the horizon, one of the Doge’s sons and Signor Moronisini’s, Giacomo, the one upon whom I had spied in the Maleovellis’ casa the night the colleganza was made, joined the group of which I was centre.
At first, I noticed only Giacomo. He grabbed Giaconda’s hand and kissed it, but his eyes were upon me. Up close, he was very handsome, more so than I remembered. He had smooth olive skin, hazel eyes that twinkled behind his mask, and a generous mouth. He was about to say something to me when the group around us parted. The Prince stepped into our midst.
Giaconda curtsied and I quickly followed suit. As I rose, the Prince took my hand. All night long, I’d resisted the urge to extract, to learn more about these men and the lovely women whose company they sought, but it was just too dangerous. Now, as this man without a mask, with pock-marked skin and the saddest eyes I had ever seen held onto me, I wanted to delve into his soul and discover the source of his sorrow. Above all, I wanted to heal it. Tragedy shaped his face in a way that no mask could ever emulate.
‘Another Maleovelli beauty to grace our nights.’ His voice was low, husky, a fitting tribute to his melancholy. ‘Signorina, you shine brightly even in this glittering firmament.’ His arm swept the ballroom.
‘Grazie, your grace,’ I murmured. He held me for a moment longer before turning to Giaconda and talking about, of all things, what the foreign ambassador ate. It was a source of great amusement to the assembly. I glanced at the outlandish man now, wandering from group to group, the Doge’s other son assigned to his side. He was tall, about the Cardinale’s height, but broader. Some might find his pale looks handsome, his blond brows, his light blue eyes. His mask dangled by his side and I wondered when he’d removed it.
I watched him conversing with the Cardinale. His hands did not move, only his mouth; his face did not reveal his feelings. Like me, he was playing a role. I wondered briefly what he must think of all this ostentation.
A slight chill made me draw my shoulders together and I glanced around to see if the door had opened, for people were beginning to leave. But it was shut. As I turned back to the group, I became aware of Giacomo Moronisini’s eyes on me again. They burned behind his dark mask. I nodded gracefully to him. He did not say a word; he just continued to stare.
Uncomfortable under his scrutiny, I was glad when Giaconda took my arm.
‘Come, Tarlo, the night is almost over. It’s time to retire.’ She smiled and bowed her head to our male companions, who all protested at our leaving. Giaconda opened her fan and concealed her laughing mouth. ‘Gentleman, we look forward to your future favours. Don’t we, Tarlo?’
Imitating Giaconda, I also opened my fan, a pretty golden one lined with diamantes. They flashed as the material spread. ‘Indeed we do, sister.’
Looping our arms, we left the men slowly, aware that every single one of them was watching. As I’d been taught, I swung my hips, pleased as my train (something else I learnt from a very friendly courtesan was also forbidden) rustled and swept its way across the floor.
We approached Signor Maleovelli and I saw he was listening to a conversation between the Cardinale and the foreign ambassador. The Cardinale gave us the barest of nods.
‘I am more than happy to explain to you what we’re doing to apprehend the Estrattore,’ said the Cardinale.
I willed myself not to react. To remain calm. I opened my fan again and began to wave it before my face. The Cardinale turned from me, annoyed that I had drawn attention away from him merely through my presence.
He kept talking to the ambassador. ‘And I would like very much for you to explain the religion of your country,’ he continued. ‘We once worshipped the gods. A long, long time ago. But our eyes were opened. We recognised the gods for what they were: a sign of ignorance, and those who claimed to be conduits to them nothing but charlatans.’ The ambassador stiffened. One of the young nobiles gasped at the insult. The Cardinale seemed unaware of the effect of his words. He stifled a yawn. ‘You will have to excuse me. It’s late.’ He glanced out the window. ‘Or should I say, early. We will talk, sir.’ He struck the ambassador on the arm in what was meant to pass as a friendly gesture, but could, in a different setting, be construed as aggressive.
‘Your grace,’ we all murmured.
With a brief bow, he left the group. We waited until he was gone from the room before resuming the conversation. Only then did I release my breath. Signor Maleovelli smiled at us. ‘Ah, belle. Lord Waterford, I believe you have met my daughter Giaconda and my ward, Tarlo. Gia, Lord Beolin Waterford is the ambassador of our newest ally, the country of Farrowfare. Despite what his grace, the Cardinale implied, religion is not the only subject to occupy Lord Waterford’s mind – he’s also interested in trade.’
‘Then he is a man of great interest to us, Papa,’ said Giaconda, staring over her fan at Lord Waterford, who flashed her what passed for a warm smile.
We both dropped into deep curtsies. Lord Waterford kissed the hands we held out to him, first Giaconda’s, then mine. Even through my glove, I sensed something about this man. Depths that his unassuming demeanour hid. This man had secrets.
‘Isn’t Farrowfare beyond the Limen, my lord?’ asked Giaconda.
I tensed. Mention of the Limen still had the ability to startle me.
Lord Waterford cast me a look, a frown between his brows. I forced my face into a smile as I extracted my hand from his.
‘Indeed it is, Signorina.’ He stepped closer to Giaconda.
‘I would love to hear all about it,’ she said. ‘Living so close to the Limen we’re always curious about its mystery, about what lies beyond its peculiar barrier, never mind within. You’re the first we know, apart from our infamous Bond Riders, of course, to come from the other side. It’s very exciting. We Serenissians are not able to survive within its space, not unless we surrender our souls. But you know this, sì?’
‘I have heard of your Bond Riders,’ said the lord politely. ‘My understanding is that they are no longer able to be, how would you describe it? Made human again?’
‘Vero. This is true. Without Estrattore to return their souls …’ Giaconda let her voice trail away, hoisting her shoulders and letting them drop.
I released my breath slowly. The conversation unnerved me.
‘I would very much like to learn about why it is your men can cross into Vista Mare and back again so … unscathed.’ Giaconda looked the ambassador up and down appreciatively. ‘Do you have to surrender your soul or is that still intact?’
