And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
William Shakespeare
Macbeth, Act 5, Scene 5
WINTER BOWED FAREWELL GRACEFULLY, the snow melting into spring, revealing the colour and life made dormant by the bitter cold. Birds busied themselves mating, flowers began to bloom and the markets were filled with the wares of enthusiastic merchants, keen to resume trading now warmer weather tamed the storms and calmed the rough seas. With the balmy evenings came invitations to private dinners, parties, recitals, theatre, opera and exclusive casinos. Not a day went past when either the land or water entrances of the Maleovellis’ casa weren’t receiving notes, gifts and even visitors. Selective about with whom Tarlo should and shouldn’t mix, the Maleovellis would deliberate before accepting. It was important that to whomever Tarlo gave her services, they also had the potential to offer more than soldi in return. Tallow let her benefactors organise her life, satisfied to go where they told her, dine and sleep with whomever she was instructed. They were pleased with her silent compliance, choosing not to question or explore the reasons behind it.
By mid-summer, Signorina Dorata was a regular on the party circuit and her evenings were filled with flirtatious conversations, long, languorous looks across laden dinner tables and sweet vinos, all unfolding against a backdrop of grand salons, exquisitely dressed men and women, the heady strains of music and flickering candles.
Her name spread throughout Serenissima, and sightings of her were reported as eagerly and with as much excitement as the comets that would occasionally arc their way across the firmament. Like the celestial bodies to which she was frequently compared, Tarlo Maleovelli dazzled those with whom she came in contact. Appearing only occasionally during the day, and then always hidden behind a golden mask, she truly shone at night. Wherever she was heading, whichever nobile was enjoying her charms, the path to his casa, whether paved by water or stones, would be lined with the popolani, sighing in pleasure as they glimpsed their city’s newest treasure, or threw favours at her feet, tucked as they were in their impossibly high zoccoli, beneath her glinting dress as she sat straight-backed in the prow of the gondola. She would neither wave nor acknowledge any gesture; her lips remained curled in a fixed position, her eyes modestly lowered, though everyone who saw her swore she smiled for them alone.
It was rumoured that Doge Dandolo kept a room in the palazzo just for his assignations with the mysterious beauty, that even his sons, the Princes, who also enjoyed her favours, were forced to find alternate venues for their encounters. It was said that one night with Signorina Dorata was worth every golden ducat she charged; that she was incomparable in her skills, conversation, and the pleasure she gave. Nobiles went to almost any length to secure her services – offered, spent and exhausted fortunes to be able to say they had spent a night in the golden beauty’s arms.
Would-be lovers penned ardent promises, poems were published describing her charms in metaphors and impossible similes. Artists denied permission to paint her nonetheless used their imagination, and images of her were soon hanging in casas and scuolas around Serenissima.
As friend, lover or enchanting companion, Signorina Dorata’s fame grew and spread, even out to the furthest of Serenissima’s colonies, including newly acquired lands in the Contested Territories of Judea; so too did her price. Some called her an enchantress; others less kind a witch. Men were entranced by her, while to their wives she was the enemy they loathed and to their daughters the woman they longed to be. It was said that even young novitiates from the Convent di Redentore made a pilgrimage to Nobiles’ Rise in the hope they would see her.
Signor Maleovelli and Giaconda basked in Tarlo’s reputation and were modest about the soldi they were acquiring. Colleganzas were struck, debts repaid, and the Maleovellis’ social standing rapidly rose. Whereas once they were remembered mainly for their lost fortune and status and for their absence from many a nobile’s table, now they enjoyed one for business acumen and for possessing an eye for potential.
When Jacopo returned from the Contested Territories and, inexplicably, the Moronisinis forwent any of the profit made in the risky venture in order to enter into a new colleganza with the Maleovellis, many were not surprised. Or, if they were, they did not articulate it. Instead, they watched and waited and hoped that they too would have the opportunity to engage in business with the Maleovellis who, it seemed, God had chosen to bless in abundance.
Thanking God was not beyond the Maleovellis either as they attended services in the Doge’s basilica every week, muttering prayers, using the holy water, listening with rapt attention to the Cardinale’s increasingly fervent sermons, railing against the evils of heresy, of the Estrattore and pagan practices. If the congregation were distracted by the presence of Signorina Dorata rather than the words the Cardinale delivered with passion from the pulpit, well, no-one really minded. Attendance increased until there was standing room only. Collection plates brimmed with soldi and donations to the Church soared. Even the Cardinale overcame his initial disapproval of courtesans as he appreciated what their presence among his flock, especially that of Signorina Dorata, did to his purse. The time he kissed Signorina Dorata’s hand was commented on for days after in porteghi over Nobiles’ Rise and beyond.
As the days blurred into weeks, and the weeks became months, the weather turned humid and then cloying as summer settled like a heavy cape over the city. The haze of heat now tempered the light that, for a brief time, had possessed a clarity and richness that winter, with its cold fogs, denied. It was as if everything faded a little during summer, wilted in the hot winds that blew from the south and increased the noxious smell that rose from the canals and infected the campi. These added the fear of disease into the torpid summer mix.
Since Tarlo’s first formal public engagement, her daily demands had been reduced. Hafeza would still attend her when she awoke, which became later and later as her evenings filled, but her afternoons were her own until after siesta, when she would resume her candlemaking. Often Tarlo found herself counting the hours till her next rendezvous, to the time when she could sit across from some arrogant nobile, prattle for his entertainment, pretend to laugh at his jokes, peer intently into his eyes, whisper silly promises in his ears and then escape to the bedroom. She longed for the moment when she would be alone, claiming an urge to use the chamber pot or tidy herself, and was able substitute her candles for the ones burning around the bed. Only then did she feel in control, safe again. For once her candles were lit and the nobile or merchant was in their thrall, she knew exactly how the remainder of the night would unfold.
She had never again spoken about what happened to her with Giacomo Moronisini the night he’d given her to his friends, using her body to pay the debts he’d accumulated. Debts, she later found out, his father knew nothing about. Instead, she’d appeared to push the entire incident out of her head and embrace her new role. She played it without complaint and, to the Maleovellis’ delight, fault either.
It was only the blackness inside her that prevented the images of that time from playing over and over. It held them at bay, kept them in the dark. Sometimes, when she’d fall into an exhausted sleep, they would revisit and she’d wake screaming, trembling from head to toe and bathed in a fine sheen of sweat. Hafeza had run to her the first few times, but Tarlo had shrieked at her to leave, thrown things to force her out of the room. After a while, Hafeza ignored her calls, her sobbing. So did the Maleovellis. It was as if they had never occurred. That suited Tarlo. But whereas she could have extracted the worst of her memories, lessened them, she chose not to do that. She allowed them to remain and fester in the deepest of crepuscular spaces. She would not forget and neither would she forgive. Instead, she would use the new emotions and feelings they gave her to do whatever it was she had to in order to bring the Estrattore back.
Tarlo knew that Baroque yearned to ask her exactly what had happened. The shock on his face when he saw her three days after, the narrowing of his eyes and pursing of his lips said more than words. When he’d spluttered, ‘What happened?’ all she had said was ‘Giacomo Moronisini’. Revenge was her privilege, not Baroque’s, though she appreciated what the intenseness in his face every time she caught him staring at her signified. It was more than Giaconda or Signor Maleovelli had given her.
Like her real identity, the entire incident was erased as effectively as spilled vino from a table. Only the next time they entertained the Moronisinis, not long after Jacopo returned, she was not invited to join them. They’d spared her that at least.
The Maleovellis kept her busy – extracting and distilling, transforming candles into objects of manipulation. As time passed, so too did the lives of those around them. A very wealthy silk merchant was suddenly in league with them, sharing his import business and his profits. A salt merchant also reached an arrangement with Signor Maleovelli that, while benefiting both parties while they lived, on the sudden death of the merchant a month after the agreement was signed, meant that the entire business passed to the Maleovellis. His widow and three daughters were forced into a convent. According to the nuns, they were provided with a generous annuity.
