Votive

WITH THE MALEOVELLIS AND TARLO GONE, the casa was suddenly quiet. Servants had retired to their dining area downstairs, Jacopo was locked in his study, and at last Hafeza was able to attend to the disruption the preparation of her two charges had caused.

Folding Tarlo’s undergarments, Hafeza found herself thinking over what had happened this morning – what the little Estrattore had done. With a soft smile, Hafeza stroked the delicate fabric of her camicia before stowing it away. It reminded her of Tarlo – fragile and yet with an inner strength that only a fool would underestimate. She knew that now. Did the Maleovellis, she wondered? They must, she thought, otherwise they would not be intending to kill her.

With a heartfelt sigh, Hafeza blew out the candles around the room. She stood in the semi-darkness, in front of the fire, staring into the flames. There was so much to do before Giaconda and Tarlo came home, and yet she found she could not attend to her duties just yet.

She’d known that Tarlo had not had an easy life; one had only to remember what she’d been like when she first came to Casa Maleovelli. The way she would flinch if an arm was raised near her, how those eyes would darken with despair if she thought she’d hurt someone’s feelings; how she would try so hard not be noticed, quietly slinking around corners, melting into chairs and walls. Hafeza sighed. She knew those signs all too well.

Only something had changed Tarlo. She remembered the day she first noticed it. The day that Tarlo, despite Hafeza’s inability to reply, stopped speaking to her. Later she also stopped smiling. Hafeza, who had thought she’d finally found someone she could nurture, had despaired. Like Tarlo, she’d also withdrawn into herself, erected walls that, over her life, she’d worked hard to maintain. Even now, she tried to restore that which Tarlo had dismantled.

But in Tarlo’s arms she’d done something she hadn’t done for such a long time – feel. She’d felt compassion, fear, need and the desire to help. She understood why Tarlo had done what she had and why she was risking herself and everything she held dear to do what the Maelovellis ordered – kill the Doge. Hafeza knew about the man in the dungeon; what she hadn’t realised until Tarlo had shared with her was what he meant to the Estrattore.

Hafeza leant over the mantelpiece and rested her head against her arm. Tonight, something terrible was going to happen. The Maleovellis, using Tarlo, were setting in train events that would change Serenissima. They’d change all their lives – but was it for the better? Would hers change? No. She already knew the answer. It would not. She would continue to be Hafeza, the slave. But for Signor Maleovelli, for Giaconda, theirs would never be the same again. And what about Baroque? That man made her laugh. She enjoyed encountering him in the courtyard when she fetched water. He would go out of his way to talk to her, to help her if he could. Over the last year, he’d changed too – but Hafeza knew his transformation was good. She’d seen him many times before Tarlo came to live with them. Most often he would meet the Maleovellis in their rented apartment in the Chandlers Quartiere. She saw how distant he was, how careful to hide his real self. He’d been the same when he first came here, but something or someone, she thought, an image of Tarlo appearing before her, had worked its magic on him. Only it hadn’t been deliberate, like the candles.

And yet the Maleovellis had plans for Baroque as well. Hafeza knew. She’d overheard them, as she often did. People were strange. They believed that because you couldn’t talk, you couldn’t hear either. So much was revealed in front of Hafeza. In this casa, she was invisible – a slave, a Morokan, displaced, dispossessed and, she knew, afraid. Afraid of being seen. She understood Tarlo and what she’d confronted in her early life all too well. No wonder the young woman had embraced what the Malevoellis offered. Through them she could make a difference, but she had to follow their orders, obey their whims and help them before she could help herself.

Hafeza sighed and reached for some wood to stoke the fire. She threw it in, using the poker to make sure it rolled into the embers, waiting for it to catch. She rubbed her hand across her face. She was tired of this life – an admission she’d never had the courage to make to herself until now.

She slumped into the chair and glanced around the room. The fire gave a burst of light as the log took. Something flashed on top of the dresser. It was the little harlequin, the funny statuette that she’d never really noticed before, not until she understood what it was that Tarlo had done with it. Earlier, she’d pulled it out of its hiding place in the drawer and placed it back where it had stood for years. Now it caught her eye. She rose and crossed the room, picking up the delicate object. Holding it up, she watched the way the light from the fire plucked out different colours within the glass. So much love, so much pain. She wished she could do that – extract her memories and emotions and put them somewhere else so she could stop feeling all the time. But she was no Estrattore. She had to live with her past and her present. Together, they made her future.

But what did that hold? More pandering to Giaconda, remaining silent while the Maleovellis brought down not just the Doge – oh, that was too remote and vague for her to care about – but the young woman she understood as well as she did herself. And Baroque. They were not going to let him escape their clutches either – not alive. They couldn’t afford to. They knew he’d softened towards Tarlo, that if they harmed her, he might expose them. They kept him on a lead through blackmail.

What was it her insights into Tarlo had revealed? That was right – it was Baroque’s journals, those battered old things that Signor Maleovelli kept locked in the top drawer of his desk. She’d seen him thumbing through them. And then there was Pillar.

Listening to the casa creaking as the wind blew outside, bringing with it lashing rain that now beat against the window, Hafeza fingered the little statuette and let her thoughts go in directions they had never before dared …





HAFEZA ENTERED BAROQUE’S ROOM slowly. Wet and cold, she couldn’t risk lighting a candle. She fumbled around in the dark until she felt what she was looking for. She pulled the four old books out from under her dress and slid them beneath his pillow. It would be weeks before Signor Maleovelli noticed they were gone. Baroque would find them and then he would be free, a slave to the Maleovellis no more. She smiled and moved quietly through the workshop. She stood in the doorway, watching the rain for a while. It was heavy tonight. She was glad. She sent a quick prayer to her gods that it would cover any noise she might make as she descended into the dungeons.

Eschewing a torch, Hafeza felt her way down the stairs. A chilly wind whistled along the corridor, making her shiver and her teeth chatter. When she finally found the keys, they clanged together in her hands. She looked over her shoulder, but all she could see was darkness. No-one had followed her. She was certain.





OPENING PILLAR’S CELL WAS harder than she thought. Her fingers were stiff and fear made her clumsy. At last the key turned and the lock sprang open. She pulled open the door. The cell was even darker than the corridor and it took her a moment to see the body huddled in the corner.

