TARLO MALEOVELLI. THE NAME, like the mellow light coming in from the series of arched windows, took me unawares. I tried it out in my mind, rolled it around in my thoughts, tasted it and didn’t find it nearly as objectionable as I thought. Tarlo. It suited my new look and life; it was a sobriquet that announced my sex to the world, as well my different purpose – whatever that might be. Tarlo. So close to Tallow and yet, I thought, my hands brushing against the silken fabric of my gown, aware of my décolletage and the earrings dangling from my lobes and the cool pearls against my neck, so immeasurably distant.
I took a few more steps into the room and stopped. Giaconda had taken my arm again and the downward pressure she applied forced me into an awkward curtsy. As I rose, I could see three figures climbing to their feet. I felt momentarily bereft as Giaconda abandoned me in the middle of the huge room.
Four enormous windows drenched the room in the pastel hues of the afternoon. The floor beneath my feet gleamed brightly. Elaborate rugs were scattered at intervals, their colours fading yet still managing to offer a loud contrast to the geometrical patterns of the wood. I managed to briefly glimpse the ceiling that soared above me. A silent cacophony of cherubs and angels sang in greeting, floating amid a maelstrom of pallid clouds. The cream walls were covered in metal sconces in which sat huge pillar candles at various stages of melting. Tapestries, as discoloured as those in the corridor, hung scrappily between doorways along with leather shields bearing faded coats of arms. The overall impression was one of indifferent luxury such as I had never encountered. I’d often wondered what lay behind the windows of the nobiles’ houses; what the interior would be like. I’d never imagined it to be so vast, so lush, so colourful and yet, so used. The room whispered to me of antique wealth and manners, of business that was, as yet, beyond my ken. It was breathtaking in its richness and decadent as well. So many empty chairs, so many tables that did nothing but display beautiful objects. The painted faces looking down their aristocratic noses from the walls made me feel self-conscious. I didn’t belong here. But then, I didn’t really belong anywhere, not even in Pillar and Quinn’s dark little house either. Within seconds, I had drunk my fill of the room and yet remained thirsty. I had so many questions.
In the time it took to store these impressions, someone approached obscured by a haze of fragrant smoke. It was Signor Ezzelino Maleovelli. He wasn’t much taller than me and leant to one side. His cane marked the rhythm of his advance. He bowed. I could see his thick silver hair cascading over the crown of his head and curling down his back. As he straightened, his eyes met mine and it was all I could do not to tremble. They were cold eyes – like the fish I used to see displayed on market days. How could a living being have such eyes? He stood in front of me and brazenly studied my form.
‘Bella,’ he said approvingly, and then spoke over his shoulder to the people behind him. ‘What do you think? Don’t stand back there – come and be formally introduced.’ Signor Maleovelli waved them forward, wisps of smoke providing direction.
The light in my eyes meant I could not see them clearly until they stepped into his shadow. The first to be introduced was a corpulent young man who was not only hunched, but rolled as he walked, as if there was something in his shoe. I couldn’t help but glance at his feet, but they were obscured by his togati. He paused before me and bowed. Again, I curtsied.
‘This is my nephew, Jacopo. He lives with us here at Casa Maleovelli and is responsible for maintaining the family history, accounts and general housekeeping. He is, you will discover, quite a scholar.’ Jacopo dropped his eyes modestly, but the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth revealed something less attractive. ‘Jacopo, this is the newest addition to our household, Signorina Tarlo. From hereon you will not only be helping us instruct her, but you will also manage her affairs.’
‘Sì, Zio Ezzelino. Signorina Tarlo, it’s a pleasure to meet you, finally … cousin.’
I hesitantly raised my eyes, but instead of the usual expression of fear, he was gazing at me the way I used to see Quinn study the soldi collected in her tin. He had a long face and nose with pale skin stained by dark whiskers. He also possessed his zio’s eyes.
‘Prego,’ I said.
‘Cousin, you’re most welcome,’ he murmured in a rather high voice for someone so large, and stepped aside.
‘Grazie.’ I waited.