Much to many nobiles’ surprise, the Moronisinis had given Giaconda a gift of half a dozen galleys; some said it was in payment for a service rendered, but no-one quite knew what the service was, although they speculated. A very well-known tailor who, it was rumoured, made Signorina Dorata’s special golden gowns, also signed over the handling of his thriving business to the Maleovellis.
Even the Ottoman ambassador, Ramadi Suliman, a former Janissary of the current Sultan, had been known to dine with the Maleovellis, who were prepared to cater to his unusual dietary requirements. Foreign officials, merchants, members of the Church, and nobiles all beat a path to the Maleovellis’ door. And everyone attributed this rise in popularity and fortune to the mysterious Signorina Dorata.
When it came to beauty, no sacrifice, financial, political or familial was too great.
IT WAS WELL PAST NOON WHEN TALLOW awoke. She lay in her bed, reluctant to rise. The fetid odour of the canal crept in the window, tinging the already close air in the room. Outside she could hear the sounds of gondoliers on the main canal. Servants shouted to each other from windows, exchanging gossip, not caring if others heard their stories. Tallow propped her head on her elbow and listened. She’d been the subject of many a conversation, swapped while beating rugs or shaking out wet washing. She’d heard envy in their tone, and pride – she was one of them: Signorina Dorata lived in their sestiere and they earned a certain cachet with their distant families because of that. Boasting of her nearness would have been a popular pastime over Sunday dinners. She’d also overheard what it was believed she earned. Millione, they said she charged – a million ducats! She’d almost laughed that day.
Within the house she could hear the clack of heels against the floors and the opening and closing of doors along the corridor. Now that they had more servants, the previous stillness of the house had disappeared. Dark corners evaporated with the light of burning candles and the smell of mildew was washed away in lemon-scented waters and musky oils. Below she could hear the low hum of men’s voices. No doubt Jacopo and Signor Maleovelli would be welcoming merchants, showing them the beautiful fabrics, spices, dried dates, salt, figs and jewelled ornaments that were not only the basis of their new business ventures but which Jacopo had brought back from overseas. They were only part of his prize. He’d also returned with valuable documents – exclusive trading rights within the region. The Doge had been most impressed, and Tallow knew it was only a matter of time before Signor Maleovelli was restored to the Council of Ten.
Noises from her stomach finally shook her from bed. She went behind the screen to use the chamber pot and then washed before throwing on one of her older gowns.
The dining room was empty, but a platter of exquisite fruits was laid on the credenza, as well as some cold meat and sliced bread. Sipping a watered vino, Tallow helped herself. She was just finishing with a cafe when Jacopo entered. She had been staring into one of the candles, lost in thought, and hadn’t heard him approach. He cleared his throat. Startled, she jumped.
‘Jacopo!’ The cup clattered as she fitted the delicate china back on its saucer.
‘Did I startle you, cousin?’ said Jacopo with a smile that indicated it had been deliberate. ‘Mi dispiace.’ He inclined his head before studying her with his lazy eyes.
Repressing a shudder, Tallow quickly finished the cafe and left her chair.
‘Please, don’t leave on my account,’ said Jacopo, grabbing her wrist. He pulled her towards him. His stinking breath blew against her face.
Tallow froze and raised her arm. His fingers bit into her flesh. She stared at them. ‘What makes you think I would do anything on your account, Jacopo?’ she said quietly.
He sniggered. ‘The jewel has developed sharp edges while I’ve been gone. I like it.’
‘Trust me, Jacopo,’ said Tallow slowly, ‘you won’t.’
Jacopo leant so close his lips almost brushed her ear. He inhaled deeply. ‘Trust me, Dorata, I would.’
Tallow felt something wet along the side of her face. It took a moment to register it was Jacopo’s tongue. She tried to pull away, but he was stronger than she thought. He used the momentum to drag her into his arms. He managed to capture both her hands in his. Tallow struggled.
‘Let. Me. Go.’
He began to breathe heavily. Tallow almost gagged. ‘I hear you like it rough, Dorata. I do too.’ He lifted his other hand, slipping it inside the bodice of her gown, groping clumsily. He sneered at her, daring her to stop him. She stood rigid in his arms, neither struggling nor protesting. His cheeks flooded with colour, his hands reached further down.
His eyes met Tallow’s, and for the first time in months she stared into his.
At once, he froze. His hand dropped away and he released her quickly, as if she were a burning coal. He stepped back, the redness in his cheeks fading. He tried to look away, but could not; he was drawn into her gaze, deeper and deeper. He began to whimper. His throat made strange, gulping noises. He started to shake. His hands fluttered in front of his face, clawing at his neck. Tallow took a step towards him. He wanted to back away but could not. He was rooted to the spot, trembling like a wet cat. A triumphant smile split Tallow’s face.
‘You like it rough, do you, Jacopo? Sì, I felt that when you touched me, felt how you like it. I know what you are, what you do to women. No, not women, to girls, cousin.’ Her eyes were the colour of a molten metal.
Jacopo staggered, banging into a chair. He fell to his knees. ‘No, no! I didn’t mean it. Please –’
Tallow reached out, her hand poised above his heart.
‘Tarlo!’ Giaconda stood in the doorway, taking in the scene before her. Tallow kept her gaze locked on Jacopo, but slowly withdrew her hand and, with a noise of disgust, moved away. He slithered into a corner, panting.
‘Get up, Jacopo,’ said Giaconda coldly.
Without taking his eyes off Tallow, he stood, using the sideboard to heave himself upright.
‘Leave us,’ said Giaconda. ‘I will come and find you later.’
He fell over himself in his eagerness to be out of the room. They heard the unevenness of his footfalls as he limped down the corridor. A door slammed.
With her usual serenity, Giaconda poured herself a cup of cafe. ‘Do you want to discuss what just happened, Tarlo?’
‘No,’ said Tallow.
Giaconda sat down, and blew across the top of her cup, even though it wasn’t hot. Tallow waited for what she knew would come next.
‘I don’t care what Jacopo did; you’re not to touch him again. You may have changed, Tarlo, but our rules have not. Am I clear?’
Tallow laughed. It wasn’t a nice sound. ‘Bene. If you say so.’ She went to leave and paused in the doorway. ‘But, Signorina, if he touches me again, I will not be responsible for what happens.’
‘Wait!’ ordered Giaconda as Tallow began to walk away. Tallow stopped and spun on her heels, her eyebrows raised. Giaconda stood and covered the distance between them quickly. ‘Sì. Tarlo,’ she said softly, sweetly, ‘you will be. We will hold you responsible, and believe me when I tell you this: you will pay. Which means,’ said Giaconda, dabbing her mouth with a handkerchief, ‘so will all your kind.’
Tallow looked at her for a moment longer then, with a brief curtsy, went to the workshop, her heart heavy, her mind clouded.
UPON LORD WATERFORD’S THIRD VISIT to Casa Maleovelli, instead of being escorted from the ground floor to the piano nobile and supervised until either Signor or Signorina Maleovelli could be found, he was left alone just inside the water-gates while a servant he hadn’t seen before dashed around the piles of bales and stacks of barrels to find a member of the household who had permission to go upstairs.
Admittedly, he had not given notice of his intention to visit – it had been impulsive. Returning from an interesting meeting with one of the capi or heads of the Council of Ten, Signor Nicolotti, he’d been going over their discussion in his head when he recalled what had been said of Signorina Dorata. Having seen her a number of times now, he was always struck by the way she … he searched for the right word … contained herself. It wasn’t self-control so much as a holding together of component parts. He thought it must be something to do with being a courtesan, though, of the many he’d met lately, only Signorina Dorata struck him as being so extraordinarily disciplined. While the others sought to flatter the men they consorted with, or those who had bought their favours, concentrating on always being entertaining and witty, Tarlo Maleovelli applied herself effortlessly to the part. She always seemed to do very little to attract so much desire. Maybe that was the trick. She was a great beauty; of that there was no doubt. Yet, as he watched her, his eyes like so many others being drawn as much by appreciation as desire, he was always left with the feeling that she could do and be so much more. He wondered if he was the only one aware of this. Certainly, women did not have much value in this city – unless it was measured in what they could do for the men. In that regard, Tarlo Maleovelli was considered priceless for, as Signor Nicolotti said, what she had already done for Ezzelino Maleovelli could not be costed in accurate terms. She had not only just enhanced his reputation, she’d built him a fresh one. That usually took generations. Tarlo Maleovelli had accomplished this in mere months.