‘What do want?’ croaked a voice. ‘Oh, it’s you. What have you brought me this time?’

In answer, Hafeza threw a bundle at his feet and opened the door wider. She made a grunting noise and flapped her arms towards the corridor.

She could see Pillar reaching out for the package, shaking out the contents: trousers, a shirt, doublet and boots.

‘Why?’ he asked.

Stepping closer to him, she caught his hand and raised it to her eyes, placing his fingertips against her lids.

‘Tallow,’ he said. Hafeza nodded. She knew that had been Tarlo’s name; it was the one she still called herself. Tallow, like the wax. Something to be moulded, shaped to others’ designs. It was appropriate.

‘You are setting me free?’ In answer, Hafeza began to strip his old clothes from him, peeling off what remained of his shirt, ignoring the smell that exuded from him, that made the bile rise in her throat.

‘Grazie mille.’ He began to help her, struggling out of his tattered pants and into the new ones. Hafeza tried to hurry him. They didn’t have much time. She wanted Pillar away from here.

In minutes, he was dressed. She could hear him panting from the exertion. She gave him a flask of vino and a hunk of bread. He drank and ate as quickly as he could. From his quiet moans she could tell his gums were sore. She remembered that feeling. When he’d finished eating, she pressed a knife into his hands.

‘Bene,’ said Pillar. ‘What else do you have concealed in there? I see you have thought of everything.’ He gave a low laugh that turned into a rasping cough. She sought to support him. ‘I am all right,’ he said, ‘I just need a moment. I’ll be fine.’

Hafeza frowned. He did not sound fine.

She followed him out into the corridor. A blast of wind forced her dress to press against her. She could feel Pillar shaking beside her as she closed the door to his prison, locking it again behind them. Let the Maleovellis puzzle that one.

She groped for Pillar’s hand and began to lead him forward, stepping around the pools of stagnant water. They’d just passed the second cell when a figure leapt out of the dark. With a small noise, Hafeza stopped, Pillar slamming into her back with a grunt.

‘Well, well, well. What are you up to, Hafeza? You deceptive black puttana.’ It was Jacopo. Wood struck the flint and light flared. Jacopo raised his torch and looked them up and down. ‘What have we here?’ He began to chuckle. ‘Have you lost your mind, Hafeza?’

Hafeza’s eyes slid from Jacopo’s sneering face to the glinting steel he held in his other hand. Pillar squeezed her fingers and then released them. He doubled over in pain and began groaning loudly.

‘Oh, my stomach, my legs!’

Jacopo ignored him. ‘What are you thinking?’ he hissed at Hafeza. ‘How could you, after everything my father has done, everything Giaconda has given you? How could you betray them, tonight of all nights? The moment everything we’ve been planning comes to a head and you would ruin it! You bitch!’ With every word, he came closer and closer to Hafeza, pushing her in the chest. She stumbled into the wall, tripping over Pillar.

Jacopo followed closely, kicking Pillar out of his way. ‘You choose to help that –’ he spat at Pillar’s side ‘– instead of the family that has given you a roof over your head, taken you in? You don’t deserve to look after Giaconda, you don’t deserve to be part of this casa, not anymore.’ He lifted the torch and leaned into Hafeza, his nose almost touching hers.

Hafeza was backed against the stone wall, her hands trapped behind her. She could not push Jacopo away, she could not fend for herself.

‘And I am going to give you what you deserve.’ Jacopo raised the knife in the air.

Hafeza tried to scream, to protect herself. She managed to free an arm just as the knife came down, just as the torch was knocked out of Jacopo’s hands and fell to the floor. Jacopo shouted and a great weight fell against her and pain exploded in her side. She thrust at the body that pinned her to the wall, trying to free herself.

It was gone. There was a great groan followed by a thud and the sound of flesh hitting stone.

‘Hafeza, are you all right?’ It was Pillar. She tried to make reassuring noises. ‘I can’t find the torch.’

Hafeza took a deep breath, her hand pressed tightly to her side. She bent down and searched, her fingers wrapping around the wood. She lifted it off the ground and, as the wind blew, it spluttered back to life.

Lying at her feet was Jacopo. The knife she’d given Pillar was sticking out of his back. His eyes were wide, unfocused. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of its element, struggling to survive. She was not sorry. There was blood everywhere. It was even on her hands, trickling between her fingers as she gripped the torch.

She stepped over Jacopo’s body and tugged at Pillar’s shirt. He bent and, turning Jacopo over slightly, drew the knife out of him. With a cry, Jacopo’s head rolled to the side and his eyes closed. He was still.

‘I may need this,’ said Pillar, wiping the blood on Jacopo’s hose.

Hafeza nodded, then hesitated. Closer to the stairs, she could hear the rain. She glanced at Pillar’s shirt. It too had blood on it. He could not roam the calles with those stains upon him. Not with the Signori di Notte about.

Bending back over Jacopo, she wrestled his cape from under him. It was sticky with blood, but at least the dark material made it difficult to detect and it would keep the worst of the elements at bay. Understanding what she was doing, Pillar helped. Once it was free, she draped it over Pillar’s shoulders. Then she thrust her hands in Jacopo’s pockets and pulled out his purse. She placed it in Pillar’s hands. He didn’t argue. He nodded grimly and shoved it in a pocket.

Holding hands, they climbed the stairs, Hafeza slowing as they reached the top. Out in the rain, she led him across the courtyard to the gate that led out into the calle. Fumbling with the latch, she managed to open it. Pillar stood still, lifting his face to the rain, opening his mouth and allowing the moisture to fall in. Hafeza watched him. In the strange, glowing light, she could see his features more clearly. Thin, he had a long, regal nose, an unkempt beard and gentle eyes. His voice too was kind as he spoke.

‘I cannot thank you enough for this, Hafeza.’ He took her face in his hands. ‘I know you will look after Tallow. I know what she has become. Please, if you can pass her a message?’

Hafeza nodded, aware of how this man’s hands on her face made her feel. Safe, warm, cared about.

‘Tell her I have not abandoned her. Tell her I love her and I will be back for her. That I promise.’

Not wanting to, Hafeza pulled at his hands. She shook her head. No, no! He had no time to waste; he must help Tarlo now! How could she make him understand?