I finally caught a glimpse of the other man who replaced Jacopo by Signor Maleovelli’s side. He was shorter in stature and wider in girth. I stifled a gasp and had to dissemble quickly. His face was discoloured by livid green and purple contusions. A gash divided his lip and his left cheek was badly swollen. Both eyes were encircled by puffy dark flesh that bled into a sickly yellow at his temples. I knew all too well what those marks signified. Memories I’d managed to all but suppress flooded into my head. He’d suffered a terrible beating. Yet Signor Maleovelli, Jacopo and Giaconda acted as if they did not notice or did not care. I wondered who had administered such pain. My heart contracted. I swallowed and offered him a slight, clumsy curtsy. He returned a surprisingly elegant bow that allowed me to see his broken, cut fingers as one hand rested across his waist.
Despite the wounds he carried and which disfigured his face, there was something disturbingly familiar about him.
He looked first at Signor Maleovelli, then Giaconda, before resting his eyes on me, his head tipped towards his shoulder. A smile played on his ruined lips and a tiny flash from a gold tooth escaped. Words caught in my throat and my pulse raced. Non è possible! I knew him! A flush crept up my neck and I could feel moisture gather between my breasts. What were the Maleovellis doing consorting with this man? What was going on? Why was he here? I froze, uncertain what to say, what to do. I longed to reach out, touch him, touch anything, and extract.
Just as these thoughts swept through my mind, I saw his face redden and his jaw drop. He stumbled, the back of his knees hitting a table.
‘No!’ he gasped, pointing a shaking finger at me.
I didn’t know where to look. His actions mirrored my feelings.
‘Sì,’ drawled Signor Ezzelino, chuckling. ‘She has the silver eyes, the eyes that mark her as an Estrattore. We didn’t need you after all, Scarpoli. We found her ourselves.’
The man they called Scarpoli, but whom I knew as Signor Barbacan, staggered back to the armchair he’d recently vacated and fell into it. He reached for a glass from the table beside him and tipped the contents down his throat. He coughed a few times then stared at me more intently. ‘You’re Tallow Pelleta. The candlemaker’s apprentice. Here. Just like that.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘God has a strange sense of humour.’
There was a bubble of laughter from Giaconda. ‘This has nothing to do with God, Signor Scarpoli.’
‘Esatto.’ Signor Ezzelino’s word hung in sunny brumes above his head.
‘So you found Tallow yourselves.’ Signor Scarpoli shook his head in disbelief.
‘Tarlo,’ corrected Giaconda firmly. ‘From now on, she is Tarlo Maleovelli. You’re all to remember that.’ She included me as she took a seat. Signor Ezzelino and Jacopo also sat, leaving me standing by myself. ‘We picked a name that was close to her own. The fact it’s masculinised is our bit of fun, an acknowledgement that, in so many ways, the masquerade of her life continues.’ She offered me a smile. I could not yet return it.
‘Tarlo,’ repeated Baroque. ‘I never would have guessed. I never would have expected …’
I looked him straight in the eye. ‘Me neither, Signor Barbacan.’
‘You remember me, then.’
‘I cannot forget. If I’m not mistaken, you’ve been following me for some time.’ I recalled the night he tracked me and Dante on the Circolo Canal, the time he innocently struck up a conversation with me in the campo. So long ago: another lifetime. ‘I don’t understand.’ I looked from Baroque to Giaconda, to Jacopo, who quickly looked away, and finally at Signor Maleovelli. ‘What’s going on? How do you all know Signor … Scarpoli?’
‘Please, Tarlo, sit down.’ Signor Maleovelli gestured to a high-backed chair opposite his. I sat down gratefully. My thoughts were spinning out of control. ‘The time for secrets between us has passed.’ Signor Maleovelli signalled for Giaconda to pour from the decanter that sat on one of the many tables scattered between the chairs. ‘Baroque works for me, Tarlo. I employed him to find you. Tarlo, meet Signor Baroque Scarpoli.’
My mouth dropped open. ‘Me? But how – why?’