And so it was, as he passed by the canal entrance that led to the Maleovellis’ casa, he ordered his gondolier to turn. They passed under the bridge and into the narrow waterway, pulling up outside the water-gates until a huge craft taking up the space was unloaded and Lord Waterford could disembark.
Being left to his own devices while his hosts were found suited his intentions very nicely. Instead of remaining where he’d been asked to wait, in the way of the men who were busy sorting cargo and checking manifestos, he decided to take the opportunity to explore.
From where he stood, he could see a courtyard. He headed through the doors at the end of the corridor and into the small cobbled space. The sun was fierce against the stones and he regretted almost immediately his decision to leave the cool interior. He looked around the imposing grey walls, noting recent repairs. There was a shiny bucket for the well and the grand stairs that led to the upper floors had been cleaned and the stone balustrade scrubbed. Despite fresh paint and some newly acquired statuary, the garden had not been tended. At least, the vine crawling over the wall clung like a dying man to the stones; the fruit trees in a raised garden bed were withered and barren. Brown weeds choked what he thought must be a failed attempt to grow herbs. He was about to go and examine the soil when something caught his eye. Moving around the dimness of a large room tucked away under the external stairs was a woman. Assuming she was a servant, he was about to turn aside when he saw, with some surprise, it was Signorina Dorata – Tarlo Maleovelli.
Instead of her usual golden gown, she was dressed in black and silver. Her long, dark hair cascaded down her back. But the reason he’d mistaken her for a servant was because she was wearing an apron. He quickly darted out of sight and leant against the wall of the casa, the shade a brief reprieve. What was she doing wearing the garb of a servant and in such a utilitarian room, the toast of Serenissima? He slowly crept towards the window.
Peering through the grubby glass he watched as she walked around an old table, picking up what looked like a dead plant. Rubbing the leaves and raising her fingers to her nose, she set the plant aside. He craned his neck further as she began to wander out of view. She reached behind her to a shelf and pulled down a box.
Unaware of his scrutiny, she was lost in her own thoughts. He could see the little frown puckering her brow, the sweep of her long lashes against her white cheeks. He had rarely seen her unmasked before. Gods, she was lovely! He saw her lifting the lid from the box and drawing out what looked like two tapers. She held them up, her eyes appraising them before she returned them to the container, shaking her head. Then, she took what appeared to be two smaller candles, the type that burned in the churches here – votives – and placed them in front of her. Focused on what she was doing, she moved with grace. He saw her cup her long fingers around the glass holders in which the votives sat and shut her eyes.
Waterford inhaled sharply and his mind began to work furiously.
‘Can I help you, my lord?’
Waterford almost leapt out of his skin. He spun and found himself face to face with an older man of medium build who was wiping his hands on a drying sheet, squinting in the bright light. Where had he come from? There was a noise in the workshop. A hasty scurrying, a door clicking shut, and then, silence.
‘Ah, I am looking for Signor Maleovelli,’ he said in Serenissian.
‘Well, you won’t find him here,’ said the man, never taking his eyes from Waterford’s face.
‘No. No. I can see that.’ Waterford began to collect himself. Who was this rather corpulent man staring at him as if he were one of those dirty feral cats that wandered the fondamenta? Did he know to whom he was speaking?
‘I am Lord Waterford – a friend of Signor Maleovelli. And who, may I ask, do I have the honour of addressing?’
‘You may ask.’
The man’s grey eyes continued their appraisal. Waterford felt beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. A rivulet coursed down his right temple.
‘If you won’t tell me who you are, perhaps you can tell me if that was Signorina Dorata I saw in there?’ He jerked his head over his shoulder.
The eyes boring into his narrowed. The hands stopped their action.
‘Beolin!’ called a familiar voice and, to Waterford’s relief, Giaconda Maleovelli appeared at the top of the stairs. The sunlight bounced off her hair and the jewels sewn into her gown. ‘How on Vista Mare did you end up there? Baroque, grazie mille for finding our unexpected guest. Attend to your duties, please. I will take him from here.’ She began to descend.
Baroque grunted and stepped aside so Lord Waterford could pass. Giaconda joined Waterford in the courtyard. He bowed his head and she offered her cheeks for him to kiss.
‘Oh, the Signor was not disturbing me.’ He turned round, but Baroque had disappeared. ‘I was merely asking him to clarify something for me.’
Giaconda took his arm and led him back into the coolness of the lower floors. ‘And what might that be, my lord?’ asked Giaconda pleasantly, dodging the men who raced past her with practised poise, heading for the stairs. ‘You became lost, did you?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Waterford. ‘I just thought I would take it upon myself to find you. I have been waiting some time.’
‘Oh, my lord, mi dispiace.’ Giaconda smiled. ‘I came as soon as my servant let me know you were there.’
‘I apologise if I have done the wrong thing, Signorina. I am still learning your customs.’
‘Of course you are,’ replied Giaconda over her shoulder in a tone that suggested they both knew he was lying.
Without another word, they reached the landing and Giaconda drew him into the portego. She gestured for him to take a seat. A servant detached himself from the wall and poured chilled vino into a glass. Waterford sipped it gratefully, a quick glance around the room telling him much had changed since his last visit.
‘So,’ he said, beaming at Giaconda, ‘can you answer something for me? Your man, Baroque, was it? Seemed very reluctant to help me.’ For a fraction of a second a look of irritation crossed Giaconda’s features. He knew she’d heard his question to Baroque. His heart quickened.
‘What was that?’ she asked.
‘Well, it may have been the heat playing tricks, but I was certain I saw Signorina Dorata in that dark room under the stairs. She was doing something with what I was sure were candles.’
Giaconda stared at him for a fraction too long before opening her fan and giving a long, trilling laugh.
‘Signorina Dorata? In our dirty old workshop?’ Her laugh ceased and she snapped her fan shut and rapped Lord Waterford on the wrist, the playful slap stinging and leaving a red welt. ‘It was the heat, my lord. I tell you, it was the heat.’ She offered him her profile, gazing out the window.
Lord Waterford regarded Giaconda with twinkling eyes. She was unsettled. Something was going on here. He knew the exquisite Signorina Dorata when he saw her, even without her usual golden surrounds.
‘I thought it might have been,’ he chuckled finally. ‘As you say, what would she be doing in there.’ He set down his glass and began to chatter about the weather. Slowly Giaconda relaxed, but the look she gave Signor Maleovelli when he joined them was heavy with meaning.
As the afternoon progressed and Waterford allowed the conversation to stay on safe routes, he knew he had to get to the bottom of this mystery.
ORGANISING HIS DESK, Waterford carefully extracted a piece of parchment from the pile he kept and trimmed the quill. Pulling the candles closer, he began to compose a letter to his queen. He wouldn’t raise false hope, but something told him the Maleovellis were a far more interesting prospect than he’d first believed. Zaralina would want to know.
Since he’d been in Serenissima, he’d heard all about the Estrattore, the boy who made candles and who, some months ago now, had revealed himself and then disappeared. There was talk of Bond Riders, these people who gave their soul to the sacred monoliths on the mainland or some such thing being involved; there were whispers of prophecy, heresy and all sorts. If he’d heard any of this before Queen Zaralina had come to Farrowfare, he would have dismissed it as superstitious nonsense. He now knew better.
That he’d seen Tarlo Maleovelli holding candles – not in any ordinary way either, but with reverence and care – had to be more than coincidence, didn’t it? Nobiles, or courtesans for that matter, didn’t do that.
He dipped the quill in the ink and was about to begin writing when he paused. Before he alerted the queen to anything, he needed to find out when Signorina Dorata first came into the Maleovellis’ life. As far as he was aware, no one had heard of or seen her until that night at the Doge’s palazzo. It was as if, as some described, she’d just materialised, like one of the goddesses of old, fully formed from her father’s, or in this case, guardian’s, head.