Letting her go, Pillar smiled at her urgency. ‘Can you do that for me? Can you tell her?’

Hafeza stared at him, willing him to know what was in her head. But it was no good. This man, this Pillar, had set a course of action. She sighed and raised a hand in affirmation.

‘Grazie mille, Hafeza, grazie mille.’ He turned to go. ‘When I come back for Tallow, I will come back for you as well. Capisce?’

Hafeza froze. He would help her too? She sighed. So, it had all been worth it. To find someone ready to serve her, help her and at this point in her life. She smiled sadly and nodded. Then she pushed him away.

Bending suddenly, Pillar kissed her forehead. His lips were warm against her wet flesh, the cracked skin soothing in their roughness. Then he was gone, disappearing in a swirl of cape and rain into the calle.

Hafeza sent prayers to her gods and, with care, locked the gate.

Resting against it, she slowly lowered her hand to just below her right breast. It came away wet. She’d lost so much blood. Dizziness threatened to overwhelm her. She put her hand against the wall and then thrust herself towards the staircase.

There was one last thing she had to do – while she still had breath in her body, life in her limbs.

Staggering across the courtyard, her vision began to go. The steps she knew she had to ascend appeared in two places. The rain confused her. She fell, her hip hitting the stairs. She found them. On her hands and knees she crawled, her blood mingling with the downpour, leaving a watery trail.

When she reached the portego, she did not stop, though her body was trembling with the strain, her mind was clouding. Images of her mother, her clay house in the sunshine back in Moroko paraded before her, overlapping with Tarlo, that first day in the tub, delighting in the water, amazed at how she appeared, so transformed in a dress. Her young beau from another lifetime bowed to kiss her cheek and she turned her head at the last moment so his lips grazed hers. They’d both blushed and giggled. Then there was Tarlo, as she’d last seen her tonight, magnificent in her finest golden gown yet, her mask fixed to her face, her black hair arranged so it fell between her shoulder blades. Only Hafeza knew the terror that lurked in those eyes, the emptiness in her soul, the guilt that drove her to do the terrible deed the Maleovellis demanded of her before they would murder her as well.

No more, Tarlo. No more. I will set you free.

Hand over hand, Hafeza reached Tarlo’s bedroom. She pushed open the door and crawled across the floor, focused on one thing only: the huge chest of drawers under the window. She fell at their base, panting, her lungs gurgling. Consciousness teetered. No! She fought the darkness. Summoning the last of her strength, she used the handles to lift her off her feet. Her hand scrabbled over the surface of the dresser, knocking the pile of freshly pressed drying sheets to the floor. She ignored them as her hands became her eyes. There! She had it. She sank back down to the floor, the tiny glass harlequin clutched to her chest.

In the dying embers of the fire, Hafeza took a few shallow breaths and stared into the glass. Multiple colours whorled, making it seem as if the harlequin was alive. She was certain she felt the love and trust of the old Tallow, the woman she was before she came to this forsaken casa, contained within its fragile form.

Hafeza raised it to her lips before lifting it over her head and, with trembling, cold arms, hurled it against the grate. The force of the impact shattered the figurine, the glass exploding like the fireworks that erupted in the sky at Carnivale. Hafeza smiled.

Through half-closed eyes, she saw a rainbow-hued mist rise from the fragments and swirl about the room. It enveloped her in a love such as she had never known. She slid down further, curling onto the floor, cocooned in its depths. The edges of her sight began to fade; all she could see now were the colours twirling like a dancer before her eyes. The pain that had pierced her side disappeared and joy lifted her heart.

‘Be free, Tallow,’ she whispered in her mind and, with a great shuddering that sounded like laughter, breathed her last.





‘SIGNORINA DORATA! YOU CANNOT LEAVE NOW! I have not claimed my dance!’

The masked dandy swung me around in his arms as I tried to leave the floor. I slapped him playfully with my fan and saw Giaconda swooping past him. She linked her arm in mine.

‘Ah, Signor Maraponi, Signorina Dorata is not leaving! She is merely taking what we ladies sometimes have to – a small break.’ She tweaked his cheek and pushed her finger against his pout as Lord Waterford approached and took the Signor aside. Giaconda nodded to the ambassador before drawing me away.

‘Once we get through the doors, I will distract the guards. You have only a short time to get to where you have to be, Tarlo. Do not fail us; you know what will happen if you do.’ She chattered in my ear as she pulled me across the floor.

‘I’ll not fail,’ I said, smiling as another sweating nobile, a courtesan in his arms, sailed past us, the drinks they clutched in their hands spilling unnoticed down their clothes.

Giaconda led me through the maze of dancers and observers. Filled with food and vino, some could barely stand, let alone take note of Giaconda and me. A few were gathered around a courtesan who was demonstrating an exotic dance involving veils. A high-pitched scream made me jump, but it was only another courtesan being dragged onto the lap of one of the Council of Ten. Through the crowd of noisy, leering faces, I saw Signor Maleovelli. Arrayed in his new Council regalia, he raised his glass to me, his eyes glowing with anticipation, his mouth locked in a feigned smile.

We swept past the windows and I glanced outside. It was pitch black and the rain was falling hard and the wind was so strong the glass shook. It was as if the elements themselves protested what I was about to do.

The servants swooped to open the doors, admitting us to the landing outside. We stopped briefly and found our breath. The doors swung shut and the laughter and music diminished, already placed in a distant past. Ahead of me rose the golden staircase – the only access from this part of the palazzo to the Doge’s rooms.

I lifted my skirts and began to ascend, Giaconda close behind me. No-one questioned courtesans moving throughout the palazzo at this time of year. Baroque had also told me that, whenever I was trying to get to somewhere I shouldn’t, let alone be someone I was not, I had to appear confident. Even if I was trembling inside, I could not show it. He was right. I was far less likely to be challenged.

I was well past fear. I felt a heavy sense of resignation, of obligation. I longed for tonight to be over. I wanted to see Pillar. I would not do another thing for the Maleovellis until they released him. Of that I was sure.