Lord Waterford smiled. ‘I’m afraid that’s an official secret, Signorina.’
‘And what about opportunities for trade between our nations?’ asked Giaconda. ‘Is that a secret too? Or will you share that with me?’
‘That’s what we were discussing, bella,’ Signor Maleovelli said. ‘Lord Waterford and I have just been arranging a time of mutual convenience to talk further on this matter. Is that not right, Signor?’ Signor Maleovelli reached inside his jacket. ‘This is my card. I would be delighted if you would call upon us soon. I will ask my man to speak to yours, shall I?’
‘That would be … most delightful,’ said Lord Waterford, his eyes dusting first Giaconda, then me. I could tell that while he would go ahead with this meeting, it was against his better judgement. I longed to touch this man, to find out more about him. Well, if he came to the casa, I would perhaps have that chance.
‘Till the next time we meet, then,’ said Signor Maleovelli and gave the ambassador a dignified nod of his head.
Lord Waterford bowed, an elegant, practised one. ‘I will look forward to it very much, Signor Maleovelli, Signorina Giaconda and Signorina Tarlo.’
‘You will not forget?’ asked Giaconda.
‘How could I? I don’t think I will ever forget the jewels that grace this evening – the emerald lady and the Signorina Dorata. I doubt anyone will.’
Signorina Dorata? It took me a moment to realise Lord Waterford meant me.
‘Signorina Dorata?’ Giaconda’s eyes widened and then she laughed and stood back to study me momentarily. ‘Very appropriate, Lord Waterford. It’s a name, a title, I think my sister will wear with honour. Grazie.’
‘Prego,’ said Lord Waterford. ‘But I cannot claim to have invented it. I am simply repeating what everyone else has been calling her.’
Giaconda took my arm again and we followed Signor Maleovelli from the room, nodding to those who called out farewells. The Doge had long left his party; the dais and his throne were abandoned.
I barely remembered being ushered into my cape, descending the staircases or coming out into the fresh early morning air, crossing the piazza and rousing Salzi, who was asleep in the felze. All I could think about was Lord Waterford’s description of me.
I huddled beside Giaconda, too tired to listen to the Maleovellis’ self-congratulations and analysis of the evening. All I could think about was the uncanny coincidence.
‘Did you hear what he called her, Papa?’ Giaconda was full of life, high on the success of the evening, despite the hour. ‘Signorina Dorata!’ She clapped her hands in glee.
Signor Maleovelli regarded her fondly. ‘She was a greater success than we ever could have hoped. You did well, mia cara. We did well.’
They continued to speak about me as if I didn’t exist. I was grateful. My mind was roiling with confusion, with the impossibility of it all.
In a matter of months, I had gone from being Dante’s Dorato – his little golden boy, to the golden lady of Serenissima – Signorina Dorata.
I didn’t know whether to laugh in triumph or cry at what it all signified. I was too exhausted. My body ached, my feet were leaden and my brain was full of the faces, sights and conversations I had participated in, the danger I had narrowly escaped simply by being there. The tension that had kept me upright and focused all night began to leave my body.
I snuggled into the cushions, rearranging my dress slightly. We passed over the water and, through the window, I could see out on the ocean beyond the Arsenale, the silhouettes of masts as the sun crawled over the horizon, turning the water into a bronze disc. A flat golden orb. Dorato, dorata. Like the ships anchored in the lagoon, I wondered where this new name would take me. What I would become. Would it set me free as we hoped, or would it be a burden that would secure me nothing but trouble?
As it turned out, I didn’t have to wait for very long to find out.
DANTE WAS AWARE OF THE OWNER of Taverna di Segretezza’s eyes upon him as he gently wiped Katina’s brow.
‘She’s not improving.’ Dante turned round and looked at Signor Vestire helplessly. ‘I don’t know what to do, Signor.’ For the last five days, he’d sat by Katina’s bed and watched as her body withered away before his eyes. At first, he’d refused to let anyone come near her, but now, when he had lost all hope, he’d admitted Vestire. He gazed at the kind man now. ‘Tell me. What do I do?’
Signor Vestire stepped closer. Dante could see a tic in his cheek pulsing frantically as he stared at Katina. He was working hard not to let the apprehension he felt show. ‘I have seen this before,’ he said finally, the back of his hand gently touching Katina’s cheek. Her breathing was shallow, rapid. ‘When a Bond Rider is like this – they must return to the Limen.’
Dante studied Katina’s face in dismay. ‘I know. But there are factors –’
‘More important than this Signorina’s life?’ Signor Vestire rested a hand on Dante’s shoulder. ‘Hush,’ he said as Dante went to speak again. He dragged a chair over next to him. ‘I do know. I do understand. I know the Riders have rules and laws to which we humans are not privy. And you have your Bonds.’ He smiled to soften the severity of his words. ‘But you should at least consider a dottore, amico mio.’
Dante shook his head. ‘What if he talks? What if he lets slip that you have Riders here …’
‘We will get one of our own. Someone who will not breathe a word. Trust me on this. My life is as much at risk as yours.’ Signor Vestire folded his arms and nodded out the window. ‘The Cardinale and the Signori di Notte are, let’s say, encouraging the popolani to report anything or anyone different. They’re paying people to spy on one another.’ He sighed. ‘Why, only yesterday, we heard that an old woman was taken in for questioning. She’d recently moved into the Herb Quartiere from the mainland after her family died during the Morto Assiderato. Once she would have been cared for, welcomed even. Now, she’s accused of harbouring the Estrattore.’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Tragedy begets more tragedy.’
He rose to his feet and stared out the window. Dante watched as rain trickled down the pane. It reflected against Signor Vestire’s face, making it appear as if he was crying. ‘These are troubled times, Dante. We all have to be careful. Let’s not forget the man who was asking after Katina a while back. A suspicious fellow if ever I saw one.’ He tapped the side of his nose.