He began to laugh. Is that what the Maleovellis were up to? Had Signorina Dorata emerged whole, complete from the mind of Ezzelino? Was she simply part of an elaborate scheme to restore the wealth of this formerly impoverished family? Or was something more complex at work?
Before she was Signorina Dorata, the young woman was Tarlo Maleovelli. What Waterford wanted to know very badly was who the Maleovellis’ ward had been before she was Tarlo.
Changing his mind, he pushed the paper aside and leant back in his chair. A warm breeze blew through the window, carrying with it the tang of the sea and other, less pleasant odours. He wouldn’t write to Zaralina just yet. He had to know more; he wanted something greater than mere supposition to present to his queen. Too much was at stake for guesses and instinct.
He pried himself out of his seat and sat on the window ledge. Below him, the canal was filled with gondolas, gliding through the dying light. Courtesans, nobiles and others fortunate enough to attend the theatre or opera on this temperate night took briefly to the waters. Nearby, he could hear the strident notes of instruments being tuned, the scales of a pianoforte and even a voice or two being warmed ready for performance.
As he stared at the scene below, his mind worked. How to get the answers he sought?
Stars began to twinkle and the sky transformed from gold to rose to lilac, deepening and changing as he watched. Lanterns were lit and swung from the prows of the gondolas, making them look like huge, floating candle holders. The intense jade of the water was like one great receptacle upon which the gondola votives drifted. He laughed at his fancy. He was becoming obsessed with candles.
Then, it occurred to him. He knew exactly who to ask. It wouldn’t be easy, but he knew that if he could get him alone, he was sure he could be persuaded to tell him what he wanted to know. After all, he’d seen the way he looked at Tarlo, the way his tongue wet his lips, the way his hands would become busy whenever he was in her presence.
It was just a matter of getting Jacopo Maleovelli out of the casa and away from his protective, secretive relatives.
Waterford slid off the ledge and began his preparations for tonight’s soiree. The prospect of yet another evening in the company of the Serenissian nobiles suddenly didn’t seem so unappealing.
THOUGH BAROQUE HAD LONG AGO imparted everything he claimed to know about the arts of spying to Tallow, it was only when she was in the workshop, extracting and distilling, that she felt some sort of peace. She knew that everything she was doing was helping the Maleovellis rise to power and that, once this had been accomplished and the Estrattore were brought home, her role and position within their household would be over. She longed for that day. It was what made Jacopo’s unwanted attentions, the endless evenings with strange men, the pretence, the danger, and the dark, acrid memories tolerable. It all had to mean something, didn’t it? This couldn’t all be for nothing, could it?
She stopped what she was doing, her concentration momentarily broken, and sighed. She wiped the back of her hand across her brow. It was hot in the workshop, and the smells, while pleasant, were overpowering. She felt Baroque’s eyes upon her. He’d been hovering over her like a bee to a flower, ever since that Lord Waterford had spied her in the workshop. Tallow appreciated his presence, their silent communion shared over the crushed flowers, distilled essences and, above all, the candles she altered. There was something so familiar about testing the candles with Baroque: the mixture of excitement and concern they exchanged before Baroque would remove the spill from the tinderbox and, striking it against the flint, light the wick. The sputter and slow sizzle of the flame was like the introduction, and they would hold their breath until the wax began to melt and the core of what Tallow had infused in the candle was released.
It reminded Tallow of what to her now seemed like happier times – her life with Pillar in his greasy old workshop. It was funny, thought Tallow, how current context or even a mood or feeling could change the way you viewed the past, colour it in more sympathetic hues. Pillar would occasionally slip into her mind and she would wonder what he was doing, if he ever thought of her. She tried not to think about him too much. She’d been told he’d left Serenissima and that information hurt – she suspected that was why she’d been told. Though she knew it was dangerous for him to remain, let alone to seek her, she had thought she meant more to him. He’d run after her on the bridge that awful day – called to her. If she shut her eyes, she could still see his face: gaunt, grey and yet so filled with joy to see her. And now he was gone – from Serenissima, from her life. Just like Dante, just like anyone who had ever been kind to her.
But what have you done to look for him? she pondered. She scolded herself for her silly fancies. Just as she could not search for Pillar, which would bring danger to not only herself, the Maleovellis, and the people of the Candlemakers Quartiere who had suffered enough, neither should she seek connections where there were none anymore. Glancing at Baroque as he cleared a space on the table, she had to remind herself that he was not Pillar and she was no longer Tallow. She was Tarlo Maleovelli. She was Signorina Dorata. The past was a wasteland.
With a sharp puff of breath, she threw herself back into her work.
WORKING BESIDE TALLOW, Baroque was aware of her every move, every sound. Each day her mien became increasingly mask-like as she fought to bury the emotions burning inside her and which, periodically, would escape across her features. Each sigh reached into his heart and squeezed it. He longed to touch, hold her and swear to protect her from those who would hurt her.
Surprised at the depth of his feelings, he could no longer deny them. For weeks, he’d shut himself off from the effect Tallow’s presence had on him. But ever since that day he’d walked into the workshop and saw the bruises, the dark shadows under her eyes, her downturned mouth, something within him had transformed. It wasn’t the external changes that tore away at him, but the hollowness he sensed within her. It was as if a bright spark had been extinguished.
A candle spluttered, drawing his attention. Yes, he thought, as if a candle had been snuffed out. Tallow was nothing more than a walking shadow. Almost daily, her beauty increased and it seemed, from what he heard in the streets, the market, the piazza, the coldness and indifference that attended her whenever she left the casa simply amplified her allure. But those people did not know her. They didn’t know what she had once been, the lovely, fragile being he’d first seen parading as a boy in that floppy cap, ambling through a campo, sipping a juice, delighting in the simple pleasures.
He watched her now – her eyes downcast, the lashes thick and long, hiding those eyes that not even the belladonna could prevent from being extraordinary. He watched the way her long narrow fingers fondled the plant, saw her inhale, her chest rising and expanding, colour flooding her cheeks as she extracted. He noticed the way tiny tendrils of hair escaped her elaborate coiffure, still in place from the night before, and clung wetly to her forehead.
He wanted to dab her brow, cool the feverish thoughts that he sensed working in her mind. But he did not deserve to do that. He had not earned the right. He who was prepared to betray Tallow and in ways she did not even yet realise – but she would. He feared that day.
Yet he did not act to change things either. He stayed. He no longer tried to find the Bond Rider, Katina – that was true. She could seek him and be damned. Thoughts of going to the Cardinale were no longer foremost in his mind. Even his desire to retrieve his journals had been dampened. He remained in the casa and continued to teach Tallow, even though they both knew that the student had long surpassed the master. If he was honest with himself there was only one reason he stayed – and she was standing across from him now.
Tallow picked up a spray of hemlock – a deadly plant. He saw her trying to draw from it, understand what it could do. His heart lightened. It was moments like that, when she shut her eyes and concentrated, that she was able to forget what troubled her.
Anger flared within him. The urge to kill, lash out, was so very strong. He almost laughed at the power of his feelings. Silly old man that he was! How could it have come to this? Baroque Scarpoli, enchanted by an Estrattore – not in the way her paramours were. This was different – this was lasting and deeper than anything he’d felt before. For the first time in his life, he didn’t want to put himself and his needs first. Is this how a parent feels for a child? A father for a daughter?
He wondered if Tallow really understood what it was the Maleovellis were doing. He knew she was convinced that once Signor Maleovelli was crowned Doge, he would do everything in his power to ensure the Estrattore returned. All the talk he’d heard from the Maleovellis supported that, but something within Baroque cautioned acceptance of their intentions. Not their plans – they were going well; they’d even seemed to have drawn that foreign ambassador into their web.
Now, he was one to watch – Baroque could tell. The Maleovellis thought him a dupe, a puppet whose strings they could pull. Baroque knew better. But how the Waterford Signor could help the Maleovellis, he wasn’t sure. Nor was he certain what they would do once their years of preparation finally came to fruition. Would they help Tallow as they promised? Of all people, he knew what good the Estrattore could do, despite what the Church said. But he also understood their potential to do great harm … and, he admitted, glancing at Tallow as she prepared to work with the hemlock, it terrified him.