We reached the next level and paused at the top of the stairs. Giaconda quickly clutched her ear. She unclipped her earring and allowed it to disappear into her décolletage. She smiled without looking at me and pressed on. A wide corridor opened before us, punctuated by grand doors, each of which led to a suite of rooms. I had been here many times already, the guest of Prince Cosimo and, once, the Doge. But that was when he was entertaining the Hybernyian ambassador. Giaconda glanced at me.

‘I will accompany you to the Prince’s rooms. From there, you’re on your own.’

The rustle of Giaconda’s gown against the floor was spoiled by the slap of our zoccoli against the terrazzo. As we drew level with each set of guards, they stood to attention, staring straight ahead. Some were faces I knew and I felt their eyes follow me, the knowingness in their looks, the envy underlining their gaze. I was hoping their acquaintance with my presence would last long enough for me to do what Giaconda was now making sure was done.

At the end of the passage was my goal – the Doge’s suite. It loomed closer with every step. No sentinels stood outside his rooms. It was considered a breach of privacy, a threat to state secrets. It was inconceivable that an attacker should get through the ranks of guards already posted; just as it was beyond comprehension that a woman would hurt the ruler of Serenissima. That was my greatest asset and protection. No-one would even consider that a mere courtesan would dare do such a thing. I was suddenly conscious of the votives wrapped in paper, secreted in my purse. I slowed down. Giaconda matched my step.

‘Ready?’ she muttered. Without waiting for an answer she stopped suddenly. ‘Oh, no!’ she exclaimed, ‘I have lost my earring! Guards!’

She began to search the floors, bending over to reveal a large expanse of bosom. The guards stared and then exchanged a long look.

‘Can we help you, Signorina?’ asked one, stepping forward.

‘Sì!’ said Giaconda and grabbed his hand, clutching it to her bosom. ‘I have lost an earring! Do you know who gave it to me? How much it is worth?’

Two other guards came forward.

‘Who was it, Signorina?’

‘Signor Moronisini.’

Again, more looks were exchanged. They had heard the rumours then; that Signor Moronisini was informally the Doge Elect.

‘I must go back – but …’ She glanced at me.

‘I am all right, sister. I can go alone. Signor Nicolotti told me he would not be long.’

One of the guards sniggered. Another elbowed him.

‘Do you know which suite is his, Signorina?’ asked one of the young men.

‘That one?’ I asked, pointing to the abandoned rooms of the younger Prince. The guards laughed. ‘No,’ said the same one who spoke before. ‘It is the one closest to the Doge’s. You will be safe, Signorina. Do not worry.’

‘I am not worried for myself, only for my sister. You will help her find that which she has lost?’

Giaconda blinked back her tears. ‘You must. I have to find this – it was a gift from Signor Moronisini, the most generous of patrons, the most forgiving, except when it comes to carelessness.’ She gave a sob. ‘Will you help me, gallant sirs?’

If the guards had any doubts, it was the repetition of Signor Moronisini’s name that dispelled them. Four of them began to comb the floors. I took advantage of their distraction and calmly walked to Signor Nicolotti’s rooms, paused and, when I was sure no-one was looking, quickly crossed the corridor and slipped into the Doge’s suite. What the guards could not have known was that Signor Nicolotti had already gone home.

Baroque had told me all about the secret passages that laced the palazzo. There was one connecting the Doge’s rooms with the capo of the Council of Ten. Not that I would be using it tonight. I would be employing another route to escape down to the canal and to the relative safety of the Maleovellis’ gondola. First I had to be certain that the votives I’d prepared worked – that the Doge succumbed to their power.

I rested against the door and took stock of my surroundings. My heart was pounding in my ears. I could still hear Giaconda leading the men away.

Comprising four separate rooms, the Doge’s suite was enormous. I was in a lavish sitting room. Tapestries of the finest quality hung from the walls, paintings much like those that adorned the ballroom took up space as well. Gilded chairs, wooden tables, thick patterned rugs and beautiful ornaments set atop a long credenza and the mantelpiece over a blazing fire completed the room. What astonished me most was the number of candles – pillars, tapers and votives all burned, throwing their light about, making the entire space glow like a setting sun.

I kicked off my zoccoli and picked them up, crossing the room. The rugs were soothing under my aching feet. I opened one of the doors and found a cosy meeting room in which I’d once dined; another opened onto a smaller suite. I had never seen the Dogeressa’s area, but recognised the feminine qualities of the fittings. The last door I opened was the bedroom.

The bed was enormous, an old piece of furniture that, as I stroked its highly polished wood and began to extract, sang to me of triumph, tragedy and profound grief. The last was from the current Doge. The loss of his grandson, the defection of his sons and the infertility of his daughter affected him deeply. Around the bed and on the windowsills, more candles burned.

I moved towards the window, careful to stay in the shadows lest a guard on the battlements above spy me.

As Baroque had said, a small door to the right of the bed led to a dressing room. It was in here that I would hide. Tonight, of all nights, the Doge dismissed his servants and his valet, allowing them to indulge in some Carnivale revelry. He would disrobe himself and leave his clothes on the floor and chairs for his men to attend to in the morning.

A howl of wind distracted me. I had to stop wasting time. With caution, I withdrew the votives from my purse and placed them on the bedside table. Picking up a taper, I used its flame to light my candles. Once the wick had taken, I quickly placed them around the room. Already their scent was escaping. I closed myself to their effects. Alongside the other candles, their differences were not so obvious – even the unusual darkness of the wax was not easy to discern against the brightness of the flame.

Satisfied, I picked up my zoccoli from where I had left them on the floor and entered the Doge’s dressing room, placing them back on my feet. I needed to be ready to leave. The dressing room was rather large and lined with shelves upon which sat an array of folded garments that, even in the semi-darkness, I could see were made from quality fabrics. I resisted the urge to stroke the velvets, silks and ermine robes, caps and collars, stepping over pairs of leather shoes and boots that stood to attention along the sides, and crept into the centre as I made my way to the rear wall. A number of gold and cream togati covered the space. I pushed them aside and struck the wood behind. I counted across the panels until my hands rested against the fourth one. Just as Baroque said, there was a lever – so tiny it would be easy to miss. If I flicked it, the wood beside the shelves that stored the Doge’s hats and gloves to my right would slide away, revealing a passage. I prayed fervently that it would work.

