AS SOON AS I ENTERED THE STUDY, I could tell something was afoot. Signor Maleovelli reclined in the seat behind his desk, puffing away as was his custom on his wretched pipe, the smell of which I had grown to loathe. Sitting in the chairs before him were Giaconda and Jacopo. Neither met my eyes as I sank into a curtsy and greeted them. The fire burned low in the grate and the candles had been reduced to deformed stumps. A long conversation had taken place in this room. I knew that Lord Waterford had only just departed. I had heard Salzi calling for his gondolier.
My heart began to thump and, despite the cool, I felt a trickle of sweat slide its way between my shoulder blades. I waited for Signor Maleovelli’s invitation to sit. It was not forthcoming. I stood in front of him, Giaconda to my right and Jacopo where I didn’t like him – behind me. I could feel his eyes staring, probing like fingers. I lifted my chin.
‘You called me, Signor?’
‘How long have you been with us now, Tarlo?’ began Signor Maleovelli.
Taken aback by the question, I did a quick calculation. I came to Casa Malevoelli in autumn last year. It was now winter. ‘I believe it would be well over a year ago, Signor.’
‘And, during this time, have we done anything other than what we promised?’
‘Signor?’ I didn’t understand.
‘Have we not educated you, introduced you to society, asked you to make your candles to help us achieve great power so that, in turn, we might help you?’
‘Sì, Signor.’ I resisted the urge to look at Giaconda. What was going on?
‘Our plans, our colleganza, which you signed and of which I have a copy here –’ He pulled a piece of yellow parchment out from under the pile in front of him and slid it across his desk. I looked down at the agreement. My signature was a crude cross at the bottom beside Signor Maleovelli’s elegant flourish. ‘Clearly states that you will work for us towards a common goal: bringing the Maleovellis to power in Serenissima, sì?’
‘Sì.’
‘Don’t just parrot me, read it,’ he said, jabbing his finger into the centre of the document.
I quickly read the contents – something I could do with ease.
‘Sì, this is our agreement, Signor,’ I said cautiously.
‘Molto bene. We have concord.’
He sat forward suddenly, his fingers intertwined, eyes fixed on my face. ‘And you have always worked towards this, have you, Tarlo? At no time have you broken or undermined our pact? Our signed business arrangement?’
‘No, Signor. Of course not.’ I was proud of the way I held his eyes, that my voice was so steady.
‘For, if you have, if you ever did, then everything we have agreed upon becomes void, capisce?’
‘That is what I signed, sì Signor.’
He kept his eyes locked on mine for a few seconds longer and rolled the agreement back up, closing it with a fresh wax seal. There was a movement at the rear. Giaconda had left her chair. She went behind the desk and stood beside her father, her hand resting on his shoulder. He reached up and twisted his fingers through hers. Giaconda stared at me, her eyes dark and unfathomable in the dim light, her face a forbidding landscape.
‘Bene,’ said Signor Maleovelli. ‘The time has come to grasp the power that, together, we have been working towards, Tarlo. Whereas we have been cautious until now, events are moving and, as a consequence, we must act swiftly.’
He put down his pipe. It teetered on the edge of a porcelain dish, the smoke rising in a small cloud.
‘You are to make a candle, Tarlo. A special candle that you are to deliver to the Doge during your next assignation at the Palazzo. When is that exactly?’ he asked Giaconda.
‘Next week, Papa. The ball that marks the beginning of Carnivale.’
‘Ah,’ said Signor Maleovelli. ‘Then it is fitting, is it not? Last year, we used the same function to introduce you to the Doge. Only this time, when you meet him, you will kill him.’
It took me a moment to register what had just been said. ‘Kill him? The Doge? But …’
‘You can’t?’ Signor Ezzelino brushed away Giaconda’s hand and stood up. He hammered his fist onto his desk. I jumped. ‘Don’t give me that! I know you have killed before now! Save me your precious semantics – your candles killed. It’s the same thing, is it not? You made sure the four men who raped you would never do that to anyone else ever again, didn’t you? Do you think we didn’t notice? That your attempts at revenge were lost on us?’ He studied my face. I tried not to give anything away.
‘You did, didn’t you?’ He laughed. ‘Well, Tarlo, those men only died or left Serenissima because we let them. We allowed it to happen.’
‘Let them? Allowed?’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘You let them violate me, allowed that to happen and then you did nothing. Nothing.’ My eyes became glassy. I fought back the tears. I would not cry. I would not show my emotions. Not in front of these people.
‘You are a courtesan. Your client’s desires are therefore yours. They are ours as well. Let is a word that does not exist in a courtesan’s vocabulary. Not even you can control desire once it is unleashed; on the contrary, as a courtesan you cater to it, whatever form it takes. But sì, we did not stop them either. That is not our way. You learnt this, Tarlo, and it was a good lesson for you.’
Good? I clenched my hands into fists.
‘Yet you still have not learnt, have you? Despite being so clever, so talented. Everything you do in this casa is watched, reported back to me. I know exactly what you’re doing and when you’re doing it – from your morning wash to what goes on in the workshop, to what you whisper into the ears of the men who adore you, who seek your services night after night after night.’ He locked his eyes onto mine, those deep-set yellow eyes that were so cold, so lacking in humanity. I felt my knees begin to tremble.
Don’t Tallow, don’t, I said to myself. I longed to extract from the hard surfaces in the room, draw their strength and solidity into me now, when I needed it most. I must not crumble.
As much as I wanted to tear my eyes away, I would not. I looked at first Signor Maleovelli and then Giaconda, met their gaze. I took a deep breath and exhaled. The candles spat, the pipe smouldered. In the grate, the embers coughed. I heard Jacopo shift in his chair behind me.