The light outside had changed in the last few minutes and a gentle breeze began to blow through the courtyard. There was a coolness to it that suggested seasonal change was not far away. Baroque would be glad when the heat ended. It hung over the city like a pall, turning the canals a thick green and carrying within it the squalid smell of humanity. He screwed up his nose in memory.
‘Are you ready to extract?’ Baroque asked quietly.
Tallow opened her eyes and looked at him. ‘Sì. This hemlock, it’s very dangerous.’
Baroque nodded. He studied the little white flowers, the purple blotches on the stems.
‘It’s sticky,’ said Tallow, pressing the ends of her fingers open and shut to demonstrate. ‘It will cause strange dreams, but it can also kill.’
‘I know,’ said Baroque.
Tallow glanced at him. ‘What do the Maleovellis hope to achieve this time?’
Baroque frowned. ‘They want to persuade someone to do something totally uncharacteristic. So you need to think of how to relax someone, how to make them susceptible to suggestions they wouldn’t normally be. A small dose of hemlock should achieve that. It has hallucinogenic qualities.’
‘Are the changes to be permanent?’
Baroque hesitated. ‘Sì.’ He waited. There was a time when Tallow would bombard him with questions in the way he had prisoners of the Doge – relentlessly, endlessly. He would not always give her direct answers, particularly when the few he did upset her. But Tallow did not even demand to know for whom the candles were intended anymore or the details. She simply made them and then carried out the orders she was given with whomever she was assigned to that night.
‘Then, I will use some hemlock, comfrey and …’ She thought for a moment. Not always needing to prepare new potions, Tallow could reach inside herself and draw from plants and objects she’d already extracted. ‘Ah.’ She waved her hand in the air. ‘I have it. I know what to use.’
Baroque no longer asked either. He didn’t want to know.
She took a deep breath. ‘Bring me the candles, Baroque. Two should do. Votives, please.’
Baroque lifted a pair out of the box he’d bought at the markets yesterday and placed them in front of Tallow. In seconds she’d distilled the necessary emotions into them. ‘There’s no need to test them, Baroque. They will work. I know it.’ Wistfulness tinged her tone as she took one more look at what she’d done. The candles glowed, the glass containers enhancing the effect.
She glanced out of the doorway. ‘It grows late. I’d better prepare for tonight’s festivities.’ Undoing her apron, she slowly hung it on the hook at the back of the room. Baroque watched. Instead of leaving straightaway, she lingered.
‘Baroque?’
He quickly swung back to the bench. ‘Sì?’
‘Do you know who exactly these are for?’ She stood close beside him. He caught the scent of musk and vanilla. He inhaled deeply, as if she too were one of her candles. His head spun.
‘You know I’m not supposed to answer that, Tarlo. That is for Signor or Signorina Maleovelli to tell you.’
‘I know,’ she said, locking her eyes onto his.
‘They are for the Prince.’
‘Which one?’
‘Cosimo.’
‘Ah, of course.’ Tallow touched the candles. ‘What do they intend apart from making him ignore his better judgement?’
‘I don’t know.’
She nodded faintly and Baroque was shocked to realise she didn’t believe him.
‘Tallow, I mean, Tarlo, I really don’t know. You will find out soon enough. You’re to take them to Signor Maleovelli and receive your instructions.’ He paused. ‘The Maleovellis do not share much with me. They never have.’
‘No,’ said Tallow, raising her huge silver-grey eyes with their dilated black pupils to his. ‘I don’t suppose they do anymore. They have no need. Not since you helped them secure what they wanted most.’
His heart flipped. Did she know? Then, he realised what she meant – herself. The rebuke in her voice stung. He was rendered speechless. She collected the candles and plucked a couple of others from the shelf. Candles she would no doubt use in her room. He noted that one had been infused with the elements of heartsease, effectively a love potion, while the other was as yet untouched. What was Tallow intending? He couldn’t read her face; it had resumed its mask.
She gave him the barest of curtsies before leaving. ‘I will see you tomorrow,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘I may be late.’
Baroque watched her ascend the stairs and wondered who was going to enjoy her favours tonight. He found that, for once, he didn’t envy them.
GIACONDA WAITED UNTIL TARLO had left the room before she perched herself on the arm of her father’s chair. She began to stroke his hair. He sighed and relaxed his head into her hands. ‘How much longer till we make our move?’ she asked softly.
Ezzelino Maleovelli frowned. ‘A little longer yet, cara mia. To act too swiftly will arouse suspicion, no matter how cautious we are, how careful we’ve been.’
‘And what of Lord Waterford’s curiosity? What he saw?’
Ezzelino’s eyes flew open and he sat up abruptly, almost unbalancing Giaconda. She stood up hastily, tugged her gown into order and watched as her father fumbled for his pipe. In silence he stuffed fresh tobacco into the bowl and then, picking up a candle from his desk, used the flame to light it.
Giaconda retreated to the window, watching the way the pastel hues of sunset transformed the campo. It was full of people on their way home, or paused mid-journey, enjoying conversations with old acquaintances.
Not until smoke billowed around Ezzelino’s head did he answer her. ‘We need to distract him. You need to distract him, but also find out what he suspects and what he would do with his suspicions.’
‘Molto bene. It may be that we have to bribe him.’
‘Whatever it takes …’
‘At least we’re in a position to consider that now.’
Ezzelino chuckled. ‘Our little Dorata has made sure of that. She’s exceeded all my expectations, cara. All of them.’ He held out his hand.
Giaconda took it and was drawn forward into the harbour of his thighs. She smiled softly, her eyes warm. Ezzelino’s breath caught.
‘Mine too. What that brute Giacomo did to her tamed the wild tendencies I was concerned might interfere with what we wanted. She no longer asks questions; she simply does as she’s told.’
‘Then he did us a favour.’
Giaconda laughed. ‘That’s one way to regard it, I guess.’
‘You think she’ll succeed tonight?’
Giaconda squeezed his hand and then released it. ‘Naturalmente. She always does.’
‘But this time, we move closer to the throne.’
‘Not as close as we will be –’
‘Vero. True. But we have to wait. We have to be sure –’
‘Of Tarlo?’
‘No. We have ensured her cooperation, thanks to Baroque. We put that plan in place a long time ago. I’m not worried about the Estrattore.’
‘Then of what do you need to be sure, Papa?’
‘That those I am recruiting to our way of thinking keep their promises.’
‘Ah.’ Giaconda knelt at her father’s feet and gazed up at him. ‘And what might they be, Papa?’ She laid her head against his knees.
‘That they help us to keep power, cara mia. Taking it is one thing, holding onto it is harder. For with power, we also have control of not only our destiny, but that of Serenissima’s.’
‘One that includes the Estrattore?’
‘Don’t be foolish,’ he whispered as he leant over and kissed her neck.
PRINCE COSIMO DANDOLO WAS A MAN WHO, when he spoke, it was to partake in a conversation that had either not yet begun or had concluded minutes before. Ever since his son Claudio had been kidnapped over two years earlier, he’d retreated into a world that his family and fellow nobiles did not share. Sympathy, fear and a hope that he would prove to be so unstable, his claim to the throne of Serenissima would be declared invalid by the Council of Ten, meant his foibles were watched closely while those around him pretended tolerance and understanding. All the nobiles secretly wanted the Dandolo line to end – a hope they also knew was unlikely to be realised.
But they did not account for me.
Sitting beside Prince Cosimo, I noted that he did not look in my direction, or at any of his guests. He was prone to deep sighs and protracted silences for most of the night, and the rest of us ate and drank as if he was not there.
I had other men to distract me, even if it was the Prince who was paying for my services. I was accustomed to his ways. When we were alone, he did not speak much either. It was physical comfort he sought and which I provided. The arrangement suited both of us, and I was becoming a regular fixture in his rooms at the palazzo.