I went back to the door that led into the bedroom. I didn’t close it completely, but left it slightly ajar. From where I was, I could see the bed clearly. Two of my candles were also in view. My palms began to sweat and my throat became dry. I wished I had something with which to moisten my mouth.

It seemed like only a few minutes passed before I heard the outer door open. I stiffened as feet shuffled across the floor. There was a tinkle of glass and the sound of liquid being poured. More sounds, then a long sigh.

When the door to the bedroom opened and the Doge appeared I almost lost my nerve. Here I was, Tallow, in the Doge’s bedchamber. I could hardly credit it myself. The Maleovellis had insisted I remain until I had proof that the Doge was dead. They wanted me to take his corno ducale. I saw it on his head now, the strange curved shape of golden fabric that denoted his leadership, his authority over all Serenissians. Only the Cardinale wore something so ornate, so tall.

I averted my eyes as the Doge slipped off his robe and, as Baroque had predicted, let it slide to the floor. I heard the thud of his leather shoes hitting the rug and grunts and groans as he picked his nightshirt off the bed and stepped into it, clutching the bedpost for support. I held my breath as he fell into bed, reaching for his vino once he’d settled against the pillows.

With horror, I saw that he still wore his corno. I willed him to remove it, throw it upon the chair nearest me. But it remained stubbornly fixed upon his head.

It was strange watching the Doge, waiting for my candles to take effect. The first time I saw him, he appeared to me as I imagined a nonno to look – old, frail and kind. Closer, he did not look kind so much as sad and beaten. And so ancient. I exhaled quietly and noted that his eyes had taken a strange, faraway look. His face appeared to collapse in on itself.

The candles were working.

His eyelids grew heavy and the colour in them started to leach away. He slowly slipped down the bed, the cap I needed as my proof bending beneath his weight, falling behind his head, sliding backwards over his ears. I saw his chest, rising and falling, the rhythms slowing with each breath. His eyes shut and he sank towards oblivion.

I waited.

I was about to step out of the closet when I heard a loud noise in the corridor. Shouts and cries. I’d been discovered. Darting out of the closet, I raced to the bed and reached behind the Doge, and tried to wrench his cap off. It took two pulls before it came free. I stared at it in both disbelief and relief, spinning around to flee, when a hand flew out and gripped my wrist. I repressed the scream that rose in my throat and looked down in dismay.

Staring at me, with eyes that had once been grey, was Doge Dandolo. They widened as he took in my face. My mask dangled around my neck and the belladonna had long worn off.

‘Estrattore!’ he rasped. ‘Estrattore! Help!’ he began to cry.

‘No,’ I said, pressing my fingers against his wizened, dry mouth, the corno crunching under his chin. ‘Please, you don’t understand.’

‘Help!’ he tried to call. But his voice was so faint, I doubted he’d be heard. I didn’t wait to find out.

I wriggled out of his grasp and, dropping the corno, ran to the closet. I shut the door and quickly activated the lever. To my relief, the wood swung aside and cold air from a long dark passage blasted me. I stepped in, fumbling for the candle in the sconce that Baroque had warned me to expect. Using the tinderbox that sat in a groove by the opening, I lit it quickly with shaking hands and shut the door, using the mechanism on the inside. As it slid closed, I noted that the noises I’d heard had not grown louder, that the Doge’s rooms had not been disturbed. Why had there been shouting? Perhaps it was just Carnivale gaiety, or had Giaconda organised a greater distraction than her own charms?

I ran as carefully as I could down the passage, holding onto the walls when I reached the steps, keeping the candle above my head so the light cast a wide halo. It was freezing and, as I fled past alcoves and doorways, I occasionally heard the mutter of voices, groans and little squeals. Rats scurried past my feet; a couple ran over them. On I moved, as swiftly as I could. Down staircase after staircase, passageway after passageway, always moving west as Baroque had told me, praying I wouldn’t encounter anyone else.

After ten minutes, I came to a section I knew – I had used it many times when leaving Prince Cosimo. I slowed down. I was nearly there. I had to catch my breath. I descended the last two flights of stairs and rounded a corner. There was the outer door at the end of the passage. Relief flooded me. I was sweating. I pulled my mask off completely and tucked it into my purse. It no longer mattered who saw me. It was over.

Pulling back the latch, I slowly opened the external door and peered into the dark. It was still raining. I was about to step outside when a force on the other side slammed into me and sent me reeling back. I slipped over, throwing an arm out to keep my balance and striking the wall hard. I gasped in pain. Somehow, with my other hand, I managed to keep the candle aloft. I held it before me.

‘At last we meet then, Estrattore.’ Out of the night and into my circle of light stepped a man. Cold steel pressed against my throat.

‘Get up slowly. Keep your hands by your side. One word, one movement and I will kill you,’ he hissed. He reeked of vino and his words were slightly slurred. I tried to think fast.

He snatched the candle out of my hand and held it above his head, studying me, careful to avoid my eyes. As he took in my appearance, I staggered to my feet and examined him. There was something about the blue eyes, the chin, the way the cheekbones flared towards the temples, how his hair came to a widow’s peak above his eyebrows that registered with me. I swallowed heavily. The man began to laugh. A freezing draught blew around my legs, lifting my dress, forcing his cape to flap against me.

‘You know, for so long my thoughts were preoccupied with Katina.’ I stiffened. ‘I wanted to hurt her, damage her, erase her from his memory, rid his casa of her shame. But then I realised, all I had to do to set him free, to make him happy and get Katina at the same time was destroy you.’ He leant towards me. I thought he was going to fall. The tip of the sword pressed into my flesh. I felt a burn then a rush of warmth as I was cut. I winced and cried out.

‘Dante made it so easy –’

Dante? What was he talking about? How did he know Dante?

‘All I did was follow him and there you were – right before my eyes, right before everyone’s eyes, but we were so dazzled by the gold, by the beautiful Signorina Dorata, that no-one saw what was in front of their eyes. Only Dante, the lovesick fool.’

My heart began to race. What was this man talking about? Who was he? I could see now he was a Bond Rider. He mentioned Katina. But Dante? Dante was dead … How could Dante know that I was Signorina Dorata?

‘Who are you?’