‘I will not kill the Doge for you, Signor Maleovelli. If I do, then I will be exposed and that will make the contract you obligingly showed me redundant. It will make everything I have done, everything I have risked, irrelevant. Therefore, in order to preserve our colleganza, I refuse to do what you ask of me. There must be another way.’
‘Refuse?’ His voice was as chilly as the ice that coated the canal.
‘Sì.’
Both Signor Maleovelli and Giaconda began to laugh. Behind me, Jacopo chuckled. I wanted to swing round and slap the smug look I knew would be there from his face. How dare they laugh.
‘You cannot make me,’ I persisted. ‘And, if you try, you will only uncover me and therefore yourselves.’
‘Jacopo,’ said Signor Maleovelli, waving his hands.
Jacopo leapt to his feet with a swiftness I didn’t think his deformity would allow and, before I could stop him, grasped my wrists and pulled my hands behind my back.
‘What are you doing? Release me at once!’
He clamped his huge, sweaty palm over my mouth.
‘Let’s go,’ said Signor Maleovelli, rising and leading the way out of the room. Jacopo wrestled me out the doorway. Giaconda followed. She stooped towards me as I was forced into the corridor.
‘You’re a fool, Tarlo,’ she said.
I had no idea where we were going as I was pushed and pulled, Jacopo taking pleasure in my stumbles and muted cries as we went down the stairs and into the area reserved for business. Lit only by the candles carried by Signor Maleovelli and Giaconda, it was difficult to see where we were going. At first I thought they were going to throw me in a gondola, but we went through a doorway near the water-gates and down another flight of stairs, ones I never even knew existed.
They twisted around sharply and I could smell centuries of damp. In the pale light, I could see the moss and lichen growing between the cracked stones, spreading like a canker over the walls. What was this place?
Finally, after spending what seemed like minutes descending, we stopped. Signor Maleovelli stood beside an enormous, ancient door. He drew a key out of his pocket and passed it to Giaconda. He held the candle close and she placed the key in and turned it. The door opened quietly and I knew then that, wherever they were taking me, it was a place they used frequently. The key was not rusted, the hinges oiled.
The door opened onto a corridor. A frigid wind greeted us and I shivered. The cold was like a barrier we had to pass through. I began to shake. My heart felt like it was going to jump out of my chest. Jacopo’s breathing was harsh in my ears while my own strained in my throat. I could feel his stubble pressed against my cheek, the way he used this opportunity to press himself against me even though I had stopped resisting long before.
A light flickered at the end. As we stepped in, Signor Maleovelli used his candle to light a torch that sat in a sconce above us. He lifted it down.
‘Take her to him,’ he said gruffly.
Him?
Jacopo grunted and pushed me towards the light. We passed what appeared to be cells, their iron bars sparkling in the flame of the torch. They were all empty.
At the end of the corridor, Jacopo stopped and then, with cruel force, slammed me into the railings, pushing against the back of my head so my face was pressed against their algific hardness.
It took me a moment to register what I was seeing.
In the small, freezing cell was a dark shape. It was curled over on what appeared to be a large bed of straw. The smell was dreadful – a mixture of urine, faeces and sweat. I coughed and tried to breathe through my mouth.
‘Do you know who this is, Tarlo?’
I stared and blinked. ‘No,’ I said, my voice cracking.
‘Tallow?’ said another deeper and familiar voice.
I caught my breath. No.
I saw Signor Maleovelli make a gesture with his hand and the pressure on the back of my head went away. I tried to see through the darkness. Signor Maleovelli stood beside me, his torch held high. The gleam from it radiated into the cell.
Rising from the straw, the shape detached itself from the shadows and slowly lumbered towards us. The light hit its face and it threw up an arm to protect its eyes. I saw through the dirt, the clothes that were mere shreds, the food and other stains that covered almost every inch. Then the hand fell away and I had no doubt. A pair of faded blue eyes in a face ravaged by sores and scabs blinked lovingly into my own.
No. No. No. No.
‘Pillar?’ I said disbelievingly. I reached for him.
‘Tallow,’ he sighed. His voice unpractised, hoarse. He did not move.
‘Hold her!’ snapped Maleovelli.
Jacopo grabbed my hands, banging them into the bars as he wrenched them behind my back. I did not give him the pleasure of knowing the pain he caused me.
‘Oh, God, Pillar!’ I said softly, ‘What have they done to you?’
Pillar stumbled closer and I heard the splash of water, but he did not come within reach. He’d been told what to do. I could feel that now. He did not say a word. He just stared. He looked me straight in the eyes and, in that moment, I used every ounce of my talent and, resting my cheek against the iron that I now knew he too had held, plunged into his soul.
I saw pain, fear and, above all, guilt. Guilt over me. I felt the agony of his indecision, of his restlessness once I had gone. He did not know what to do, where to go. The Signori were coming; the Cardinale. He could not, would not betray me, but he was afraid he would not be strong enough to withstand their punishment. He drank and waited. Inert. Terrified. Then I saw Baroque. Baroque had persuaded Pillar to come with him; Pillar had believed him when he said he knew were I was, that I was safe. He promised to bring Pillar to me. And, cruelly, he had. Pillar had seen me from a distance – in the window of the piano nobile before he was taken, by Jacopo and Salzi, and locked in this damp, cold place. He’d been here ever since. Ever since I had been at the Maleovellis. For over a year …
They had beaten him, starved him, fed him, tormented him with what I now was, my success, with what I had become. I saw myself, the grand courtesan, through Pillar’s eyes and what I saw sickened me. The price for this was too high. The Estrattore were my people, sì, but Pillar was my family. The only family I had ever known.