Dante had been unnerved to discover someone had called at the taverna more than once asking for Katina by name. How did he know she would be here? Who was he? Why hadn’t Katina said anything about him? It made Dante uneasy.
‘But this –’ continued Signor Vestire, waving towards Katina, ‘this is different. Sometimes we have to throw caution away.’
Dante placed his hand against Katina’s forehead. It was burning. He didn’t understand what the Morte Whisperers had done but, whatever it was, it was killing her.
‘Allora,’ said Signor Vestire. ‘Do I fetch the dottore?’ He squatted beside Dante and patted his leg.
Dante’s eyes were itchy, his body ached with tiredness and he was heartsore. ‘Fetch him as soon as you can. Please. Let’s hope he can do something.’
Signor Vestire took one last look at Katina’s pallid face, his lips a thin line, and left the room.
THE DOTTORE CAME EVERY DAY for over a week. No matter what he did, getting broth between her lips, applying cool herbal compresses to her face and arms, Katina grew worse. Dante fretted, alternating between pacing the room and sitting beside her, clutching her hand, wiping her face, watching her waste away. He refused much of the food Signora Vestire brought, and when he slept, it was either on the bed by Katina’s side or slumped in a chair that he dragged over, his arm draped across her. Sometimes, in a state somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, he thought he could feel her fingers in his hair and his mind would wander, imagining he was a boy again and Zia Gaia was beside him.
Occasionally, Katina would awake and try to speak. Her eyes would fly open, but her senses wandered in a different realm. Before long, she would fall asleep again and could not be roused.
Dante knew that if they didn’t find a cure quickly, then the benefits of Elder Maggiore’s diet would be meaningless; their Bonds would be for nothing, for how could an Obbligare Doppio work if there was only one Rider left to carry it out?
Each day, as Dante became accustomed to being in Serenissima again, it wasn’t only Katina who occupied his mind. The pull to find Tallow became stronger. He longed for her; he knew she was in the city and every inch of him wanted to begin the search, to see her, touch her and, he thought, taste her lips. He began to dream about her, vivid, powerful dreams that left him confused when he woke. He would look around the room expecting to find her there beside him, only to see the burning grate and the outline of Katina, lying still in the bed.
Katina dreamed too. He would watch her tossing and turning, a frown marring her brow, Tallow’s name on her lips. He wondered if that was what was keeping her alive, because he could think of no other reason.
Afraid to leave Katina’s side lest she require him, needing to find Tallow, Dante was torn. A man divided. He remained in the room, sitting by the bed or gazing out the window. The rain had been replaced by snow. Carnivale was in full swing, and outside, locals would wander by masked and full of high spirits. He saw tumblers and dwarves, courtesans and nobiles, the crowds increasing as the day wore on and night fell – carrying torches, assembling in the campo outside the taverna, with their drinks clutched firmly in their hands, their breath long whispers of white against the darkness. Celebrations continued into the night – the rumblings of conversation, music and laughter would carry through the floor from the bar below. It only served to depress Dante further. It wasn’t that he wanted to participate so much as he wanted Katina to be well enough so that he could use the cover of Carnivale to begin his search. No-one questioned strangers moving between quartieri during Carnivale. Why, even the Cardinale’s men had to allow some leeway at this time of year – or so Signor Vestire claimed.
‘Why don’t you at least go downstairs?’ Signor Vestire would ask over and over. ‘My daughters will sit with Signorina Maggiore.’ His two young daughters, twins, had been constant visitors to the room. Sweet-faced and wide-eyed, they barely spoke, awed by the presence of Bond Riders. They delivered food, medicines; emptied chamber pots, replaced drying sheets, brought fresh water with pretty curtsies and shy, fearful smiles.
Finally, two weeks after Carnivale began, Signor Vestire’s insistence that he have a break grew and Dante capitulated.
First making sure Katina was settled, and that one of Signor Vestire’s daughters would remain, he had a quick wash, changed his clothes and went downstairs. Small, the taverna seemed big in comparison with the confines of the stuffy room upstairs and Dante appreciated the illusion of space as well as the strange faces, chatter and the smell of wood smoke, vino and hot bread and cheese – platters of which were spread over a few tables. He settled on a vacant stool by the bar under the nose of Signor Vestire who, without a word, placed a wooden cup brimming with red vino in front of him followed by a small plate of cold pigeon, a tiny bowl of olive oil, and steaming, freshly baked bread. Dante drank gratefully, saluting Signor Vestire first.
He ate slowly, enjoying the warmth of the fire. While the close press of bodies concerned him at first, after his second cup of vino he no longer cared so much. He shifted on his stool so he could discreetly check out faces and listen in on the many conversations that were taking place. Discussion ranged from the fussiness of customers who demanded almost invisible stitching to the latest fabrics and furs, samples of which had been given freely by a new ambassador’s men. He heard the names Farrowfare and Waterford, but they were unfamiliar and he quickly dismissed them, trying to hear any news about the Cardinale and the Chandlers Quartiere – the one place he wanted to go but knew was forbidden to him.
Dante tuned in and out, listening to the good-natured banter, observing the patrons; noting how, as the evening wore on, masks slipped from faces or were pushed up foreheads. Anonymity was not so important to these people, not when the good times they had were shared with friends.
Signor Vestire appeared with the vino flask, ready to tip more into Dante’s cup. Dante went to stop him when something caught his ear.
‘Signorina Dorata, they’re calling her. All she wears is gold. They say all the nobiles are besotted with her!’ A middle-aged man with a slashed doublet opened to reveal a generous paunch and a mask dangling from one ear leant over a table of goggle-eyed men.
‘Have you seen her?’ asked one man, staggering over from another table into the group. There was laughter as they held him upright. ‘I saw her riding in a gondola with another beauty. She’s the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever seen. Hair like the evening sky, skin like melted snow –’
‘Melted snow?’ said another man, slapping his drunken companion on the back. ‘How can one’s skin be like melted snow?’