The sword came up under my chin, forcing my head back. The man laughed and again, his blade sliced my flesh. By now I was pressed hard against the wall. His body rested against mine. I could feel its strength. I swallowed nervously. If only I could touch him, get him to look at me, but my hands were caught behind my back. His strange eyes would not focus, couldn’t. And, when they did, he was seeing something or someone else. He was like a man possessed.

‘I figured out what to do,’ he continued, oblivious to the pain he was inflicting or else celebrating it. I stayed still, but began to ease my hands out from behind my back, scraping them as I did. I saw how you use this gate, this entrance. I knew if I waited you’d appear. You’re the star of Carnivale; of course the Doge would have you at his ball. I knew and I was right. Stefano thinks I’m stupid – they all do, you know. But I’m not. I’ve outsmarted her – I’ve outwitted Katina this time. She is going to be very angry when she finds out.’

‘What makes you so sure of that?’ I asked through gritted teeth.

His eyes widened and he gave me a mocking laugh. ‘Because it will ruin her Obbligare Doppio.’ He lowered his weapon slightly.

Her what? A double bind? What was that? I knew I had to pretend to know what he was talking about.

‘Really? Well, good. I hate her. So do what you have to do.’

This time he was surprised. He pushed himself away from me and the sword shifted. It was now poised over my breast. I tried to ignore it, but the tip of the blade sank into the fabric of my dress. At least my hands were free. I kept them motionless by my sides.

‘Why do you hate her?’

‘She killed my love.’

He frowned and then his face cleared. ‘You mean Dante? He’s not dead.’

I thought my heart had stopped. ‘What?’ A great roar sounded in my ears. I saw this man’s mouth move, but I didn’t hear what he was saying. The door blew shut behind him. I barely noticed. Dante’s not dead? He’s alive? Where is he? Oh my love, my dearest. My heart filled. I wanted to cry out, to find him, now, this minute.

The smell of vino brought me back to the present. To where I was, to who I was. To the danger I was in. Who was this madman? No, my heart screamed. No!

‘I killed him. At least I thought I had.’

I stared at this staggering drunk man. I’d had enough of him and his senseless babbling, his threats, his stench. Waiting until he was lost in some sort of reverie, I gave him a huge shove in the chest. He stumbled back and his head hit the wall. I stepped forward and wrenched the door open. Rain pelted me in the face, but I could see the small pier, the striped paline and, bobbing alongside it, a gondola. I began to run. Only, as I drew closer, I saw with horror it wasn’t the Maleovellis’ craft. I slowed down as two shadows emerged from the felze, leaping onto the dock. With a wave of relief, I saw the first was Baroque. He reached behind him and held out a hand, hauling the other person onto the dock. A tall man with big shoulders and glossy dark hair.

‘Tallow!’ cried a voice. My heart swelled. I stopped in my tracks. My body began to shake as feelings I had denied myself for months flooded into every fibre of my being, filling me with hope and longing. Where they came from, I didn’t know. But they entered with such force, I was almost thrown off my feet. My knees buckled, my lips began to say his name over and over, Dante, Dante. Rain struck my face, fell into my mouth, mingling with the tears that I knew fell freely. I dashed them out of my eyes, fearful that if I didn’t keep this person, this man, in my sights, he’d disappear. My Dante. I compelled my legs to work as he too began to run towards me, arms outstretched. But before I could call out, something slammed into my back.

I stumbled forward and stopped again. I felt hot, peculiar.

I tried to move, but my body refused to cooperate. It didn’t matter, because he came to me. After all this time, he came. Through the rain and darkness he found me. So tall, so strong, so beautiful. I saw his mouth open wide as he cried out a word I could not hear because of the thunder in my mind. The joy on his face, which echoed that in my soul, dissolved into something else. Everything slowed down. I saw Baroque draw a sword and begin to lumber down the dock. He ran past me shouting, but I couldn’t hear him either, I saw his mouth moving, snarling. I saw Dante’s eyes drop to my breasts. I saw a look of panic twist his beloved face. I followed the direction of his gaze.

Sticking out of my chest was a sword. It was covered in blood. My blood.

I started to fall forwards. He ran to catch me but it was too late.

‘Don’t touch me!’ I whispered before I toppled onto the dock and knew no more.





IGNORING THE HORSE THAT CANTERED into the clearing, Dante remained hunched over Tallow’s unconscious form. Even the sounds of the rider dismounting and the rough hand gripping his shoulder didn’t break his focus. ‘I can’t lose her again, Baroque. I won’t,’ he said as Baroque released his grip. The back of Dante’s hand brushed her cheek gently.

Dante had placed her on his cape. Without her mask, and with her eyes closed and hair all dishevelled, she could have been asleep. Only the blood that stained the front of her dress told a different story. Her skin has taken a bluish cast, ghastly, in the moonlight.

‘We won’t lose her, Dante. Stay strong, amico mio. Have faith,’ Baroque said and squatted beside him. ‘There was more than a mortal hand behind that sword, the intention. But if there is one thing I’ve learnt about Tallow, it’s that she’s stronger than she looks, you know.’

‘I did what you said.’ Dante faced him, desperation making his eyes glimmer. ‘I gave her that potion. Her breathing is slowing; but her heart … I can barely feel it.’ Dante stumbled over the words. He fought back tears.

‘Then you have done all you can for now.’ Baroque rose and left Dante alone for a moment. Walking back to where he’d left his horse, he quickly tied it to a tree next to Argento and began to loosen the large roll strapped behind the saddle. ‘Dante,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘I need your help.’

First pushing Tallow’s hair from her face, Dante reluctantly went to aid Baroque. Together they carried the roll and dropped it down next to Tallow.

‘What’s this?’ Dante asked.

Baroque didn’t answer. Instead, he slowly unrolled what was an ornate rug until its centre was exposed. A pale, dishevelled old man lay in the middle.

Dante leapt back in astonishment. ‘The Doge!’ he yelped. ‘That’s what you went back for, Baroque? Why? Is he dead?’ Dante approached cautiously and bent down, peering at his ruler curiously.

Baroque knelt on the carpet and gently pulled the old man’s robes around him – the robes he’d scooped from the floor and clumsily thrown over the Doge’s nightshirt before wrapping him in the rug and carrying him down the passage. He grimaced as he saw the bruises that marked the Doge’s face and hands, the dried blood from all the scrapes that tore his papery flesh and from which the thin rug had not protected him. It was these that gave him hope. Dead men did not bleed.