The knowledge brought me to my knees. I slid down the bars, my eyes still fixed on Pillar. Sorrow poured out of me; I begged his understanding as I gazed deep into his essence. What I saw almost undid me.
He did understand. He did forgive. He was proud of me, bewildered by my beauty, the talent I know he could sense. In his eyes I saw belief. The Maleovellis had not broken him – or the love he still had for me. The love I did not deserve.
Don’t. Don’t. Don’t love me, I silently begged.
‘Now will you do what we ask?’ asked Signor Maleovelli, squatting beside me, speaking directly into my ear. ‘For if you don’t, I think you know what we’ll do.’
I didn’t need to extract to know the answer.
‘Sì,’ I said. ‘I will do whatever you ask of me.’
I could not let Pillar – this man who had already suffered so much for me – suffer any more. I would not.
Above my head, looks of triumph were exchanged. I no longer cared. I would kill the Doge and then I would figure out what to do about the Maleovellis, Pillar and Baroque.
He had warned me not to trust him. Now I knew what he had meant.
IT TOOK BAROQUE A MOMENT TO REALISE what had woken him. He lay there, trying to make sense of the muffled voices, the cry. He sat up. Moonlight streamed into his windowless bedroom from the workshop. Throwing his coat over his nightshirt, he stumbled out into the main room, colliding with the table as he tried to wake. What was happening?
He wandered out to the well and lowered the bucket. The sounds weren’t so apparent out here. He pulled the rope and splashed some water on his face, scooped handfuls of the icy-cold liquid into his mouth. He shouldn’t have had the extra vino, but the waitress at the taverna had been very attentive and she had a nice smile.
He heard a door slam and quickly ducked down behind the well. Someone was on the pianterreno – the ground floor. He could hear voices. What where they up to this time of night? Bending over, he scurried to the small window under the stairs and slowly raised himself. In the candlelight he saw Signor Maleovelli and Giaconda. They were followed by Jacopo, who held Tarlo tightly and, while she did not struggle, Baroque could see that she was distressed. Fury rose in him. What was happening?
Then it occurred to him.
Pillar! They’d taken her to see Pillar.
Merde. He hadn’t expected this so soon.
He crept back to his room and flung on some clothes. He wormed his way into his hose, but didn’t put his shoes on. If he was to move around the casa without being heard, he didn’t want the creak of the leather to give him away.
Back out in the courtyard, he noted the moon was in the ascent. Its light was watery and thick clouds were about to cross its path. Good, the darker the better. He glanced up at the piano nobile. The candles in the corridor had been extinguished, another element in his favour.
Using the external staircase, he entered the piano nobile without a sound. Practice paid off. Making sure no-one was about, he crept up to where light spilled into the hallway from Signor Maleovelli’s study. Every time he passed an open door, he held his breath. If he was caught … But there were only sepulchral spaces and draughts to meet him.
When he reached Signor Maleovelli’s study, he lowered himself onto his haunches beside one of the ornamental chairs that dotted the corridor and manoeuvred as close to the door as he could. It was ajar, and from within the room the voices carried clearly.
‘You’ll have to watch her carefully, Gia. But I want you to keep a distance – make sure you have an alibi. If she’s caught, I don’t want you involved.’ A shadow crossed the doorway. Signor Maleovelli had moved to the fire. Baroque peered around the corner carefully. Giaconda sat in a chair, Jacopo was adding more wood to the grate and, as he’d surmised correctly, Signor Maleovelli had made his way to the mantelpiece.
‘Do you trust her, Papa?’
‘No,’ scoffed Signor Maleovelli. ‘But I think tonight we played a card she did not expect. She will not risk Pillar. You were right to suggest we take him into our … care, cara mia. It showed great foresight.’
‘She talked about him in her sleep, even through the drugs – him and the dead boy, Dante. Over and over, she called for them.’
‘And yet she hasn’t mentioned either since?’
‘Not to me.’
‘Jacopo?’
‘No. She does not talk to me unless she has to. Puttana,’ said Jacopo and moved away from the fire. He fell into one of the chairs. Baroque wished he could grind his fist into his face.
‘So, Papa, you’re happy to accept Lord Waterford’s offer?’
Baroque’s ears pricked up. He knew that Waterford had been at the casa earlier that evening and shared a private meal with the Maleovellis. Excluded, Tarlo had spent more time in the workshop with him.
‘Happy?’ Signor Maleovelli made a noise in his throat. ‘Sì and no,’ he said.
‘What are you displeased about? He is going to make you Doge once Dandolo dies –’
Baroque did not hear the next part as his brain whirled. Doge! The ambassador was supporting Maleovelli to be Doge? Why? It didn’t make sense. What did he have to gain? All too soon it was explained.
‘I am not happy with the price we have to pay for an honour that, by rights, should be mine anyway. We worked hard for this. All of us. We put ourselves at risk. What have Farrowfare done? Sat back and waited. They back me because they know I have won. If I give them what they want, what is of value to me as well, then my victory will not be the same.’ He sighed. ‘No, despite what we’ve promised Lord Waterford. The second rule of power is to never surrender your most potent weapon to your enemy.’
‘What’s the first?’ asked Jacopo.
‘Do not hand it to a friend either. You destroy it. I don’t think we’ll be handing Tarlo over to anyone.’
So, he would exchange Tarlo for the Dogeship. Baroque had been right about the ambassador. Waterford had known what Tarlo was for a long time – probably since that day he found him snooping outside the workshop. But how could he give Maleovelli the Dogeship? What was Farrowfare up to?