‘Because you want to stick your tongue into it!’ quipped another. Raucous laughter followed.
‘What I wouldn’t give to be her tailor – working with golden fabric – designing for her. What I’d give to know who got that commission.’ There was much nodding and chinking of mugs after that statement.
Dante turned back to the bar, musing over the name. Signorina Dorata. How odd that someone should be given a title so like that he’d bestowed on Tallow. Dorato, he called her – his little golden boy. All because of her strange glasses, the ones she would wear to disguise her eyes. It seemed so long ago. Another lifetime. He looked down at his hands, gripping the mug. They possessed fresh scars, given by knives, swords, and angry trees. His youthful calluses and burns had been replaced by a warrior’s roughness. And now a new courtesan bore Tallow’s old name. Katina was right. Serenissima was not the same place; he was not the same person he once was. What had happened to Tallow, he pondered. Had she changed too?
With a silent laugh, he took a swig of the drink, forgetting his earlier conviction not to have more. Courtesan, he scoffed as he replayed the men’s conversation. A whore by any other name.
He wondered if there were any there tonight; if he might be able to acquire their services. His stool creaked beneath him as he twisted and cast a look around the room. Gazing through the haze of wood fire and tobacco smoke, he became aware he was being watched. In a far corner, near the main door, he spotted a man sitting by himself. A group was close by and he’d arranged his chair to appear part of them, but Dante could tell he wasn’t. He wore a mask so large it covered most of his face. The slits glittered, and Dante knew they were fixed on him.
Dante frowned. It was time to leave. He downed the last of the drink and was about to stand when he felt a tugging at his elbow.
‘Signor, signor.’ He looked down. It was one of Signor Vestire’s daughters. ‘The lady …’ her dark eyes were wide with fear. ‘You must come quickly. She asks for you.’
Dante threw the cup down and followed the child from the room, taking the stairs two at a time, cursing himself for how much he’d drunk.
He flung open the door. Katina was not alone.
Standing over the bed, back to the door, was a cloaked and hooded figure. Dante raced to his scabbard and pulled out his sword. The little girl squealed and ran to a corner, cowering.
‘Get away from her,’ he ordered.
The figure did not move.
‘Now!’ he said and stepped closer, his sword held before him.
Slowly, the figure turned and threw back the hood.
Dante gasped and almost lost hold of his weapon.
Signor Vestire’s daughter yelped and went to run from the room.
‘Stop her,’ the figure said.
Dante grabbed the girl’s hand and pulled her back. The little girl struggled and began to whimper.
‘It’s all right,’ soothed Dante. ‘This is a friend.’ He looked at the elderly woman standing before him, with her white hair and pink cheeks. ‘You are a friend, aren’t you?’
The old woman smiled, and bending down in front of the girl, took her hand. ‘Sì, indeed I am. A very, very old one.’ Dante watched as the little girl stared into the great silver eyes gazing into her own. He saw the fear leave her body. Her shoulders drooped and a smile replaced the panic. She threw herself in the old woman’s arms.
The old lady hugged her and then released her. ‘Go and shut the door and then sit over there, cara.’ She pointed to a chair by the fire. The little girl did as she was told, her face shining.
Dante watched the exchange and then put his sword back in its scabbard and replaced it on the table.
‘You’re an Estrattore, sì?’ he asked as the woman returned to Katina’s side. He joined her, kneeling by the bed.
‘Sì,’ she said softly and took Katina’s hand. Dante felt the power radiating from her.
‘Who are you?’ he asked quietly as he saw the colour return to Katina’s cheeks and her breathing become less laboured. Dante found his head cleared and his heart returned to normal.
‘My name is Constantina. Constantina Maggiore.’
Dante looked from Katina to the old woman and back again, understanding registering on his face. ‘You’re the friend Elder Maggiore told Katina to meet. You’re the one who is going to help us.’
‘Sì,’ smiled the old woman. ‘When Katina didn’t arrive at the agreed meeting place, I was very worried. It was Elder Maggiore who told me to come here – to find you. I didn’t expect this.’ She turned to Katina. ‘She’s been attacked by Morte Whisperers?’
‘They tried to … enter her body. It was like they were devouring her.’ He quickly explained what had happened. ‘What have they done?’
‘They’ve tried to steal her life-force and, from the looks of her, they’ve almost succeeded.’
‘Why?’
She hesitated. ‘I’m not sure. But it’s clear they didn’t want her to survive.’
‘Can you help?’ he asked. ‘I mean, I can see you already have. But will she be all right?’
Constantina reached out and caressed Katina’s cheek. ‘She will be, once I return her to the Limen. I can only do so much here.’
‘Return her?’ he repeated. ‘You’re taking her now?’
Constantina nodded.
‘Oh, thank God. I didn’t know what to do, whether to stay or go back with her. I was –’ Relief made the words rush out of Dante’s mouth.
‘Hush,’ said Constantina soothingly. ‘It’s all right. I need you to help me dress her, get her out of here. There’s a back way, sì?’ Dante nodded. ‘Bene. Can we send someone to bring her horse there?’
‘I will ask Signor Vestire myself.’ He didn’t wait, but dashed down the stairs, his thoughts scattered. Estrattore in the calles of Serenissima. That would be a sight to see. He hoped the Signori di Notte were not in the sestiere tonight.
When he returned, Constantina was already halfway through dressing Katina, who stirred briefly. She blinked once, twice, and then her eyes widened and a small sob escaped. Slowly she reached out and touched the Estrattore, gently at first, then with an urgency that was frightening to behold. She held Constantina’s face between her palms, locking eyes with her in a silent communication. Dante watched them, wondering what was being said. Katina’s eyes slid over towards Dante before returning to Constantina’s. She nodded once and then burst into tears, throwing herself in Constantina’s arms. It was this reaction more than anything that both filled Dante with alarm and reassured him.