‘We saw you, Giaconda and I, months ago in a ramo in the Chandlers Quartiere. We have rooms there for our … business.’ He glanced at Giaconda. Jacopo studied his hands intently. ‘You healed a dog, a dog that should not have lived. We watched as you lured the chandler to your side and used the power within you to extract whatever it was you needed from him to save the animal –’
I didn’t listen. Not properly, anyhow. Instead I let my mind wander back to that day in the damp ramo, the day I met Dante and saved Cane from certain death. I’d wondered if we’d been seen, but the alley had been dark and there’d been no sign of anyone. Yet the Maleovellis had witnessed what I’d done – they’d known from that one small action what I was and they’d hunted me down. I glanced at Baroque. They’d even hired this man. God help me.
‘– Baroque was to find you and bring you to us. But he disappeared. Turns out that the hunter was also hunted.’ Baroque’s cheeks became ruddy and he muttered something. Signor Maleovelli dismissed his mumblings with a wave of his hand. ‘As it was, you literally fell into our laps. Well, our gondola.’ Signor Maleovelli chuckled. Baroque perceptibly started. It was evident he hadn’t known about that.
‘It was providence. The goddess, Fortunata – forgive my blasphemy. Tarlo, my dear, it seems that one way or another, you are meant to be with us.’
Silence filled the spaces between us.
‘Why? What do you want from me?’ I asked finally. ‘Why was Signor Barba … Scarpoli seeking me?’
Signor Ezzelino and Giaconda exchanged a long look that I couldn’t interpret. Jacopo glanced at me. I detected need in his gaze. Need and something else. The back of my neck became ice-cold.
‘There’s nothing sinister at work here, Tarlo. You have no reason to be afraid of us. We know what you are and what you can do. We haven’t sought you all this time to simply turn you over to the Doge or the Church. On the contrary, we want to protect you but, like anything in this damn city, our protection comes at a price.’ Signor Maleovelli leant back in his chair and sucked on his pipe.
What did he mean? Was he threatening me? The corset constricted and I was beginning to feel cloistered, even in this spacious room.
‘Papa, I think it’s best if I explain, don’t you?’ Giaconda rose from her seat and strolled towards one of the windows. She turned her back to the view. A halo of light formed around her, turning her into a gleaming silhouette. ‘Being part of this family, being a Maleovelli, carries obligations, duties. That’s what Papa means by a price. Don’t look so concerned. You’ll be assigned certain tasks and, if you do the right thing by us, Tarlo, then we’ll do the right thing by you. First we will give you the protection of our home and our name.’ Her arm swept the room. ‘You must understand, these are not given lightly. What we offer is to be taken very seriously.’
I felt them all watching me. Time seemed to slow.
‘I don’t know that I do understand.’ My voice sounded distant, small. ‘Why would you do this? Take such a risk? What can I do for you? What sort of duties are you talking about? I can clean, I can cook …’
Giaconda tittered. ‘Do you really believe we would ask you to cook? To be a house girl? We already have those. Oh, Tarlo. What we want from you is so much more, so much better.’ She detached herself from the window and moved towards me. ‘You have so much to offer, my dear young woman. Why, you’re an Estrattore.’
I winced as she used the word so brazenly, so openly. Just like Katina when she first came into my life. Pillar had panicked, shutting doors and windows, glancing over his shoulder, even in the safety of his own home. I wasn’t sure what would happen here, but when nothing did, when the others sat there and Signor and Signorina Maleovelli bored holes in my head with their intent stares, I released the breath I didn’t even know I’d been holding. I waited expectantly. So did the men. We were all now focused on Giaconda. Her gown rustled softly as it reorganised itself around her legs. She faced me. ‘Until recently, you’d been taught to deny what you were, hide away your talents, isn’t that right?’
‘Sì.’ Endless beatings, reminders to lower my head, my eyes, not draw attention to myself; even the umber glasses that Katina had insisted were made for me were all attempts to disguise my origins. ‘Sì. Vero – it’s true.’
‘Well, while you’re under our roof, my dear, you don’t have to hide anything. Not from us. We want you to refine what it is you do, hone your skills, your talents: make them so much a part of who you are that they are indistinguishable to anyone but us. It can be done. It will be done.’
‘We understand,’ continued Signor Maleovelli, ‘that you were a candlemaker. Scarpoli tells us that somehow, you used the candles to … how do I put it? Make special things happen? That you were able to effect change in those who burned your candles.’