Baroque recalled the talk in the tavernas, the mutterings among the soldiers. The Ottomans were stirring, Konstantinople, one of Serenissima’s most lucrative and important allies, with a colony of Serenissians situated right in its heart, was under threat. Why would the Ottomans move against Serenissima when, for years, they had existed in beneficial peace? But if another foreign power was behind the Ottomans’ push into the Mariniquian Seas, then it all made sense. Baroque chewed his lip. What if Farrowfare was that power? Making friends in Serenissima while stirring her enemies in the colonies, and all the while seeking to disrupt the leadership in order to claim the Estrattore. This was deeper and darker than even he anticipated. Waterford and his people were playing an extremely dirty and dangerous game. And trapped in the middle was Tarlo. She was a valuable piece in this political contest. Too valuable, it seemed, for the Maleovellis to surrender.
‘Why not, Papa?’ asked Giaconda. ‘If she’s gone, then we cannot be held to account for anything she has done. It will be like getting rid of the evidence. No-one can accuse us without proof.’
‘Cara mia, use your head. According to Waterford, Farrowfare has already taken extraordinary steps against Serenissima. Without our government even being aware, or the Cardinale, they’ve made allies of the Jinoans, the Kyprians and the Kretans and managed to incite them against us. It’s going to be hard enough to stop their combined might, and that’s before we consider the cursed Ottomans.’
Baroque chewed his lip. He was right.
‘But Beolin says that once we hand over Tarlo, all hostilities will cease.’
‘You really believe that, cara?’
‘I …’ Baroque could imagine her lovely face creased in thought. ‘I don’t know. No,’ she sighed. ‘It would not make sense. Not once the fury of our enemies is unleashed upon us. Why let us have the Dogeship when they can watch others destroy us and then take it for themselves?’
‘Esatto. With war, there is everything to gain – for the victors.’ Signor Maleovelli’s voice sounded distant, strained. ‘No, we cannot let these people take Tarlo. If they do, we win nothing. But for now we will let them believe they can have her.’
‘What do you intend to do?’
‘Once she has killed the Doge and I am in power, it will be time for Tarlo Maleovelli, the great Signorina Dorata, to disappear.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning she will meet an unfortunate end, won’t she, Jacopo?’
‘Sì, zio. Very unfortunate,’ agreed Jacopo.
‘Once Tarlo is out of the way, then we will expose Farrowfare for the traitor she is.’
Baroque’s breath caught in his chest. He reeled and rested his head against the wall, his hand over his heart. He could hear them talking, going over their plans, what they would say, how they would manage Waterford and Farrowfare, but he no longer listened. Instead he thought about Tallow and the great betrayal the Maleovellis intended.
He had to do something. He had to help her. But how?
He needed to think, and fast. An image of Katina flew into his mind. She had asked him to search for Tallow and he had broken his part of the bargain, justifying it by telling himself that Tallow no longer existed. Well, perhaps it was time to honour what he said he’d do. The Bond Rider had saved his life. If anyone could help, it would be her. Putting his thoughts in order, he planned his next course of action. He would go to his room, get some money, his cloak and his shoes and go to the Tailors Quartiere. This time, he would demand to see Katina and not leave until someone told him where she was, how he could contact her.
It was the least he could do. After all, he was responsible for what was happening to Tallow as well and, while he had been coerced and manipulated, he’d been prepared to sacrifice the Estrattore’s life so as to have his returned. But that hadn’t happened either. Like the promises they’d made to Tallow, the colleganza they’d signed, the Maleovellis betrayed everyone and everything they came into contact with. No more. This would stop now. He would play no further part in their machinations.
He began to crawl away from the door, backwards, when the soles of his feet connected with something. He twisted his head to look over his shoulder and found himself staring into a pair of huge dark eyes. It was Hafeza.
She bent down and pressed her fingers against his lips. With a nervous smile, she beckoned for him to follow. Rising to his feet as smoothly as he could, he tiptoed after her, all the time wondering where this sudden recklessness would lead him.
‘I NEED TO SEE HER, I TELL YOU,’ demanded Baroque, his face red, his voice rising.
Signor Zano Vestire ignored the urgency in Baroque’s tone and continued to wipe down the counter. ‘I tell you, Signor Scarpoli,’ he said firmly, ‘she’s not here. Repeating myself will not make her materialise. So hound me all you want, but Signorina Katina left here months ago.’
‘But when she left here, she went somewhere,’ insisted Baroque. ‘I need to know where. I need to speak with her. If it’s the Limen, then I need to know how to get a message to her. Signor, it is very important that I do this.’
He glanced over his shoulder, but only a couple of old men, sad regulars, occupied seats. It was still early. ‘I have even taken the risk of giving you my real name. Katina knows me. Please, you must help me. I must know where she is or how to contact her. A long time ago she told me that, if ever I needed to, you would know how.’
Signor Vestire stopped mid-swipe. He sighed and for the first time really looked at the man behind the cloak. Dishevelled and out of breath, Baroque, he could tell, was also anxious. Unlike the last time this man had come to his taverna. Back then, he’d sat in the crowded bar, downed vino after vino before finally enquiring after Katina, appearing almost relieved when Signor Vestire informed him the Bond Rider had not been seen in the Tailors Quartiere for a few weeks. Since then, of course, Katina had been and gone, but this man, who fidgeted on the stool, whose fingers agitated the counter, had not earned the right to know of her movements, nor of the one who remained. He was not a Bond Rider. Nor was he a tailor. Like a good Serenissian, Signor Vestire protected his own. For all he knew, this short, stout man could be working for the Cardinale. And yet, there was something about him that told him this was not so. A desperation that stoked the pity in his heart.
His instincts had not been wrong before. Maybe it was time to set aside caution … after all, the world was stirring. Whispers were they were on the cusp of great change.