Tonight, there were twenty of us – myself, Giaconda and a courtesan named Zanetta di Vetro were the only women. I had met all the other men before, nobiles from all the great casas with the exception of Maleovelli. I could not help but think that must rankle, though I knew that Signor Maleovelli had left the casa before us on his way to a private card game; a game to which he also took one of my candles. We were all becoming adept at substituting our own for those that burned in the residences and public places we visited.
There were even two members of the Council of Ten among us tonight. The foreign ambassador had also become a habitual guest, not just of Prince Cosimo, but recently in the Maleovellis’ casa as well. I noted that when he visited, he spent a great deal of time with Giaconda, but also with Jacopo, and that the two appeared to have struck up a friendship. I had thought the ambassador of a different ilk; that he could befriend the likes of Jacopo made me reassess him.
Sitting by his side, Giaconda conversed with the lord easily, her gloved fingers resting lightly on his arm. The measured look that often marred his features in our presence had been, when gazing at Giaconda, replaced by another – one which I’d grown very accustomed to seeing on men’s faces.
Served a range of delicacies from a credenza that had been overlaid with a white linen tablecloth, strands of dark green ivy and statuettes of fantastic monsters, winged cherubs and beautiful women, we found that no effort had been spared. Behind this huge sideboard hung a giant tapestry that also depicted the pagan gods and goddesses, entwined around each other and sharing food while serene figures in white served them. I was constantly amazed that though the Estrattore were considered heretics, the art so often chose to depict them. The tapestry was lovely, and not one I had seen before. My eyes were drawn to its depths, to the celebration it portrayed.
The pages scurried to provide for us, under the instruction of Cosimo’s maestro della casa. Gilded bowls of steaming soup were placed before us, followed by slices of roast meat – deer, goose and boar, carved by a man designated for this task alone – drowned in a rich brown sauce. Fritters of cheeses and tarts made of onions drizzled with carmeline sauces were also put before us. Jellies, grapes, honey-glazed figs, tiny sausages, exquisite ravioli, fish and oysters from the marshy reaches of the lagoon made their way to the table. Between courses, the linen cloth was changed, as were the plates, which were works of art in themselves.
By the time dessert was served, the men were ruddy-faced with vino. I maintained my smile and listened with as much attention as I could to the gentleman on the other side of me, Signor Bartolomeo Errizo. He was the father of Rambaldo Errizo. Whenever his son’s name was mentioned, my smile became brighter, my laughter louder. Like many of the other nobiles present, he had also entered a colleganza with the Maleovellis. It was one that was doing well for them. Unlike his son, I knew the elder Errizo was keen to see me again. For now he had served his purpose, but I made sure I kept him entertained and let him believe that it would not be long before we met in private.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Giaconda nod in my direction. It was time to prepare myself.
Touching Cosimo lightly on the sleeve, I leant over.
‘Your grace, grazie mille for such a pleasant interlude.’ I deepened my voice. ‘But I tire of having to share you with so many. Can we not be alone?’ I covered his hand, which was resting on the table, with my own. I felt him quiver.
‘Sì, Sì, Signorina Dorata.’ His vacant, sad eyes seemed to focus as he saw me for the first time that night. ‘Ah, bella,’ He reached up and stroked my cheek. ‘I have neglected you.’ He rose to his feet, lifting me to mine as he did. ‘Signori?’
Chairs scraped back as the men rushed to stand.
‘Signorina Dorata bids you all good night.’
I fell into a deep curtsy, aware of at least seventeen pairs of eyes, plus those of the servants, on my daring décolletage.
Cosimo kissed my hand. ‘I will join you shortly.’
‘My only wish is that you were with me now,’ I responded, kissing his hand in return.
The room was silent as I departed, the maestro della casa opening the door for me, the armed guards stationed outside coming to attention. Though a high-ranking servant escorted me to the Prince’s suite, I knew the way.
Helped by two serving women to disrobe in an elegant antechamber, I bid them goodnight before I entered Cosimo’s bedroom. It was filled with the light of dozens of candles and a small fire in the grate. Two huge windows were wide open and the cool night air blew in. I stood before one and looked out over the quiet piazza towards the Grande Canal. The moon was out of sight but its beams turned the water silver. I could see the distant islands of the Arsenale and the masts of the Doge’s navy as the ships lay at anchor.
I took a deep breath, preparing myself for what I must now do. I went to the chair over which my dress had been draped and, from within its folds, drew out the two candles that Signor Ezzelino had instructed me to make. Crossing to the bed, I quickly removed the two existing candles from their elaborate holders and replaced them with mine, dragging them closer to where Cosimo’s head would finally lie. Then I took out the two that I’d brought without the Maleovellis’ knowledge, placing them in the wall brackets above the bed. I took away the existing ones and snuffed them with my thumb and forefinger. I tipped the excess wax into the well of another candle, waited until the wicks had stopped smouldering and then put the candles back in the pocket of my gown.
Satisfied, I lay across the covers of the bed and waited. I tried to blank my mind, but my conscience was heavy. My only consolation was that with Cosimo gone, the way to the Dogeship was becoming clearer. Already Cosimo’s younger brother had shocked everyone by renouncing his right to the throne and eloping with a commoner – a servant. I smiled as I thought of how happy they were under the protection of the Duke of Firenze. That the emotions were induced by false means did not trouble me. I knew that their love would last, unlike many marriages. Forgoing leadership of Serenissima was a small price to pay. Plucking at the soft linen of the pillow, I was surprised at how strongly I believed that.
I thought of the colleganzas the Maleovellis had signed, the riches that the trade they had gained had given them, the profits, the security of a solid and growing reputation. No-one suspected anything. Fortuna and Signorina Dorata were how the Maleovellis’ rise was explained by nobiles and, according to Baroque, by the popolani as well.
Already, three other courtesans enjoyed the sponsorship of nobiles, much to the chagrin of their wives, their husbands insisting it was in the interests of good business.
I wondered briefly about Cosimo’s wife – the Principessa. A small woman, she had once been a beauty. Endowed with a rich family as well as naturally pale hair and a womb thought to be fertile, she’d been considered a fitting wife for the Doge’s eldest son. But the kidnap of her only son had changed her too. The sparkling, vital woman some had described to me was not the same as the one who roamed the corridors of the palazzo asking the servants if they’d seen her son. That’s how I’d encountered her, one night as I left Cosimo’s chambers. She was shuffling along past the Doge’s rooms, a candle in her hand, calling. As I drew closer, I heard her. On seeing me, she held her light aloft and asked in a soft, frightened voice, ‘Have you seen Claudio?’
My heart had wrenched. I shook my head. Her eyes, one moment filled with hope, slid from my face and became as dark as the places she explored. She continued on her way. Five ladies in waiting, all wrapped in their nightgowns, scurried after her, some glancing at me curiously, others with envy.
Cosimo and his wife did not speak anymore. Their loss had torn them apart. It had ripped the Dandolo family asunder. Long before the Maleovellis began their plotting, there were fractures that nothing but Claudio’s return could heal. I had even heard that kind of gossip from Quinn’s customers. I knew that, in many ways, the Maleovellis were using the decline of the Dandolos’ fitness as leaders to justify their push for power. But they were not the only ones. Sensing weakness in their ranks, all the nobiles were jostling. Whoever appeared to have the power and strength to rule would be given the throne. The Dandolos’ time, no matter what I did, was over.
I shook my head. Listen to me. I sounded like the Maleovellis, defending my actions. The Dandolos were also in the pocket of the Church, I reminded myself. They were the ones who ordered Renzo killed. I shut my eyes at the memory. I drew my breath in and extracted from the scents around me. The pain fled and peace descended.
Then a thought occurred to me. I was to ensure that the Prince could never make a claim to the throne. Signor Maleovelli had suggested that I persuade him to travel, to leave Serenissima. That would render his claim redundant. No member of the royal family was allowed to leave Serenissima without the permission of the Council. To do so was against the law – it was a serious violation of protocol. Jacopo had taught me that in one of our earliest lessons.