‘Those who survived that dreadful plague, the Morto Assiderato, in your Quartiere attribute it to you – to your candles,’ confirmed Baroque.
He’d learnt a great deal about me. Information that I foolishly thought was hidden, safe. That unnerved me. I cleared my throat. ‘I distilled what I extracted from objects and people into the candles. It was a way of hiding what I cannot help but do, of making the process less obvious. Or so I thought.’
‘This is excellent,’ said Signor Maleovelli. ‘And, are we to understand that, like the Estrattore of old, you can extract any emotion, any feeling from a thing –’ he held up a brightly striated piece of glass ‘– or a person and distil it down to its most potent form?’
I nodded. ‘But only if I can detect it in the first place. You have to understand, I haven’t had much training. I think I told you in the gondola.’ I looked at Giaconda. ‘A Bond Rider named Katina tried to teach me –’ Baroque spluttered his vino, covering his mouth quickly as he coughed. ‘But she had limitations …’ I shot a glance at Baroque and continued. ‘She didn’t know everything. She wouldn’t allow me to do certain things. I’m not properly trained.’ I didn’t tell them what I had done on my own. How I had failed in my attempts to make certain people’s lives better. I was ashamed.
‘Is this the same Bond Rider that killed your friend?’ asked Giaconda lightly.
I stiffened.
‘I don’t think she was on the horse that trampled him, but yes, it’s the same one.’ Why was I defending her? Katina … how could you let that happen?
Over my head, I perceived unspoken words, lingering glances.
‘Let me tell you a story, Tarlo,’ said Signor Maleovelli finally. ‘It may help you understand our position, what we can offer you.’ He waited till he had my full attention. ‘You see, once, a long time ago, the Maleovellis were rich. We were a force to be reckoned with – we had our own ships, trade routes and even, for a while, a bank. We were close to attaining the Dogeship for, in this city, you have to have influence to hold office. By influence I mean wealth and the power that attracts.’ He paused, a frown creasing his face. ‘And we came so close,’ he whispered, staring at a painting of someone I assumed was an ancestor. His frown disappeared and his sombre tone lifted. ‘But it all changed. Some very foolish decisions and allegiances by my great, great-grandfather meant that in less than a generation, we lost our money and our reputation. We have never been able to regain the position we had, the position our once-eminent house deserves.’ He fixed his eyes upon me. ‘With your help, we hope to have all that restored.’
‘So, I am here to reinstate your wealth.’ I could hear the doubt in my voice. Surely, it could not be so easy. These nobiles could not have the same base desires as Quinn.
‘As I said, in Serenissima, wealth also means power. And power means control. We want to be in control. Not just of our lives, but of Serenissma. Tarlo, I want the Dogeship. With your help, I can have it.’
At first I didn’t know what to say. My mind galloped. ‘You ask a great deal of me.’ My voice was quiet.
‘Sì. But it is within your power to give us this. According to what Jacopo has learnt from the city’s archives, all the great Doges in the past ruled with an Estrattore by their side. You’re to be mine, my family’s.’
‘But that’s just like the position the Cardinale has now, isn’t it? He advises on matters of the soul, doesn’t he?’
‘Esatto,’ said Signor Maleovelli. ‘And not just on the soul. And look where that has led.’ He stared out the window, focusing on something in the middle distance, reflecting inwards rather than outwards. ‘Once Serenissima was a mighty, independent power, a force to be reckoned with. Exiling the Estrattore, changing the core religious beliefs of the entire city and allowing Roma and the Great Patriarch to, let’s say, wield such influence, has not only weakened us, it has made us dependent upon them – and not just on spiritual matters, but for everything. With your help, we can restore Serenissima to her former glory.’ He tore his eyes away from the window and smiled at me. I resisted the urge to shudder. ‘Tarlo.’ He glanced at Giaconda, who nodded approvingly. ‘We know what we’re asking of you is enormous.’ He put down his pipe. It balanced precariously on a little silver dish, the smoking tobacco threatening to spill. ‘But I think you’ll find what we offer you in return is more than adequate.’