He stared at Baroque, who raised his eyes to meet the taverna keeper’s. What he didn’t expect to see was despair. He saw intelligent eyes that missed nothing, not even Signor Vestire’s attempts to put him off track. Baroque was a man on the edge.
Signor Vestire left the rag where it was and filled a mug with vino. He put it down in front of Baroque. ‘Drink. You look like you need it.’
Baroque seemed to hesitate then, with gruff thanks, quaffed the contents. In the time he did this, Signor Vestire looked over his head at the young man who had come down the stairs at the bidding of Signor Vestire’s daughter and sat in the corner, his arms folded, his eyes never leaving Baroque’s back.
All he did was dip his head towards Signor Vestire.
‘Grazie,’ said Baroque again, pushing the mug back towards Vestire. He rested his head in his hands.
Signor Vestire took mercy on him. ‘I may not be able to help you, but you’re in luck. There is one here who can.’
Baroque raised his red eyes to Vestire’s, hope registering on his features. Signor Vestire nodded over his head, towards the stairs.
‘Speak to him.’
BAROQUE SLOWLY TURNED AND STARED into the dimness. He could see the outline of someone sitting at a small table beneath the stairs. Cautiously, he slid off the stool and walked towards the man that Signor Vestire said could help him. As his eyes grew accustomed to the shadows, he saw the man had dark, untidy hair that rested on broad shoulders. He was very tall but quite young; he also noticed, with the eyes of experience, that he was a Bond Rider. He picked up his pace, not even stopping when he knocked over a chair.
He stood by the table. ‘Signor Vestire tells me you can help me with my enquiries.’
The young man raised his head.
Baroque’s jaw dropped. He staggered back a pace. ‘No! Non è possible!’
The man smiled. ‘I have learnt, Signor Scarpoli, that even in this world, everything is possible.’ He gestured to the table. ‘Sit down. We need to talk.’
His eyes never leaving the man’s face, Baroque slid into the chair opposite. ‘Dante Macelleria,’ he said finally. ‘She thinks you’re dead.’
Dante’s lips tightened and the pulse in his neck hammered. ‘I know. It is better that way. For now.’
Baroque noted they did not need to say who ‘she’ was. All effort at pretence had gone.
‘So, what do you want, Signor Scarpoli?’ Again, he lingered on the last word. ‘And tell me, why should I trust you when the last time we met, you not only had a different name and occupation, but you were following me and Tallow. And you continue to work for the very people who sent you after her in the first place.’
Baroque’s eyebrows shot up. This young man had done his homework.
Dante laughed at his expression. It was dry, false. ‘Oh, sì, I have not wasted the time I have spent here. I know what you do – what you make Tallow do.’
Baroque winced. ‘Let me explain,’ he said.
‘Please.’ Dante made a wide gesture with his hand. ‘Unlike you, I have all the time in Vista Mare.’ He called to Signor Vestire to bring them vino. Baroque noticed that Signor Vestire had not taken his eyes from them.
Over the next two hours, Baroque spoke and Dante listened. For the first time in many years, he held nothing back, but revealed almost everything. His role in helping the Maleovellis track Tallow, his lessons, what she created and how the candles were used. He also shared with Dante what Tallow had been ordered to do – and his fears about this. There was one thing he chose to remain silent about: suspicions around what had happened to her at Casa Moronisini and Tallow’s retribution.
Finally, after Dante had questioned him, and Baroque answered, they sat back in their chairs. More men poured into the taverna and the smell of food reminded Baroque that he hadn’t eaten. The vino sat heavy in his head and stomach. He looked at Dante, who was frowning into a corner, processing what he’d been told.
The chandler had changed. Confidence oozed from him. The boy had become a man. His black, flashing eyes and astute mind missed nothing. While they had come to this point from different sides and with opposing intentions, they now shared the same purpose: Tallow.
Baroque knew he’d finally found an ally.
‘You will help me, then?’ asked Baroque finally, unable to bear the silence.
Dante turned to him slowly. ‘Was there ever any question, Signor? Sì. Where Tallow is concerned, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. I am yours.’ He looked around, aware suddenly of the extra bodies, the loud voices. He rose. ‘I will have food sent to my room. We need to make plans and quickly. And you need to get back to Nobiles’ Rise. It would not do for the Maleovellis to discover what you have done, where you have come. It might force their hand.’
Baroque shook his head. ‘No. They need her for now. But after the deed is done, then we must be ready to act.’
Dante headed for the stairs. ‘Come then, we’ve no time to waste. Not any more.’
Watching Dante take the stairs two at a time, his sword swinging by his side, Baroque dared to believe.
SIGNOR PUGLIESI, AN OLD REGULAR who had slowly moved to be nearer the fire, heard most of what Baroque and Dante discussed. When they left, he grabbed his stick and heaved himself to his feet. Leaving the required soldi on the tabletop, he hobbled to the door and out into the campo. Patrons moved out of his way; children were careful not to knock the frail, blind man over. The wind whipped his cloak around his legs, his thin hose inadequate for keeping out the chills that wracked his skinny frame. He would need new clothes if he were to survive this winter. Well, now he would have the means. A big fat purse for any information; that was the promise he’d been given. Now, he had a great deal.
With the knowledge of a lifetime, he made his way down the numerous rami that mazed the quartiere. Sight was unnecessary when smells and sounds and the feel of the crumbling walls, with their pocks and raised patterns of mildew could direct him as well as any map. He finally came to the apartment he’d been looking for. In an old, ramshackle building owned by a madam who kept her four prostitutes on a tight leash were rooms for rent. In the topmost one dwelled the drunken Bond Rider.
Admitted by the madam with a screech of disappointment, Signor Pugliesi climbed the three flights slowly, his breath coming in gasps by the end, and rapped on the door with his cane.