Sending Cosimo away would not be hard. The candles I brought tonight were infused with all the right elements so that I could place the idea in his head and he would act – swiftly. I could imagine him fruitlessly roaming the world, never understanding why, the emptiness inside him growing bigger, deeper, until one day it swallowed him. To my surprise, I felt uneasy with that. I didn’t love Cosimo; I didn’t know him well enough to feel anything but a gentle regard, but I did feel sorry for him – for him and his wife. I understood what it was like to live with a huge, gaping hole inside you. Perhaps there was something I could do to ensure that the vacuum inside him didn’t increase. One way to do that was to make sure he had a goal, something to fill the void his son had left.
Perhaps there was yet a way …
I sat up, my heart lighter than it had been for days. Of course! I breathed in the scent of the candles, testing their potency again before quickly extracting the effects from my own body. Oh, these would work. They would work well. Once again the Maleovellis would be delighted with me. Only this time I would be able to live with what I had done.
And I would make sure that Cosimo, poor, lost Cosimo, had a reason to live as well.
The door opened and the Prince appeared, loosening the neck of his grand togati. I gave him a real smile and opened my arms wide, the golden gauze falling apart and revealing my nakedness. His eyes widened and his face glowed.
‘Come, Cosimo,’ I purred.
As if in answer, the flames atop my candles brightened.
SITTING ON THE ROOF OF A CASA opposite the northern end of the Doge’s palazzo, leaning against the chimney, eyes fixed firmly on the unremarkable water-gates below, Dante waited. Already the horizon was a thin band of burning orange and the pigeons were becoming restless. Rubbing his eyes, he watched them bobbing across the eaves, their emerald necks reflecting in the sun’s first rays, their trilling a comforting end to his lonely vigil. The same one he maintained night after night across different locations in Serenissima.
He stretched cautiously, careful not to disturb the tiles. As much as he longed for his bed, there was something he desired more. He wondered how much longer she’d be; it had been hours and his shoulder was cramping.
A noise below alerted him and he wriggled to the edge of the roof and looked down. His patience was rewarded. Emerging out of the doors and walking across the jetty was Tallow.
His heart soared and he held his breath as she turned to the servant and, opening her purse, pressed a soldi into his hand. She looked magnificent in a deep gold gown that had panels of black velvet over her breasts and peeping through the slashes in her full sleeves. He liked the way her hair had been arranged. As usual, it maintained its style. He imagined her sitting before the mirror as servants pinned it into place.
The doorman smiled and bowed, retreating into the shadows as she moved to the paline at the end of the little wharf and waited for her gondola to arrive. Often it was already there, floating by the jetty, water-stairs or wherever else she happened to be. Dante hated those times, as he barely caught a glimpse of her. She would board the gondola with practised ease and duck straight into the felze. His heart would wrench and he would return to the Tailors Quartiere unfulfilled, to try to catch what sleep he could until darkness fell and he would once again go the Maleovellis’ casa, wait for Tallow to leave and follow her.
But today there was no gondola and he was able to drink in the sight she presented. She stood perfectly still, her ornate mask clutched in her hand. She gazed out over the water, looking in the direction from which she knew the gondola would come.
Dante sighed softly. Signorina Dorata – the celebrated courtesan. No wonder she’d evaded capture. Who would have ever suspected that the scruffy little candlemaker, Tallow Pelleta, had metamorphosed into this magnificent woman? Here she was, flaunting herself, right beneath the Doge’s and Cardinale’s eyes. How did that make her feel? His little dorato would have been anxious – but this woman? He recalled the posters with their crude image of Tallow plastered all over the different sestieri, calling for information, offering rewards. He’d laughed when he saw them. Nothing could be further removed from the reality. Her daring, her courage, only made him love her more.
While he knew what it was she did each night with the different men she entertained, he did not feel jealousy so much as envy. He wanted to be them. He longed to be the one that she caressed, held and loved. He yearned for her, but he also wanted her safe, and that was what kept him remote, a watcher. Katina and Constantina had been clear in their instructions. He was to observe, learn and understand, but not to act. Not yet. To move too soon would be to put Tallow and the entire prophecy in danger. He didn’t quite understand why, but he knew, in his heart and head, that he had to obey. To do otherwise was to risk Tallow and he would not, could not do that.
As if aware of his thoughts, Tallow turned slightly. He caught his breath and was reminded of the first time he saw her, of the moment he recognised who she was, all those months ago.
Despairing after Katina was taken back into the Limen, he lost himself in a fugue of drink and self-pity. Disobeying explicit orders, he’d taken advantage of Carnivale, and after purchasing one of the large masks that covered his entire face, a bauta, and a cloak, he’d gone to the Chandlers Quartiere.
Roaming up the calle at the back of his grandfather’s workshop, he’d seen familiar faces as well as the usual masked revellers, drinking, dancing, running in and out of each other’s premises with abandon. But he’d seen no sign of his own family. Flickering lights in the upper storeys revealed they were home, but no-one was celebrating. What did they have to be joyous about?
Sitting in the local taverna, he heard snatches of conversation, rumours. The Macelleria family hadn’t been the same since Renzo’s death. Business was failing: time in the Doge’s dungeons had changed his uncles. Observing the activity around him, he felt remote, distant. This was his neighbourhood; here were people he’d grown up with, rituals he knew and loved and yet … Part of him wanted to snatch off his mask and declare himself, announce his return and damn the consequences. But another told him not to be a fool. What would it achieve anyway? He was dead and gone. He no longer belonged here and, as the night progressed, he was no longer sure he wanted to. What could he do anyway? He’d simply be arrested, bring more trouble and grief upon his family. He was a Bond Rider now and had a pledge to fulfil. Tallow’s face appeared briefly among his crowded thoughts.
Thrusting the drink he’d ordered away from him, he rose and, fumbling in his purse, laid soldi on the bar. Then it occurred to him. There was something he could do to help.
Leaving the taverna, he almost ran down the calle. Dodging the people dancing in the campo, he turned into the main street, the salizzada of his quartiere, where the entrance to Zia Gaia’s shop lay. The salizzada was thick with folk making their way to the canal. He loitered, peering in shop windows, pretending to be drunker than he was. One group tried to take him with them, but he shook them off brusquely. They laughed and let him be.
Finally, the salizzada emptied. He paused outside Zia Gaia’s shop window. Reaching for the top of the door with one hand and placing the other on the handle, he slowly entered, his fingers catching the string that pulled the little bell before it could ring. Shutting the door behind him with care, he paused a moment while he grew accustomed to the dark. His breathing filled his ears. He saw the shelves were stacked with little paper-wrapped bars of soap. The old abacus sat atop the bench. A small bunch of flowers sagged in a vase. It pained him to see everything so familiar and yet so different.
Shaking himself, he did what he came for. Behind the counter, he found the box where Zia Gaia kept the day’s takings. It was, as he suspected, empty. Pulling out his purse, he quietly took out every last soldi. He would simply replace them, as Debora had taught him, with another purse from an unsuspecting merchant in the mercato. He tipped them into the tin, wincing at the noise they made. He pushed the lid back and returned the box to its former position. The coins jangled as the box hit the wood. He waited, listening.
There was a creak on the floor above.
He inwardly cursed.
‘Buona sera?’ called a voice he knew and loved. Zia Gaia.
He shot to the door, dragging it open. The bell tinkled sweetly. He turned just as a shadow appeared on the stairs. The candle she was holding revealed the top half of her aged face as she bent to see who intruded. He caught his breath and then ran, the door slamming behind him. As it did, he felt sure he heard his Zia cry, ‘Dante?’
Confused and heartsore, he stumbled through the calle, crossed so many bridges, darted through so many sottoporteghi, he lost count. This time, when he entered a taverna, he tossed back the drinks offered to him, running out into the night when payment was sought, shouts of abuse all that followed him.
Just before dawn, he started to feel sick. Staggering outside yet another taverna, he tried to work out where he was. He sank back against a building, squatting on the fondamenta, staring out over the water that had turned a dirty grey. Snow began to fall, its soft flakes melting against his hot face.
Then, it happened. Through the veil of white a woman emerged out of a low door on the other side of the canal dressed in a long black cape that fell open as she moved. He noticed her gown. Golden, it sparkled even in the half-light. There was something about her that made him frown then straighten. Something plucked at his heart, pulled him to his feet. His head spun. His mouth was dry.