‘What is that?’ I tore my eyes away from the pipe to find everyone staring at me, leaning forward.
Signor Maleovelli took a deep breath before he answered.
‘The return of the Estrattore.’
I COULD BARELY BREATHE. MY HEART RACED. I wondered for a moment if I’d even heard Signor Maleovelli correctly.
‘Return? You mean, bring the Estrattore back to Serenissima? Reinstate them?’
Signor Maleovelli nodded. ‘I do. Once I’m in power, nothing can stop me overturning the decree that banished them and restoring the old ways. Together, Tarlo, we can bring the Estrattore, the ancient magic, back – back to where it belongs, they belong – here in Serenissima, in Vista Mare.’
‘What about people’s beliefs? What about God?’
‘What about them? They will worship what and whom they’re told. It’s happened before, it will happen again. Roma’s God was forced upon us. The truth is, Serenissima has always belonged to the gods – those who created your kind.’ Jacopo tried to contain himself. Giaconda bowed her head towards her father, a look I couldn’t quite read upon her face. Baroque remained impassive.
I couldn’t believe what I was being told. Katina had said there were Estrattore in the Limen and it was up to me to find them. I’d often wondered about the point of that if they couldn’t come back to Serenissima. But now I was being given the opportunity to bring my people, my ‘kind’, back to their homeland and to see them and what they represented restored. ‘I can bring them back to where they belong.’ My thoughts translated into words.
‘Esatto,’ said Signor Maleovelli. ‘But only with our help.’
My eyes shone. To overturn the Church – the ones responsible for their exile and murder in the first place. It was outrageous, dangerous and wonderful.
‘But what if we fail? What if, no matter what I do, you don’t become the Doge?’
‘Then, my dear little Estrattore, we’ll all be put to death,’ said Signor Ezzelino calmly. ‘You, me, Giaconda, Jacopo, Signor Scarpoli – horrible, lingering deaths in a very public place. And your Estrattore will remain trapped in the Limen forever and ever and the Church will continue to dictate what we do and what we believe, and Serenissima will one day crumble back into the ocean out of which she arose.’ I felt the truth of his words. My heart became heavy with doubt. ‘But we will not think about failure. If we do, we introduce the notion. Together, Tarlo, we will not fail.’
As I gazed at Signor Maleovelli, I felt I could believe him.
‘There’s a prophecy, you know.’ Jacopo sat forward earnestly, his voice soft at first. ‘It says that one day the Estrattore will create a child who will restore balance to the world.’
All eyes were upon him; he shifted nervously. ‘There’s mention of it in one of the old scrolls. But you … you could be that child, you know.’
Oh, I knew. I kept this knowledge to myself.
‘The way to restore balance is by placing a Doge on the throne who is not a pawn of the Church.’ Signor Maleovelli spoke with practised assurance. ‘One who understands to whom this city belongs and that this world is big enough to accommodate different faiths, different creeds and diverse beings. It’s all a matter of finding balance. You’re right. She is that child, Jacopo, just as I am to be that Doge. Together we can build a great future for all.’
There was no doubt, Signor Maleovelli craved power – they all did. And, in return, they would give it to me as well. The power to bring my people home and, in doing so, save Serenissima.
They were all watching me. They hadn’t stopped from the moment I entered the room. I didn’t care anymore. I had nothing, so it seemed, to lose – only everything to gain. I’d used my talents and risked discovery for a lot less when I lived with Pillar and Quinn. What Signor Maleovelli suggested not only excited me, it gave me confidence, and I hadn’t felt that in what seemed like such a long time.
I glanced around the room again. This time I could see the cracks in the plaster, the chipped and peeling paint, the mould that grew up the walls, the age beneath the patina of gilt and sunlight. I also saw darker shapes on the walls and floor. Empty spaces where proud faces had once hung, where tables and other pieces of elegant furniture had formerly stood. I glanced down at my dress and noticed that it was patched in places and the design out of fashion. It all made sense now. These nobiles also played a role – one their rank would not allow them to relinquish. And now they wanted the chance to play the greatest role of all and change the future by returning to the past and, in doing so, secure themselves a place in history. This was their last chance, their only hope. And if they were to be believed, Serenissima’s as well. I could not ignore the message, only take the opportunity to act. Just like the Maleovellis.