When Katina tried to ask questions, Constantina put a finger to her lips. ‘There will be time for that later. Rest, cara mia.’ Katina fell silent and allowed Dante and the Estrattore to finish dressing her.
Before long, they hauled her to her feet and were ready to leave the room. Once again, she’d fallen asleep.
‘You wait here,’ said Dante to the little girl who had sat the entire time with a beatific smile on her face. ‘Is she all right?’ he asked Constantina.
Constantina gave a wise smile. ‘She’s fine. Just lost in happy memories. She won’t recall any of this.’
Dante expelled air. ‘Lucky girl.’
‘Indeed. Now, help me get Katina down the stairs.’ Dante picked her up. She was light for such a tall woman.
The noise from the bar muffled their descent. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, they sneaked past the kitchen and through a small passageway and into a storeroom that had shelves for linen, bottles, leather flasks and fruit and vegetables. Haunches of meat hung from hooks in the ceiling. They ducked under these, Dante moving ahead. Constantina unlatched the back door.
Snow flew into Dante’s face as he stepped out into the night. The wind whipped it in eddies around his feet and blew through his cape, inflating it above his shoulders. Helpless to control it, he tried to shield Katina from the worst. Thankfully, the weather kept revellers inside. Scudding clouds mostly obscured the moon.
‘Where to?’ he asked, the wind catching his voice and throwing it into the campo.
‘Over there,’ shouted Constantina, indicating a small calle off the main square.
Dante pushed through the drifts. As they drew closer, he could see a horse, fully saddled, standing in the middle of the calle. Birrichino was also there, ready beside it. Signor Vestire himself held the reigns.
‘Grazie, amico mio,’ called Dante.
‘Do you need help?’ shouted the Signor, trying to be heard above the howling wind.
‘No, no. We’re all right.’ Dante swung round to check with Constantina, but she’d moved to her own horse and kept her head bowed.
Signor Vestire gripped Dante’s shoulder on his way past. ‘You know where I am if you change your mind,’ he said, casting a suspicious glance at Constantina. He took another quick look at Katina. Dante nodded and Signor Vestire ran back into the taverna.
Constantina mounted her horse. ‘Place her in front of me,’ she said. Dante lifted Katina into the saddle. Katina stirred and tried to help. Constantina grabbed a hold of her waist and wrapped her arms and cloak around them both. ‘Grab Birrichino’s tether and tie him here,’ she ordered Dante, pointing to a metal ring on the saddle.
With frozen fingers, Dante did what he was told. As he worked, Constantina spoke.
‘You have a duty to carry out. A Bond to fulfil. You must now work towards this and nothing else, do you understand?’
Dante finished what he was doing and rested his hands on the horse’s neck. ‘I will. Katina and I, we’re mutually Bonded – we have an Obbligare Doppio.’ The horse pushed against him, trying to toss his hands aside. Birrichino whinnied as his mouth was pulled.
‘I know. Listen to your Bond, young Rider. Find Tallow. Watch and learn what you can about who is protecting her, for I have no doubt she is not alone – not after all this time. Someone is looking after her. We need to know what their intentions are, what they know of the prophecy. But do not approach her. Not until I tell you it is time or she is directly threatened. Do you understand?’
‘Sì,’ said Dante. ‘I know what to do.’ His tone was terse. He didn’t like being reminded by this Estrattore who had swooped in and taken control. Constantina raised an eyebrow. ‘It doesn’t hurt to be reminded, Bond Rider.’ Dante gaped at her in astonishment. Could Estrattore read minds as well? ‘Now, if you need me, go to the Pledge Stone of Casa di Maggiore and touch it. I will know you’re there and I will come.’
The horse broke from his hold. Dante jumped out of the way.
‘What if I can’t find her?’ he cried. He reached up and grabbed the pommel, latching onto the horse, ignoring its jerking head.
Constantina shook her head. ‘Haven’t you worked that out yet? Listen to your heart – do not be misled by your head. You will find her. You have no choice. Why do you think Katina Bonded you? It’s what you are pledged twice over to do.’
Constantina’s horse reared and, as it did, the whirling snow parted and three grey shapes appeared.
Hovering to the side and above the horses, tall vaporous creatures swayed. Their pointed teeth and hungry leers turned towards Constantina and Katina.
‘Morte Whisperers!’ cried Dante, reaching for the sword that was still in his room. He cursed. ‘Run, Constantina!’ He slapped the horse and leapt backwards out of the way, slipping in the snow, sprawling on his back. One of the creatures floated over him, curious at his helplessness, but it did not attack.
There was a swirl of movement and the Morte Whisperer disappeared and was replaced by another shape. Atop her horse, Constantina towered over him. The horse’s hooves were inches from his face. ‘I told you, foolish ragazzo, trust your heart, not your head. Not everything is as it seems.’
She wheeled her mount and broke into a trot, Birrichino following.
‘Wait!’ Dante cried, clambering to his feet.
‘Remember,’ called Constantina, kicking her heels. ‘If she is under threat, bring her to the pledge stone.’
One moment the horses were there; in the next they were gone, swallowed by the snow and the creatures that followed, their grey forms surging until they too became one with the air.
Dante stared at where they’d been, oblivious to the bitter cold and the snow that was fast turning into sleet. Needles of ice drove into his skin. He dashed the stinging wetness from his eyes. Constantina was working with the Morte Whisperers, the very creatures that had tried to kill Katina. ‘What have I done?’ he cried, but his words were snatched away. Sorrow and a terrible despondency rose within him. ‘Katina, Tallow? What have I done?’
He stood for what seemed like hours, his head heavy with confusion before he stumbled and fought his way back into the taverna, unaware that in the dark shadows under the eaves, another shape watched.
THE DAY AFTER MY OFFICIAL PUBLIC appearance, my introduction to the Doge and the cream of Serenissian society, the casa was besieged with flowers, poems and, most importantly, the highly anticipated offers.