It took the Bond Rider some time to open it. The fumes of vino almost knocked Signor Pugliesi off his feet. Shuffling past the Bond Rider, who was scratching and belching, he waited till the door was shut and then in a quiet, steady voice repeated everything he’d heard.
If anyone was surprised when they didn’t see Signor Pugliesi for a few days, no one said. Not at first. But when his body was discovered floating against a set of water-stairs just outside the marketplace, no-one could understand how cautious old Pugliesi had been so careless as to slip and strike his head.
They toasted him that night in the Taverna di Segretezza and then barely mentioned him ever again.
WHEN I ARRIVED IN THE WORKSHOP Baroque was not there. His bed was empty, his coat absent from the hook. I didn’t wait for him. Instead, as a limpid sun rose over the city and a cold wind blasted through the courtyard, I began to make the candle that would kill the Doge.
Instead of simply extracting and distilling into an existing candle, I made this one from scratch. In the small grate that Baroque used to warm these freezing rooms, I used the remnants of last night’s fire and assembled a fresh one, feeding it not only with wood, but the paper upon which I had laboured while learning to write. I had brought it from my rooms. I knew it would help give me the heat required for melting wax, but that wasn’t the only reason.
What I had once been proud of now only reminded me of my complicity in Pillar’s imprisonment. I was keen to destroy it. I’d lain awake last night, my conscience aflame with guilt as I argued with myself. Why hadn’t I gone to look for Pillar? Instead I believed what the Maleovellis told me, that he had gone, vanished, left me without caring about what happened. I’d been so suspicious of the Maleovellis’ intentions regarding most things, and yet I’d never thought to question them about Pillar. Why? When did I become so selfish? So narcissistic? After all Pillar had done for me, I consigned his memory to the refuse – not because it pained me in the way that thoughts of Dante did, but because I simply didn’t want to think about him – him or my old life. They were so interconnected that one roused the other. By shutting out Pillar, I was never Tallow, never his lowly, browbeaten candlemaker. I was never a girl pretending to be a boy; an Estrattore masquerading as a human. I did not spare a thought for Pillar, not when I could adorn myself in beautiful fabrics, swathe myself in silken sheets, be admired, adored, control others in a way I couldn’t even control my own life.
Seeing Pillar, feeling his unconditional love, whether I wanted to or not, had opened a large crack in the barrier I’d painstakingly erected over the months. And, in the early hours of the morning, the truth doused me like the cold rain that struck my windowpane. He hadn’t abandoned me. I had abandoned him.
I had always wanted to belong, to find my people. He was my people. I was his. The Estrattore were as a myth, a story – ghosts that haunted my present. In believing in them, trusting they would embrace me, I was behaving like a child who believed in fairy tales. What could I change? What could I really do? Even if they did exist, somewhere in the Limen, why hadn’t they tried to find me? They hadn’t and, I realised now, they never would. If I was so damn important, why didn’t my people help me? They had left me; left me to find my own way and now, finally, I had.
It was time for me to do something. Not about the Estrattore, but about Pillar and, I thought as I heard the casa begin to stir, the Maleovellis as well. For so long I had obeyed their every command, their every whim, frightened of their disapproval, keen to earn their confidence, afraid to stand against them lest I lose the little I had. No more.
I watched as the paper caught in the flames, the parchment blackening and curling, adding fuel to the fire.
The spitting and crackle of the blaze was loud. I added some wood and blew and poked.
Finally the heat was enough for my purposes.
I grabbed an old battered pot from under the table and began to break apart three candles, snapping them in as many places as I could, pulling hard to remove the wick. I dropped them into the pot. Before I consigned it to the fire, I added some oils – lavender for its sweet scent and to aid relaxation, musk, for the sheer pleasure and headiness of its perfume, and some mistletoe. I had discovered that this plant, when broken down to its essence, affected the heart and blood. This was essential if the candles were to work.
Satisfied with my initial additions, I grabbed an old wooden spoon, sat on my haunches and placed the pot on a rusty tripod above the flames. Giving the wax time to begin melting, I stirred it, allowing the mixture to fold in on itself, absorb my additives. The workshop was soon filled with the smells of my labours.
When the mixture was smooth, the original shape of the candles reduced to a liquid mass, I rose and removed the pot from the immediate heat, leaving it in the glowing embers at the edge of the grate.
Among the objects that Baroque had brought to me over the months were some small ornate glasses – the kind that held the votive candles in the basilica. I recalled that they had carried within them the memories of not only their original makers, but all those who had bowed before them, praying to lost loved ones, begging forgiveness of God for perceived and real crimes. They also carried the thoughts and essence of the padres and novitiates who had placed them in the alcoves near the pews and altar. From them I was able to detect everything from concern over spiritual matters to the content of the next meal, to carnal thoughts that had no place in God’s house. Having met a few of God’s men myself, I knew their practice of celibacy to be an illusion. Men of the cloth were no more spared the desires of man than a cat denied fleas. Padres just had to work harder to excise them than others. Not all succeeded. These votive holders screamed their shame.
I sorted through and found four holders that suited my purpose. They all matched: the glass had a slight blue tinge and was decorated in geometrical patterns of jade, ruby and gold. I laid them out carefully on the counter and, as I did, began to distil into them the beginnings of my intentions. After that, I sliced open a couple more candles, like a fishmonger does his catch, pretending a spine where none existed and extracted the wick in its stead. Chopping it into suitable lengths, I laid them in the holders, draping the ends over the glass.