‘No, he’s no dead – not yet,’ said Baroque.

‘What do you mean?’

Before he could answer, the horses began to snort and pull at their tethers. The crash of undergrowth and the sound of harnesses jangling brought Dante and Baroque to their feet. Both drew their swords, Dante standing protectively over Tallow.

From the direction of the Limen cantered two riders. Dante gave a crow of joy and sheathed his sword.

They both waited beside Tallow and the Doge as first Katina and then Constantina rode into the clearing. Katina threw the reins aside and leapt off her horse. She ran to Dante and clasped him to her bosom.

Surprised, Dante returned the hug, glad to see how well Katina looked, how alert and strong.

‘You’ve grown,’ she said, holding him at arm’s length then reaching up and tousling his hair. ‘Where is she?’

Before Dante could warn her, Katina released him and looked down at his feet, her face altering. ‘No, No! What’s happened?’ She fell to the ground. ‘Tallow?’ She scrabbled helplessly at Tallow’s bloodied clothing. ‘Who did this to her?’ She glared at Dante. ‘You were meant to protect her.’ Katina stared, her eyes accusing. ‘No, no, this is not the way it’s meant to be.’

‘Settle down, Katina,’ said Baroque. ‘She’s alive, for all that she appears not to be. We did what we could. Don’t blame Dante. No-one could have prevented this.’

‘We think it was a Bond Rider,’ said Dante, uncomfortable under Katina’s flinty gaze. ‘I didn’t recognise him in the dark. There was something peculiar about him. He fled back into the palazzo.’ He looked to Baroque to continue the story.

‘We didn’t follow him. We didn’t have time. Dante brought Tallow here as fast as he could. We knew it was important to alert you, get her into the Limen. She needs help.’

Katina gave a curt nod. ‘You’re right. Of course, you’re right.’ She dashed a hand across her cheek, wiping away her tears. ‘Constantina, come quickly.’

The older woman was slower to get off her horse, but fast once on her feet. She nodded to Dante and studied Baroque briefly before kneeling beside Katina. Baroque’s jaw dropped and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the woman.

Pulling Tallow’s dress aside, Constantina tried to see the wound.

‘The light is terrible,’ she said. ‘Can you give me a fire, a torch, something?’

‘No, I’m afraid not. Not only is everything wet from the rain, but if we’re followed, it will make us easy to find,’ said Baroque. ‘I did my best to cover our tracks as it was.’

Constantina grunted.

‘You’re an Estrattore, aren’t you?’ he asked.

Constantina glanced at him over her shoulder. ‘Vero,’ she said. ‘Now, give me some space, all of you. I need to examine Tallow.’

Reluctantly they moved away, their eyes still upon Constantina and Tallow.

‘Allora. You think you’ve been followed?’ asked Katina quietly.

Baroque nodded. ‘I’m sure of it. When I took him –’ he gestured to the Doge ‘– something was afoot in the palazzo. I heard the Cardinale’s name mentioned. Something about a message from Roma. It won’t take long for them to discover the Doge is missing.’

‘That’s the Doge?’ Katina’s eyes widened. ‘What on Vista Mare possessed you to bring him here?’ She shook her head in astonishment. ‘The Doge! What’s wrong with him?’

‘Tallow, that’s what. She’s done something to him.’ Katina’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I brought him because they can’t implicate Tallow in his death if there’s no body, can they?’

‘She killed him?’

‘No, not exactly. I don’t know what she’s done. I took him to buy us time. To sort out this mess.’

‘Us?’ asked Constantina. She’d managed to open the front of Tallow’s dress, pulling it away from the wound.

‘Sì. Us. We’re all in this together now,’ said Baroque. ‘I trained Tallow. I was the one who led the Maleovellis to her. The one who brought her to the point where she was left with no choice but to do what they ordered – to kill the Doge.’

Katina gasped. Baroque gave a rough nod in affirmation of her surprise. Then he lifted his chin and continued. ‘But blame for his death will fall on you,’ he said, indicating Constantina. ‘On the Estrattore. That cannot be allowed to happen. Not now. People are starting to believe again – and all because of Tallow.’

Constantina paused. ‘Your friend knows much for a human, Katina. He’s right. He did well to bring the Doge. And I can tell you, the man is not dead or in any likelihood of dying. But it’s Tallow I’m worried about now.’

‘What is it?’ asked Dante, dropping beside her. ‘She will be all right, won’t she? I mean, he didn’t pierce her heart or anything vital, did he?’

‘No. No, he didn’t, which puzzles me. Bond Riders are normally very accurate. By rights, she should be able to heal herself. An Estrattore with a fraction of her capabilities would be able to. But …’ Constantina hesitated,

‘But what?’ urged Dante, his voice catching.

Katina came and stood beside him. ‘What is it, Constantina?’

‘It’s not the physical injury I am concerned about. There is more damage here than a sword thrust or blood loss. It’s as if …’

‘What? Tell me,’ insisted Dante.

‘It’s as if she’s distilling the pain, storing it inside herself,’ finished Constantina.

‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’

‘I’m not sure. All I can tell you is that I sense a terrible darkness in her – a great void that I have only felt once before in my entire life.’ She looked up at Katina, then her eyes slid to Baroque. ‘What did those people do to her?’ Her voice was wintry, her eyes weapons that glinted sharply.

Baroque stood rooted to the spot; he struggled to speak, to explain.

‘I do not expect an answer,’ said Katina finally. ‘Not now. But I will have one, Signor.’ She released Baroque from her gaze. Tension fled his body and he stumbled.

Constantina pulled a bandage from a bag slung over her shoulder and wrapped it around Tallow firmly. Katina aided her. Pulling Tallow’s dress back into place, Constantina rose to her feet.

‘She will live. She’s lost a great deal of blood and the wound, as bad as it first appears passes right through her body. But you’re correct, Dante, it missed her heart, thank the gods. I have the right medicines, but I am no longer certain they are enough.’ She glanced at Baroque.

‘If what you say is true, and you may be followed, then we have to leave. We must take Tallow into the Limen. At least in there I will have time to try to find the source of this terrible shadow, this force that is destroying her from within.’

‘What if you can’t?’ asked Dante.