He crept to the edge of the water, peering through a curtain of snowflakes. She didn’t see him; she was too busy searching the canal. He took in her dress, the mask that hid her eyes but exposed a full, pink mouth and the creamiest complexion. Ah. He leered, squinting to bring her into focus as his mind registered who it was he was seeing. It was the famous Signorina Dorata. He relaxed. Alone, unescorted, a sight for him to enjoy. He quietly snorted, his cooling body warming again as he tried to imagine what she looked like beneath that dress, behind the thick black cape that she now wrapped closely around her as if aware of the way in which his eyes were roaming her body. Signorina Dorata, he thought while his heart continued to pound and a tremble beset his body. He glanced at the casa behind her. Grand indeed. Are you worth it? He was about to call out something crude when she took off her mask.
Dante gasped and almost fell to his knees. The woman swung towards the sound and frowned into the thickening snow. ‘Who’s there?’ Her voice carried over the water that separated them. ‘Show yourself.’
Before she even spoke, he knew. His eyes and his hammering, full heart told him. It was Tallow.
Unable to move or speak, he saw her try to penetrate the obscuring snow, work out who it was that stood there, a dark and silent shadow. He waited for her to sense him, to use those great gifts he knew she possessed. To call him, find him, hold him, know him. All she did was stare. Time froze. What was mere seconds seemed like hours.
Just as he was about to do something risky, something foolish, a sleek black gondola glided between them, breaking the moment and carrying her away from him. Startled into action, he followed the craft, running along the fondamenta, diving across bridges, making sure the gondolier didn’t see him. When it turned down a narrow waterway that he couldn’t reach, he’d waited at the corner. By now, the sun was rising above the snow clouds and its washy light filtered across the city. Standing atop the bridge that joined the two sides of the fondamenta and under which Tallow’s gondola had floated, Dante tried to see which casa her craft entered, but it was hard to tell. He couldn’t be sure.
He rested his arms against the wooden balustrade of the bridge, lowered his burning head onto his hands and sighed deeply. At least he’d found her. His heart, his Bond had told him true. She was here. Lightness filled his being; the dull ache in his head gradually lifted. Then a hand fell on his shoulder.
‘It’s the umber one with the nasty little gargoyles over the water-gate,’ slurred a voice. Dante spun and the hand slid away. A man with half-closed eyes swayed before him. He smelled the fumes of vino on his breath.
‘Scusi?’ said Dante, one hand on the pommel of his sword, the other across his nose.
‘You’re looking for Signorina Dorata, sì? Many do.’ The man pointed a gnarled finger down the canal. ‘She lives there. I see them, day after day, the servants coming and going, bringing gifts, invitations. It never stops.’ He smirked, showing a mouth full of rotten stumps. ‘Good for business.’ It was then Dante noticed the rickety cart he was pushing. Laden with winter flowers, it was a splash of colour in the faded morning.
‘Whose casa is it?’
The man leant against him. Dante shifted away, resisting the urge to cough. It wasn’t just vino he could smell.
‘Not s’posed to tell. But for a soldi, you might be able to change my mind.’
Dante held up his hand to stop the man coming any closer. ‘I don’t have any.’ He patted his empty purse. Not that it mattered. It would be easy to discover whose casa it was. Dante stood back from the rail and looked around. He could not believe his eyes. Why, he was on Nobiles’ Rise. He hadn’t realised how far he’d come, the bridges he’d crossed, he’d been so fixed on following Tallow. Then he caught his own odour. It wasn’t just the flower man who reeked. He felt suddenly ashamed. If Tallow should see him like this! And he, a Bond Rider. What would Debora and Alessandro say? What would Katina?
The old man shrugged. ‘Worth a try. But since I like the look of you, I’ll tell you for nothing. Casa Maleovelli, that’s where she lives. They say she’s his ward, that he’s her guardian.’ He began to chuckle. ‘I’d call him something else. Like I would her. Courtesan. Fancy name for a whore, that’s all.’
Rage filled Dante’s chest and his fingers itched to draw his weapon. As quickly as the anger rose, it died away. Why, he’d said much the same thing only a few weeks ago. Before he knew …
He took one last look at the casa into which he now knew she’d disappeared then, without another word, began the long trek back to the Tailors Quartiere. There was a lift in his step and his earlier tiredness had fled. He needed to get a message to Constantina and, in order to do that, he had to get to the pledge stone of Casa di Maggiore. After that, he would rest then return to Casa Maleovelli before nightfall.
As he’d been instructed, he’d ridden Argento across the marshes, using the well-travelled path of the Bond Riders, and onto the mainland and touched the Pledge Stone of Casa di Maggiore. Only, Constantina didn’t come immediately, as he’d expected. Waiting for her to appear gave him time to think, to wonder why Tallow hadn’t felt him, hadn’t known he was there. He found it puzzled him and it hurt. If they shared any sort of bond, any type of connection, how had she not known?
He tortured himself with questions while waiting in the cold and snow for two nights, wrapped in blankets, seeking the warmth of his little fire and his horse, practising his sword skills, tracking and running to keep the frost at bay. Constantina had finally appeared. He’d told her everything, how he’d found Tallow, how she was Signorina Dorata, how all of Serenissima was talking about her. He’d even learnt that she was using the name Tarlo Maleovelli. Constantina had listened in silence. When he stopped talking, she’d just stared into the forest. Behind her, the Limen rose, a shimmering, vital force. Just as his Bond to Tallow called him back to Serenissima, he found the urge to pass through the Limen just as difficult to resist. It hailed him, demanded his allegiance.
When Constantina spoke, it was not what he expected to hear.
‘Something is not right here. What are these Maleovellis up to? She is living with them, you say?’
‘Sì.’
‘I recall the Maleovellis. They’re an old family – they’re in The Golden Book of Serenissima. But they have never had links with Estrattore before. Find out what you can about them. Keep a close eye on Tallow, Dante.’ She shook her head. Her face was inscrutable but the note of concern in her voice registered. It made Dante uneasy.
‘Is she in danger?’
Constantina shook her head. ‘I cannot believe you ask me that. Of course she is, always. But we cannot put her in more. Capisce?’
Dante nodded grimly. ‘Capisco.’ He sighed. ‘It is hard.’
Constantina’s huge silver eyes fixed on him. ‘It’s not just the Bond, no? Not just the pressure of the Obbligare Doppio?’
‘No.’
She studied him carefully. ‘You love her, don’t you?’ she said in a voice of resignation.
‘I do,’ said Dante simply.
‘Ah, my poor man,’ said Constantina. She lifted a hand to stroke his cheek, but before she touched him, changed her mind and let it drop to her side. ‘It’s dangerous to love Estrattore, Dante. No good can come of your feelings.’
Her words were like a slap on the face. ‘Is that part of the prophecy too?’ he said sharply. ‘Or your personal opinion?’
Constantina did not reply.
The silence grew. Dante nodded towards the Limen. ‘How’s Katina?’
‘She’s recovering. She is slowly regaining her strength, her life. When she is well enough she will join us in ensuring the prophecy is fulfilled.’
‘How?’
Constantina shook her head. ‘No, Dante. You cannot know, not now. When the time is right, it will all come together. To know what is meant to happen is to interfere with what might happen. It’s the nature of prophecies that while they determine events they must also be allowed to unfold. You, my dear boy, must be open to act, as must Tallow. Do you understand?’
‘I’m not sure …’
‘One day, you will be. Then it will be time.’
Argento whinnied and pulled at her reins. Dante held her fast. Constantina reached over and patted her. ‘Lovely girl.’ Argento nudged the Estrattore gently, trying to push her nose into Constantina’s robe, searching for food. Constantina laughed.
‘When should I come again?’ asked Dante.
‘If I need you, I will send for you, as you must for me. In the meantime, watch Tallow, protect her if need be, but do not let her see you. Not yet.’
Dante did not reply. He stood still, one hand clutching Argento’s reins, the other resting on his hip. Standing around had allowed the cold to start to creep into his bones. He was eager to be gone. To do what he was told – watch Tallow.