Finally, I was ready to pour the wax. Wrapping a cloth around the handle of the pot, I lifted it to the counter. The wax was molten cream and the smell was tantalising. The scene painted across the screen in my bedroom came to my mind – wild, exotic. Using a bent metal spoon, I began to carefully ladle the wax into the containers. As I did, I drew on my talents, distilling with such intensity that I lost track of time. From within myself I drew elements of the many poisonous plants, people, surfaces and objects I had come in contact with and which I had stored. Selecting what I needed, I poured them out of me and into the wax. My insides burned. I wanted to choke. My heart thudded against my chest and sweat beaded my brow as I worked slowly, methodically, concentrating hard, unaware I was being watched.
A sharp intake of breath distracted me enough that I raised my head. In the doorway was Giaconda. Still in her nightgown, her hair falling about her shoulders, she had a thick shawl draped across her shoulders.
‘The wax, it changes,’ she whispered, her eyes wide.
I glanced back down. Instead of the luscious colour of the lace that so often bordered her gowns, or the lustrous sheen of the pearls that scattered her hair, the wax had transformed into a dark purple, so dark it was almost black. Bruised now, the wax sank into the glass, swirling in unctuous layers. In their midst sat the little hemp wicks. I tweaked them upright and watched in pleasure as, responding to my touch, they metamorphosed from white to black.
Four votives sat – gloomy, sinister, their holders pulsating as if a tiny heart struggled to beat in all that darkness. I sighed, put down the pot containing the remainder of the wax and wiped my hand across my brow.
‘It is finished,’ I said to Giaconda.
She looked into my eyes and I saw something in hers that I had not detected before. It was fear. A thrill ran through me. I tried not to let it show on my face.
‘Bring them to me,’ she said. She did not want to cross the threshold.
‘No. They cannot be moved – yet. Later. I will bring them to you later.’
‘Bene,’ she said, frowning. She peered around the workshop entrance, wrapping her shawl more tightly across her breasts. ‘Where’s Baroque?’
‘He went to get me some wick. But he took too long so I made use of what I already had.’ The lie tripped so easily from me.
Her frown deepened. ‘Tell him Papa wants to see him when he returns.’ She glanced at me. ‘You need to rest. We need you to look your best – more beautiful than you ever have.’
I inclined my head and then turned away from her, pretending to lift the last of the wax from the pot.
The swish of her dress and the cold wind that hit my back let me know she had gone.
I slowly turned round and saw the hem of her gown disappearing up the stairs. At that moment, Hafeza crossed the courtyard to the well. I remained still, lost in the shadows that lingered in the workshop, watching as she lowered the bucket. She was humming a tune that I knew came from her home country. Her eyes followed the bucket and she bent over the edge of the well. In repose, her face possessed a gentleness and kindness that I recalled had once appealed to me. But I knew it to be false. Like Giaconda’s beauty or Signor Maleovelli’s benevolence, it was a mask designed to lure people closer the way fire does air, the chameleon insects, or the moon attracts the stars. We all wore masks in this casa.
But beneath the façade of servitude and obedience, I wondered what the real Hafeza was like, how this woman could be loyal to the Maleovellis. What did they inspire that she was forever obedient to their whim, served them unquestioningly? What horrors had they rescued her from? For that seemed to be their way. Jacopo, consigned to the life of a cripple, an orphan, first in a convent, then in the streets until his father claims him, relying on his son’s gratitude for a lifetime of loyalty. Hafeza, a mute slave given the task of raising Giaconda. Does such munificence engender trust in return? I thought of my own circumstances. It did – for a while. I was grateful, and in turn that made me not only admire the Maleovellis but seek their admiration in return.
Lost in my reflections, I noticed Hafeza had left only when she was mounting the stairs, struggling with a full bucket. She would be replenishing my water, no doubt. It was time to leave.
I moved the votives to a space where they could cool undisturbed. Then, picking up the pot, I scraped the remnants of the wax out of the bottom and threw them in the fire. I wanted no evidence of this batch to remain – no opportunity for the Maleovelli’s to abuse my talents. When I’d finished, I took the pot out to the well and scrubbed it thoroughly, along with the spoons and knife.
I re-entered the workshop, standing still to wait for my eyes to grow accustomed again. As I did, I noticed the door to Baroque’s room was ajar. I placed the implements back on the shelves and then paused.
Curiousity overcame me and I pushed the door open further and stepped inside Baroque’s room. I had only ever been in there once before, when I’d hidden from Lord Waterford – and that had only been brief and my anxiety at being discovered had discouraged me from exploring. There were no such deterrents now. My eyes travelled over the space. It was small and neat. His bed was unmade, but his belongings, such as they were, lay folded on the chair or the small rickety table. A stock of candles sat to one side, a holder with a melted stump nearby.
Where was he, this man who didn’t know the meaning of loyalty and yet desired to be friends? Who warned me away with words but lured me closer with actions. He too had betrayed me but, like the Maleovellis, when had he ever promised anything else? He told me not to trust him. Why did the Maleovellis – well, the Signor at least – give Baroque so much responsibility? First to find me and, later, to kidnap Pillar. I knew that Baroque was behind that, and at first it had enraged me. But when I touched the iron bars of Pillar’s prison, I had also learnt something else, something that in the whirlpool of my emotions I’d only sorted later. It was Baroque who had brought Pillar food, fresh clothes, and extra blankets when winter descended. It was Baroque who had spent nights talking to Pillar and easing his solitude. I was grateful for that. Was that why Baroque’s attitude towards me had changed? Had Pillar facilitated that? The man I sensed in this bedroom and had worked with side by side no longer accorded with the one who had followed me almost two years ago in the Candlemakers Quartiere or who had lured Pillar from his house to the Maleovellis’ dungeon. Where had that man gone?
Surely these journals that kept him here, as much against his will as Pillar, could not be that important? I would know.