The first few had been very gratifying. Awoken by a timid knock on my bedroom door after only what seemed like minutes of sleep, I saw Hafeza enter, carrying the most enormous spray of flowers I had ever seen. Blue-white lilies stood erect beside blood-red roses while a profusion of star-shaped buds encircled them like gossamer. They were beautiful. I climbed out of bed as Hafeza placed them in a vase. I found a card tucked among them. I didn’t even recognise the name. Filled with superlatives and hyperbole, it made me laugh. But it also delighted me. When Hafeza left, I began to dance around the room, only to be brought to a standstill when she reappeared seconds later with yet another bunch.
‘More?’ I’d asked incredulously.
Hafeza nodded and left, returning again and again.
I gave up trying to sleep and, after a hasty wash, went to the portego for my morning cafe. Every few minutes, a strange gondola would arrive at the door over the water-stairs and Salzi would rush to open it and take receipt of whatever was being delivered. Even our land door was beseiged as couriers and servants under instructions to deliver their masters’ gifts and pledges ran along the calles.
After a week, my room and the entire casa were brimming with sweet-scented bouquets and bottles of perfume and oils. My dresser was laden with poems, paste brooches, jewelled pins, silken shawls, wildly decorated masks, embroidered handkerchiefs and a host of other tributes – most of which were golden or made from the precious metal itself – along with outrageous declarations of love and devotion. I didn’t know what to make of any of it. I giggled, blushed, pretended indifference. But after I’d retire to my room each night, I would pace the floor and read the accompanying cards and savour the poems – some of which were original – all over again. The one thing they had in common was how they referred to me.
Signorina Dorata had captured not only hearts, but the public imagination as well.
Giaconda wasted no time in placing orders for more clothes with Signor Tedeschi. I am not sure how the small man accomplished it, but within days, additional dresses arrived – more than I would need in a lifetime, all cut from golden fabrics, all stitched with beads dipped in molten gold or painted to match. Masks, hats, gloves, even my zoccoli were now made from golden materials. I would pull out each new garment with the same excitement as if it were my first, clutching them to my body, twirling before the mirror, parading around.
It was only when my wardrobe was organised that Giaconda allowed me to reappear in public. From now on, I would dress only in gold. So it was, that a few days after the function, I rode in the gondola once more. The snow, which had fallen steadily since that night, abated, and a thin, sickly sunlight pierced the clouds. Dressed in all my golden finery, I sat in the prow, a new mask firmly in place, my cape thrown back so the sheen of my dress could be seen. Giaconda sat in the doorway of the felze, content to let me be the focus.
As Salzi pushed us along the canal, the talk began. What started as whispers, with the occasional shout of recognition, soon became a roar. People crowded bridges, ran along the fondamenta, all to catch a look at me. It was such a far cry from the last time I was chased, and I found it hard to reconcile at first. But all too soon, as the days went by and I took to the waters every afternoon, I became used to the attention. I even relished it. We rowed the Circolo whenever the weather would allow, rousing excitement. I became part of the attractions of Carnivale.
When Giaconda and I promenaded through the piazza on Nobiles’ Rise over a week after the ball, Signor Maleovelli between us, our arms resting lightly upon his, our heavy heels cracking the snow that coated the flagstones, people paused in their step, parting to allow us to pass. Daring children ran up to me, running their fingers along my gown, my cape, keen to touch me. ‘Signorina Dorata,’ they whispered, awe in their little voices.
I longed to stroke their sweet faces, to thank them, but Giaconda said I must not. ‘They’re insignificant. Ignore them. You are above them. Be proud. Touch only where it will count. Where and when we tell you.’
How could I explain to her that these bambini were not insignificant to me? None of this was. For the first time in my life, I was being noticed. Not in a way that made me run in fear or shame, but one that made me blaze with happiness. I was bringing the people of Serenissima pleasure. Just seeing me made them smile, gave them cause to talk. And what I heard was generous and loving. Serenissians liked nothing better than what brought glory to their city. I was now among those honoured objects. Signorina Dorata.
Like the golden halo that radiated from my elaborate costumes, I too lived in a haze of wonder.
It was only two weeks after my first introduction that I was brought back to reality. Having attended a few private dinner parties with Giaconda since the function, which only served to fire the ardour of some of my suitors, prompting them to more outrageous bids, all of which Signor Maleovelli and Giaconda took very seriously, bartering to raise the stakes, the time had finally come for me to accept my first client.
Giaconda came to my room early that day.
I was already awake and sipping cafe in my bed, reading both a pamphlet of poetry published by a courtesan I was yet to meet, Veronica Franco, and some more invitations I’d received. I closed the pamphlet when Giaconda entered and put it on my bedside table.
‘Where did you get that from?’ she asked, looking down her nose at it.
‘It was a gift.’ I reached over and opened the first page. ‘From Signor Castellini.’
Giaconda laughed. ‘Ah yes, he was quite taken with you the other night.’
‘I mentioned I liked poetry. He sent me this. It’s very good.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Giaconda, her tone suggesting the opposite. ‘And what are these? More declarations?’ She arched a brow at the scattering of cards across my coverlet. I nodded.
She pushed them away and sat on the end of my bed and stared at me. ‘Forget them. After much toing and froing, Papa has accepted an offer.’
I put down my cup. My hand began to shake, I swear my heart forgot to beat. ‘Who?’
Giaconda took a deep breath and, as she released it, so too she spoke his name. ‘Signor Giacomo Moronisini.’
‘Signor Moronisini? I know him.’ I’d spied on him the night Hafeza caught me. The night she betrayed me. I frowned and pushed thoughts of Hafeza aside. ‘He’s very handsome,’ I said, picking up my cup and burying my smile in the porcelain.