An old vision flashed before my eyes. One that had come to me the night I met Katina; the night she told me I was the child of the prophecy. Where Serenissima had once been, I’d seen a wasteland of ruins and dried canals filled with the swollen corpses of those who had once populated them. Carrion birds and bloated toads fed upon the rotting flesh, their beaks and mouths bloodied, their stomachs engorged.
What Signor Maleovelli said, what he’d learnt, was in accord with Katina’s warnings and my dire glimpse of a possible future.
A thought occurred to me. ‘What about my eyes? If I venture out of here, they’ll give me away and anything we plan or do will be for nought.’
‘There are ways of disguising them,’ reassured Giaconda. ‘You have done it before. Do not worry about that. For now, focus on what might be – on who you might become, or what you could accomplish. On what we’ll all, with your help, attain.’
I put my hand over my heart and felt its rapid thrumming. I tried to gather my thoughts, get them in some sort of order.
‘How do you envision me helping you? What form will my help take?’
‘Ah,’ said Signor Maleovelli. ‘We see two ways you can help us – two ways with two stages.’ He leant forward. ‘First, we want you to modify some candles for us, let us see what they can do, what we can achieve with those. You will be guided, shown what we need. Then we have a second part to our plans for you – one that is a little risky but, given time and the right circumstances, will bring about the changes we desire.’
‘So you do want me to make candles for you?’
‘No,’ corrected Giaconda. ‘Just transform the ones we already have, that we purchase. Everyone uses them. We will tell you what we require you to distil into them, how we want to influence those who burn them. It’s important that you do not touch people – if you’re to remain undetected, it’s essential you don’t use the power of your touch on humans.’
She let that sink in. I did not miss the warning in her words.
They were offering me, if not a home exactly, shelter. It also gave me what I hadn’t had before, time. They were proffering me a job as well. I would not feel obliged, beholden to them. I would be earning my way. And what was wrong with manipulating people, anyhow? Isn’t that what everyone did? Quinn did it by beating me into submission, Pillar through benign guilt and Katina by making promises – promises she not only didn’t keep but also broke in a manner I could never forgive. The Maleovellis were manipulating me into helping them with the lure of a home, lovely clothes, a new identity, of being free to be who I was while under their roof, the notion of safety – however false. Only Dante kept his promise, and look what happened to him.
They were waiting for me to respond. The air thickened, cloyed with tobacco smoke and expectation.
I thought about the times I’d tried to bring about transformation, with all the right intentions. It had only ended in disaster.
Signor Maleovelli drew heavily on his pipe and, tipping back his head, exhaled a stream of smoke. I imagined the cherubs burying their coughs in the clouds.
I cleared my throat before speaking. ‘If I alter the candles according to your wishes, that means you’ll bring people here, to the casa, sì? So that they will be affected?’
‘Not at first. We will take them to our … businesses in other areas of Serenissima in order to expand our circle of influence. Later, we will use them here – when you and, of course, we –’ he indicated the others ‘– feel secure in what we’re doing.’
His words presaged the cloak of gloom that suddenly enveloped me. My bright prospects quickly dimmed as I imagined my days trapped in this casa. Exchanging one prison for another. At least in the Candlemakers Quartiere I’d achieved a degree of freedom. ‘What about me, then?’ I despised myself for the plaintive tone that crept into my voice. ‘Am I to remain in the casa the entire time? Until you are installed on the throne and the Estrattore welcomed back?’
There was a moment of silence, and then the Maleovellis began to laugh. My cheeks burned and I felt a flash of fear. The sense of stability I’d briefly enjoyed was already disturbed.
‘On the contrary, Tarlo.’ Signor Maleovelli was the first to recover. ‘We’re going to teach you not only to move comfortably among the Serenissian nobility, but we’re going to make you the toast of society.’
I almost started out of my chair. How was that even possible? I was confused. Surely, that was the most dangerous and stupid thing they could do. Hiding me, as Pillar and Quinn had done, made much more sense.
Signor Maleovelli noted my puzzlement. ‘People rarely see what’s beneath their noses. You have already proved that. How old are you?’