I reached out to touch the chair upon which a shirt was draped. I rubbed the material between my fingers and opened myself to what I found.
Emotions flowed into me; sometimes they were accompanied by images. I moved around the room, running my hands over every surface, feeling the man who owned these things, understanding him in a way that had been denied me.
It did not stop there. Emboldened by my new awareness and knowledge, I left the workshop and ascended to the piano nobile. As I passed the objects in the corridor, I touched them. I didn’t care anymore who saw me. The servants who did ignored me, believing me lost in reflection or suffering ennui. I extracted and, before I could stop myself, distilled a little of something back into them. Tapestries, chairs, mirrors, paintings, nothing was spared. Sensations warred inside me. Feelings such as I’d never known – jealousy, craven lust, deception – it was all there, carved deep into the fabric of the casa itself. But there was also love, hate, loathing and lies – dreadful, terrible lies.
I moved along faster now, my breathing heavy. I had to stop. This was too much, too great for me to bear. Outside Giaconda’s door, I hesitated. Just one tiny extraction, one little insight into the woman who hovered over my life like an avenging angel. I slowly reached out and then touched the door handle.
I staggered and fell into the chair against the wall.
‘Who is there?’ called Giaconda. ‘Hafeza?’
I was panting now. The shock of my discovery almost undid me. I whirled to my feet and ran down the passage. I reached my door and wrenched it open and ran inside, straight into Hafeza, almost knocking her off her feet. I threw my arms out to steady her, not realising that I was still extracting. It was only when I saw the horror spreading across Hafeza’s face, saw the way her eyes were locked onto mine, that I knew what I was doing. But by then it was too late. I could not stop.
Standing in the middle of my room, I held Hafeza in the thrall of my gaze, my touch, and after all these months of anger and distrust, I came to know her.
Taken from her family just as she was reaching womanhood, she had been locked in the hold of a ship, chained to other children, other women. Beaten, starved, thirsty and tired, she’d been too afraid to speak. She worried about her mother, her sisters, her father, the young man who had just begun to court her. I felt the passage of time – it did not lessen her loss; that only intensified.
Next she was on a platform, a skinny, frail girl with black skin, stripped for all to see. Others were beside her, trying to hide their nakedness, protect what little of their dignity remained. Below them, men jostled and fought to get closer; their hands flew up, their gaping mouths shrieked. It was all babble to Hafeza. She did not understand. She didn’t know what they wanted, that they were bartering for her.
Then she was here, in Casa Maleovelli. A fat old woman with red hands washed her. She cried then, not from the cloth that, ignoring her wounds, roughly broke the scabs away and made her bleed, but because she knew she would never get her former life back. The big woman scrubbed her hair and then cut it coarsely, with a knife. She tugged and pulled, oblivious to Hafeza’s protests.
Hafeza pleaded. I heard words even though I did not understand exactly what they meant. My heart seized. Hafeza could talk! She was not born mute as I had believed. I held her tighter, searching, probing, what had happened to her? I could not let her go.
Another woman came towards Hafeza followed by a beautiful little girl. The girl had long dark hair, green eyes and olive skin. She looked like the woman leading her into the room, her mother. Only I saw calculation in this young one’s eyes that made that of her mother’s seem harmless. Hafeza saw it too and cringed. Even so, she was unprepared when the child handed her mother a long, shiny knife.
The pain of having her tongue cut out gradually faded along with Hafeza’s hope. She came to understand these people whom she now worked for and what they required of her. They didn’t need to remove her tongue – she would have been quiet, she would have kept any secret. And that was how I found out that she’d never revealed mine that night in the portego – the night I spied on the Maleovellis as they dined with the Moronisinis. Hafeza would never, never tell, especially not the dreadful secret about Giaconda and Signor Maleovelli, the one that I now knew we shared.
A noise of sheer despair finally broke my concentration. It was Hafeza. Her mouth was contorted in a rictus and I could see the stump of her tongue flapping in her mouth. Dismayed that I could cause such pain, such alarm, I stopped extracting and began to distil, quickly, using all my power. I wanted to hasten forgetfulness, allow this dear, sweet woman I had judged so wrongly the panacea of oblivion.
‘No! No!’
It took me a moment to realise the sounds came from Hafeza. I was so stunned to hear her voice, I dropped my guard. With a forceful shove, she separated us. She scrambled to her feet and stood panting, her hand on her chest, her eyes wide as they stared at me.
‘Hafeza.’ I held my arms out. She threw up her own to stop me. ‘Mi dispiace,’ I said, my voice hollow. ‘How can you ever forgive me?’ I took in her tortured face, at the memories I’d brought to the surface caused by a lifetime of servitude to those who had brutalised her. The lines were heavy, the sadness etched all over her ageing mien. ‘Oh God,’ I said, and sank back to my knees, my head dropping into my hands. ‘Forgive me, forgive me.’
A gentle pressure on my head caused me to look up. Hafeza was stroking my hair. ‘Don’t touch me!’ I cried. But she ignored me and, picking up my hands, clasped them in her own aged, dry ones and held them over her heart. She knelt and gave me a tremulous smile. I inhaled deeply before shakily returning it.
‘Forgive me, Hafeza. I should never have doubted you.’
She placed a finger against my lips, and instead released my hands and opened her arms. I fell into them. In that instance, I opened myself to Hafeza. Just as I had discovered aspects of her I did not know existed, I allowed her to see inside me as well. For the first time since Dante, I gave of myself in a way I never had before – my hopes, my secrets, my dashed dreams.
I began to cry – quiet, deep sobs that tore at my chest and spilled into Hafeza’s. Tears rolled down her cheeks as we comforted each other, sharing an awareness of what we once were and what, under the Maleovellis, we’d allowed ourselves to become.