Giaconda nodded. ‘He is also very generous. He wants you – badly. Many do. But Papa has decided that his suit works best for us. We want to shore up our relations with his family. The news Jacopo sends us is very good indeed, Tarlo. The Contested Territories are ripe pickings. We’re going to do very well from this enterprise.’
‘Then it is good that we can share with the Moronisinis, sì?’
‘Share?’ Giaconda gave a short laugh. ‘Good? I am not sure that’s how Papa would view it. For now, it is … adequate. But once you wrap young Moronisini around your finger, then we can consider just how the spoils of this very successful trip should be divided. It seems to Papa that the original terms need to be changed to favour us.’ Giaconda regarded me. ‘What? Why that face? You don’t like this?’
I considered my words carefully. ‘I don’t know. It doesn’t seem fair. You said yourself that the Moronisinis were very generous to let you enter a colleganza with them. It doesn’t seem right to alter the terms at this stage, does it?’
‘Ah, Tarlo!’ exclaimed Giaconda. ‘How little you understand. Nothing about what we’re doing is fair! Life is not fair. You of all people should know that.’ She shook her head at me. ‘The Moronisinis never let us enter a colleganza. They invited us, no, they begged us to join them. Admittedly, they were persuaded – and by your candles. But this doesn’t change the facts, the reality. Don’t you think that if the tables were turned, the Moronisinis would do the same to us?’
I shrugged.
‘Of course they would. They are Serenissians! And don’t forget, it’s your – let’s call them powers of influence – that continue to alter longstanding arrangements.’ She referred to other candles that had been burned at special meetings and dinners, at strategic moments, the other colleganzas that the Maleovellis now held. ‘They are only the beginning. Once you enter these nobiles’ lives and their beds, things will change again. Then, they will be entering agreements on our terms. Terms that will see us restored to power.’
‘And the Estrattore brought back.’
Giaconda rose off the bed. ‘Sì, sì, of course,’ she said, smoothing the creases out of her dress.
‘Now, I want you to make a special candle that you will light tonight, cara. It is for you and Giacomo to enjoy alone. It’s to be infused with passion. I want Giacomo to be completely besotted with you. I want him to burn like a candle. I want his wick to remain steady and strong.’ She tilted her head. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Sì,’ I said, and blushed before laughing. I wanted to bury my face in my pillow.
‘After siesta, I want you to bathe. Hafeza will wash your hair. I have a special dress for you tonight and a lovely camicia and pair of stockings. You will not be wearing pantaloons.’
The colour on my cheeks deepened. This was really happening. My final step in becoming a fully fledged courtesan was about to be taken.
‘I will leave you now. I have more offers to sort through. You are going to be a very busy lady, Signorina Dorata.’
Giaconda left the room and I lay back on the bed, stretching my arms above my head. I stared at the ceiling. All our plans had come to this. It felt as if little birds flapped in my stomach, and I put my hand there to still them. Behind their activity, I could sense something else. I searched inside. It was sorrow. I didn’t need to look at my harlequin to know where that came from.
Dante would understand, I knew. He would tell me to be resilient. To do whatever it takes to bring my people back – even bedding strangers. Even helping the Maleovellis.
Before I could change my mind, I leapt from the bed, scooped the harlequin off the dresser and buried it in a drawer. Now its rainbow interior and exultant pose could not torment me anymore.
I hurried to dress myself and leave the room before the nonsensical paths my mind was insisting on travelling depressed me further.
THE MOON WAS HIDDEN BEHIND a thick bank of clouds and the snow was heavy and silent as Salzi escorted me to the Moronisinis’ casa. It was situated on the tip of Nobiles’ Rise, towards where the Circolo flowed into the Grande, and was a longer journey than I expected. Huddled within the felze and wrapped in fur-lined blankets, a gift from the foreign ambassador, I watched the city slide past. There was a magical quality about the evening, enhanced by the confidence I felt at my first solo trip, never mind my assignation.
We glided to the Moronisinis’ water-stairs, where Salzi handed me to a servant. From there, I was taken to a beautifully adorned room on the piano nobile. Already present were Giacomo and four other men – all sons or nephews of nobiles from the eight great casas. There was Venerio Nicolotti, Rizzo Manin, Bezio Castellini and Rambaldo Errizo. I had been warned of their presence and knew that if I impressed them with my manners and looks, then they too might become clientele. It was also a chance for Moronisini to display his latest conquest to his closest friends and, I knew, rivals as well. As far as he and the nobiles of Serenissima were concerned, he’d won the lottery. I was under no illusions about that.
As I was announced, Giacomo stopped mid-conversation and turned, a glass held aloft. I stood in the doorway and counted to ten. The men froze. Eyes swept me, judged me. I smiled, my nerves hidden behind my fixed stare, grateful for my mask. ‘Signori,’ I said softly and sank into a deep curtsy.
Giacomo put down his glass and came forward, taking my hand, lifting me to my feet. He wrapped his long fingers around mine, turning them so my wrist was exposed. Pushing my glove back, he rested his lips against the tender white flesh there. They were firm, dry. I shivered. He raised his eyes, his mouth upturned in a smile. ‘If it is possible, Signorina Dorata, you are even more beautiful than I remember.’
After that, the evening progressed smoothly and much as Giaconda predicted. Many courses were served and vino flowed freely. I ate and drank sparingly, making sure to listen with rapt attention to Giacomo, to offer opinion only when asked and be prepared to recite poetry or sing if requested. Both were asked of me and I stood to do so. I who had once known no music in my life had a repertoire to draw from, thanks to Giaconda. After I finished, the men applauded enthusiastically. Hours passed, and an artiste from the Theatre Quartiere played the mandolin for us, singing a plaintive madrigal about love and loss. I sighed when it finished and had to work hard to shed myself of the melancholy his lyrics aroused. Nothing was to interfere with my performance. I watched the candles on the sideboard burn to stumps, conscious of the one I had hidden in the folds of my dress.