‘I’m … I’m almost sixteen.’ I didn’t want to admit I wasn’t entirely sure.
Giaconda’s eyebrows shot up her forehead.
‘Bene. Bene. You’re older than we thought. All those years in the Candlemakers Quartiere and not even your neighbours suspected what was in their midst.’
My neighbours! I hadn’t given them another thought. After what happened on the bridge, Dante’s death … They knew about me, knew what I was. That put them all in dreadful peril.
‘Do you know what’s happened to the people of the Candlemakers Quartiere? To Pillar, my master? To Dante’s family?’
There was an uneasy pause.
‘I told her, Papa, that you would provide answers to her questions,’ said Giaconda.
Signor Maleovelli inclined his head towards his daughter, but he did not look pleased.
‘I’m afraid we don’t. But Signor Scarpoli will find out for you, bella. Will that make you happy?’
My eyes shifted over to Baroque, who had moved forward in his chair, as if he was about to bolt.
‘I would be … grateful, Signor. Grazie.’
‘Now, where were we? Ah, yes. You’re going to perpetrate the greatest masquerade ever, Tarlo. One that will allow you to move in the highest circles. One that will enable you to take your candles to the most intimate and surprising of places – places that for us, as we are now, are inaccessible. And for that, you need some very special teachers.’
‘Who will teach me? What do I need to learn?’
‘They are all here,’ Signor Maleovelli’s arm swept the room. ‘Full of knowledge, which they will impart to you.’
I frowned.
Signor Maleovelli picked up his cane and pointed at Jacopo. ‘Jacopo will teach you to read and write.’ He swung his stick towards Baroque. ‘Signor Scarpoli will instruct you in the peculiar ways of the Serenissian nobility, as well as about the wonderful oils, unguents and plants from all over Vista Mare.’ He paused and then lifted his cane in the direction of his daughter. ‘Finally, Giaconda is going to teach you the most important lesson of all.’
‘What’s that?’ I asked, breathless.
‘Why, what else could it be in Serenissima?’ He laughed. ‘She will instruct you in the arts of being a woman.’
There was a nuance I couldn’t fathom. I swung towards Giaconda. She leant towards me.
‘Not an ordinary woman, my lovely Tarlo. Not the normal Serenissian woman who is locked away in her casa, denied the beauty of our fair city, the joy of conversation, the pleasures of meeting and talking with new people, never seen or heard. The type that cower behind their fathers’ and husbands’ togati, obeying their every whim. The ones adorned in their pretty little dresses that stare longingly through windows day in and out or desperately try to bleach their hair in the sun atop their altanas. The ones who are shut away in convents, never knowing the pleasures of the flesh. No. I am going to teach you how to be the type of woman that men desire to have and other women secretly want to be.’
A shiver ran down my spine. A wave of heat swept over my body.
‘What sort of woman are you talking about?’ I asked, knowing full well the answer.
‘One just like me.’
Giaconda left her seat and walked around my chair, standing before me. Her eyes sparkled, her hair shone and her teeth gleamed between her tinted lips. ‘A lady who can bewitch men with words, enchant them with her abilities, make them mad with yearning for a mere touch.’ She reached out and ran a finger along my cheekbone. ‘A lady who is paid for her scintillating conversation, for her ability to listen.’ She leant forward and her mouth moved along my temple and down the side of my face. ‘And even more for the exchanges she offers in the boudoir.’ Her eyes dropped to my décolletage; so did mine. I felt hot. But she wasn’t finished with me yet.
With a long, gloved finger, she tipped my chin and planted the softest of lingering kisses upon my lips. My eyes fluttered shut and my body ached with longing. When she moved away, it was all I could do not to protest.
When I found my voice, I spoke. ‘You’re a courtesan.’