‘Then we are all lost.’

‘What about the Doge?’ asked Katina.

Constantina’s face was hard to read in the dark, but Dante was sure he saw her expression harden. ‘Bring the unbeliever as well.’

‘But how? He’s human.’ Dante said.

‘Just bring him. He may not be dead, but he’s not exactly alive either. I’m not sure what Tallow has done – her skills are like nothing I’ve sensed before – but he’ll survive a crossing. I’ll make sure of it.’

‘And Tallow? Will she?’

‘She has to,’ replied Constantina simply. ‘Now, pick her up and place her on my horse.’

‘No,’ said Dante.

They all looked at him in shock.

‘I will take her.’

Constantina studied his face for a moment. ‘Molto bene.’ She turned to Baroque. ‘You, Signor, since you had the foresight to bring the Doge, can help me tie him to my horse.’ Joining Baroque, she placed her bag in the one attached to her saddle. ‘And, since you can’t come with us, you can make yourself useful in Vista Mare.’ She regarded Baroque more carefully. He shifted uncomfortably under her pearly gaze.

‘You will be our eyes and ears in Serenissima. Can you return to the Maleovellis?’

‘Sì, I think so. For a while. I am very good at feigning ignorance.’

‘Bene,’ said Constantina. ‘Learn all you can about what is going on. What their plans are, what the plans of the Serenissian Council are. Great forces are rousing and we’re all being drawn into the whirlpool on this side of the Limen, and within. We need to know what every element is doing before we can understand what’s really at stake and how to act. If we move too soon or in the wrong direction, all could be undone.’

Baroque’s face broke into a smile. ‘I thought my spying days were over.’

Katina cocked her head to one side. ‘No. Not yet. You sound pleased.’ She slapped him on the back. ‘Go well, amico mio, be careful.’

‘You will be contacted, Baroque,’ said Constantina. ‘I will send my servants – you may leave messages with them too. Katina,’ she said, turning to the Bond Rider. ‘Make sure our tracks are covered. Hide Baroque’s once he goes. We cannot afford to have our involvement discovered. Not until we know why a Bond Rider tried to kill an Estrattore. More importantly, until we learn why he tried or deliberately failed to kill Tallow. We need to find out if he was acting under orders or independently.’

Katina nodded and helped Baroque sling the Doge onto Constantina’s horse.

Dante sat in his saddle, his arms wrapped around Tallow, her head resting against his chest. He noted that Constantina insisted the Doge was lashed to the back of her horse. It seemed to amuse her to have the ruler of one of the greatest countries in Vista Mare, one that had ordered her people exiled and killed, flung like a piece of baggage over her mount.

When he’d finished, Baroque appeared by his side and gripped Dante’s leg. ‘Look after her, Dante.’

‘I will.’ Words didn’t seem necessary between them anymore. Dante looked at the older man. ‘Grazie mille, Baroque. For everything.’

‘Don’t thank me yet, not until we know Tallow is going to be all right. Those Maleovellis … they, they tried to break her, to mould her into something she never was and was never meant to be. I will never forgive myself if they have succeeded,’ said Baroque quietly. With one more squeeze, he released Dante.

‘See you on the other side,’ said Dante to Katina.

‘The other side,’ she said and slapped Argento’s rump. The horse neighed, Dante wheeled her round and let her have her head. She knew where she was going. Constantina was close behind him.

They rode through the trees, towards the glittering wall that rose into the sky – both barrier and haven.

After all this time, the months of watching Tallow, seeing her feted, admired and, most of all, knowing someone else was able to hold her, love her, she was here. She was where she belonged – in his arms. He’d dreamt of this moment and, despite the warmth of her body, the smell of her hair, it still didn’t seem real. He didn’t care about what she’d been, or what she’d done. She was his once more and he would do everything in his power to protect her, to see the prophecy of which Tallow was so central a part come to be. What Constantina sensed, what Baroque whispered, that terrified him. What had happened to her? How could someone who brought so much light into the gloom have darkness in their core? What did that mean? What was Constantina hiding? And who was the Bond Rider who attacked her?

That Tallow had been so badly hurt, and right before his eyes, had almost crushed him. He’d prayed to his God and to those of the Estrattore to let her live. He had promised them his life for hers – whatever they wanted, so long as she survived. So far, they’d listened. Or had they? Was it already too late? Had something worse than death taken her from him? He longed to kiss the top of her head, but was afraid he would bang his chin against her and cause more hurt. God knows, she’d suffered enough in her short life. Instead, he tightened his arms around her, astonished by how small and frail she felt, this magnificent, golden being. He felt her shift and thought for a second she was trying to get closer to him. With a painful start it occurred to him that even in her semi-conscious state, she was trying to move away.

Oh, Tallow, my love, I’ll make them pay for this. They’ll all pay.

In the melee of his thoughts, a face swam into view, crystallising before him. Santo. That day by the Elders’ palazzo. The day he woke to his new life and new responsibilities. The day he became a Bond Rider. Macelleria? Santo had sneered at him. Will you live up to your name and do what needs to be done?

Dante knew, that for Tallow, he could become anything – even a butcher of men.

The trees ended and the Limen waited. Shimmering, alluring, dangerous and exciting. Much like Tallow, he thought, as she rested against his chest. The warmth of his feelings pervaded his body, flowing to the ends of his fingers and toes. The sensations were so intense they brought tears to his eyes. He held Tallow tighter. You’ll never escape me again, he promised. Grazie mille, God, gods. Help her. Help us all.

He remembered what she said before she collapsed. ‘Don’t touch me,’ she’d cried. Did she recognise him? Did she mean that? Why did she say that and to him of all people? He pushed aside the pain her first words had caused to flare and concentrated on breaching the Limen.

He could hear Constantina behind him. As he shouted the words that would tear the barrier asunder, urging Argento into a canter, a great shudder wracked his body.

Katina! She was in dreadful danger. Just when he thought what remained of his soul was at peace, that his Bond could now be fulfilled, the Obbligare Doppio told him something else. Before he could reverse his charge, Argento leapt through the Limen, Constantina on their heels.

One minute, a window opened from the world of time and space and into the grey place where it had no meaning before it closed behind him, swirling and reforming as if it had never been disturbed.

Shutting him out.