Finally, the men were left to smoke and chat over their drinks – their digestivi, and I went to prepare myself. They offered their farewells with knowing, envious looks. I couldn’t help but smile, particularly at the smug look on Giacomo’s handsome face.
Taken to his private apartments by a sombre servant, I first replaced one of the candles by the bed with my own, throwing the original out the window and into the canal, hoping no-one saw me. I removed my zoccoli and stockings and sat in a plush chair by the fire and waited. I didn’t have to linger long.
Giacomo arrived moments later. He shut the door slowly, putting his back against it, and smiled as it clicked. His teeth were white against his bronze skin. ‘Since I first set eyes on you at the Doge’s palazzo, I have thought of nothing but this moment.’
I had to repress the urge to laugh. Whether it was nerves or the hackneyed nature of Giacomo’s words, I wasn’t sure. But there was nothing clichéd about his next action. He came towards me and, holding out his hand, indicated that I should place mine in it. I did. He gently pulled me to my feet. Without my zoccoli, I came only to his chest.
‘Ah, I like you better diminished,’ he said and tipped my chin upwards. He lowered his lips. They were sweet from the digestivo and as they captured mine, sent waves of heat through my body. His kiss deepened and I pressed my body into his. I felt his hardness against me as I wrapped my arms around him and pushed against him. I could smell my candle burning; feel its effects. As I touched him, I knew Giacomo did as well.
He moaned and held me tighter.
My gown shimmied to the floor and I stepped out of it. My delicate camicia was nothing more than a golden veil that he reached for and in one swift motion, tore from my body. I cried out, not in fear but – God help me – longing. He lunged, picking me up in his arms, and carried me to the bed.
I helped him remove his doublet, his shirt and, finally his hose. I lay beneath him, naked, quivering with eagerness. I’d never felt like this before. I was on the edge of a precipice and wanted to jump. He straddled me, his chest heaving. Staring at his beauty, the form of his chest, the veins in his arms, I was unable to resist the fine hairs that trailed down his stomach. He threw back his head and shut his eyes.
Much later, when the candle was smouldering, a mound of melted wax, we lay beside each other, covered in a fine sheen of sweat. He rolled over and raised himself on his elbow. With his free hand, he traced patterns over my breasts and along my chin, across my bruised lips. I kissed his finger as it ran over them.
Giaconda had fulfilled her promise to me. My first had been gentle. He’d been kind. He’d given me as much pleasure as I knew I had given him.
‘You are a marvel, my little Dorata.’
I was glad the mask hid my wince. That name. Why did he say that? It almost broke the mood, moved me out of the present and back into my past.
‘Worth every soldi,’ he continued, ‘and more.’
Suddenly, he rose from the bed. At first, I thought it was to use the chamber pot. But he searched the floor and began to pull up his leggings.
‘Giacomo,’ I said, and patted the bed beside me. ‘Where are you going? It’s not time for me to leave yet. The sun has not risen.’
‘I know.’ He smiled sweetly as he buttoned his shirt. ‘But you, cara mia, still have work to do.’
Before I could react, he went the door and flung it open. In walked the other men I had dined with – Giacomo’s friends.
‘What’s this?’ I cried and grabbed the sheet to cover my modesty.
It registered with me that they’d removed their coats and as they stood, drinks in hand, that they were not decently attired.
‘Consider my debts repaid, gentlemen,’ said Giacomo, gesturing to the bed, to me. Without a backward glance, he left the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. As one, they stepped closer.
Rambaldo Errizo was the first.
Hours passed and I fell inside myself, into a great dark void. I tried to take hold of something, anything that would get me through. I found what I was searching for in the tenebrous recesses of my soul. Once I did, I didn’t let it go.
I WAS ALONE WHEN SALZI FINALLY found me, wound in Giacomo’s bedding like a shroud. I couldn’t talk. I had no words. He picked up my torn camicia and stockings, my zoccoli, and helped me dress in my splendid gown. Unable to walk down the stairs, I was aware of him wrapping me in my cloak and lifting me into his arms.
The ride home took an eternity, the beauty of the sky mocking the ugliness that rested in my heart.
Giaconda came straight to my room. She took one look at my hollow eyes, the bite marks across my upper arms, my breasts and shoulders, at the accusation in my eyes, only now free of their mask, uninhibited by the belladonna. She turned away.
‘Don’t you dare look at me like that!’ she snapped, her voice breaking. It was the first time I’d ever heard her lose control. ‘I will send Hafeza. You will not be able to work for a few days. I will charge Moronisini for that.’
I don’t know what my face revealed, but Giaconda made a terrible sound; it came from somewhere deep inside. ‘What did you expect? Flowers and romance? You’re a courtesan, Tarlo. Your body is for the pleasure of others – whatever form that pleasure might take. It’s not your own anymore. Take the anger you feel and use it, use it to topple these nobiles who would use you in such a way.’
I waited till she left the room and then I ran to the window and shoved it open. I inhaled the cold morning air, but all I could feel was them. Against my body, on my body, in my body. I could hear them, smell them, taste them …
I leant out as far as I could and lost the contents of my stomach, heaving into the waters. I watched it fall and splatter. Again and again I vomited. Finally, nothing came out but noise, guttural, primitive and loud. The sound of my wretchedness echoed up and down the canal, resounded in my head, through my being. Hollow. That’s what I was.
I turned back into the room, gripping the sill, and fumbled in the dresser drawer. I reached for the harlequin and squeezed it in my hand, panting.
That was how Hafeza found me, minutes later, squatting in the corner beneath the window, sobbing over the tiny glass statuette.
I didn’t hear her come in. She knelt down beside me and reached out.
‘Don’t touch me!’ I cried.
She withdrew her hand sharply. I could feel her shock, her compassion. I didn’t want it. I couldn’t have it. Not anymore. I didn’t deserve it.
‘Don’t ever touch me,’ I screamed as my body, wracked with pain and sobs, slowly curled into a ball against the floor.