I recalled the women I had seen, not just at Carnivale, but parading through the piazzetti and campi in my old quartiere on a daily basis. While I had seen some common puttana, the street whores, the courtesans were different. They clattered around proudly in their high heels, usually with a black servant or sometimes a dwarf tripping along beside them. Other times, well-dressed nobiles and merchants accompanied them. They were colourful, loud; they flirted with their eyes, their mouths, with the very air they inhaled. People would stop and stare and these women wouldn’t just embrace the attention, they’d insist upon it. I first heard them mentioned by Quinn, when she came home from the basilica, affronted at how many had been at the service one week; how, in her words, the padre had simpered over them. Her anger aroused my curiousity and piqued my interest. Pillar and, later, Katina and Dante, would point them out to me in the calles and, in their voices, I would hear wonder, a form of respect and envy, but mostly I heard desire. Just as if they were nobiles, or the Doge himself, everyone knew the names of the most successful ones – Veronica Franco, La Zafetta, Madonna Fiamenga.
I’d always found them fascinating. Compared to the Quinns and Francescas of the world, women old before their time, trapped by their trade and lowly status in Serenissian society or, as Giaconda described, the magnificently dressed daughters and wives of nobiles, their necks bent out of shape from peering out at the world all day, trying to experience life from the lofty heights of their bedrooms and sun roofs, or even the numerous nuns who scurried about the city before returning to the high walls of their convents, the courtesans offered something different. They didn’t care about the unyielding eyes of judgement; they were too busy. They had money to make and futures to secure. Those who understood that also respected their choices. It was hardly their fault if what they offered for sale was popular.
If my eyes could be hidden, and my talents controlled and the lessons I was being offered learnt, then, who knew, perhaps I could live a normal life after all. That was, until it was time to bring the Estrattore home.
My chest fluttered with anticipation. I wanted to sit on my hands to hide their trembling.
The idea that I was to become one of these women both thrilled and terrified me. My head filled with wild scenarios that scattered as quickly as they formed. I could see how hiding me in plain sight might just work. My mind began to skip along a very different path until a voice broke through my fantasies. I was still being addressed.
‘It will take months, Tarlo,’ said Giaconda softly. ‘Can you be patient?’
I looked at each of them in turn. There was a barely disguised hunger in their gaze. Giaconda gripped the arm of my chair tightly.
‘I am to be a courtesan.’ It was as if by articulating the idea it became a reality.
‘Sì. That is our intention.’
‘I can see that you have given this a great deal of thought,’ I said.
‘We’ve had years to plan, to hope,’ said Signor Maleovelli simply. ‘Since long before we found you.’
‘What if I say no?’
Giaconda inhaled sharply. I pretended not to notice.
‘Then,’ said Signor Maleovelli calmly, ‘you’re free to walk out this door. But, my dear Tarlo, consider this. Where would you go? To whom would you turn? The Bond Riders have turned their backs on you. Your friend is dead and even your former master dismissed you. No doubt the talk in your quartiere is rife. Something I will have Baroque confirm.’
Baroque made a noise of agreement.
‘I imagine there’s a great deal of anger towards you – for what happened. They’ll blame you, you know, for the Bond Riders, for the death of the young chandler.’
It was as if the little flickering flame of anticipation burning within me was suddenly extinguished. He was right. God, how Zia Gaia and Nonno Renzo must hate me. It was no more than I already hated myself. A flare of guilt rose that I was even tempted, no, excited by what the Maleovellis were offering. How dare I even consider it? But then, what choice did I really have? Give myself up to a padre? To the Doge? What if I just left now, entered the Limen and went to find the Estrattore? I scolded myself. What purpose would that serve? I would just join them and they would still be exiled. And what if I couldn’t find them? I’d be lost in the Limen and any good I could do, any of the dreadful mistakes of the past, the lives that had been lost, would be for nothing.
‘And you will help me find the Estrattore once you’re Doge?’ I asked.
‘Naturalmente,’ said Signor Ezzelino with a laugh. ‘Of course. That is part of the bargain is it not? We have to find them in order to bring them back.’
It wasn’t difficult for me to imagine this man as Doge. And if he would do as he promised and return the Estrattore, then I owed it to myself, to my brethren, to help him reach those lofty heights, no matter what was asked of me, what sacrifices I had to make.
But, even as I thought those brave sentiments, doubt tinged with apprehension rippled inside me. I was grateful that, for the immediate future, I would have teachers and the protection of these nobiles, even of Baroque, as sinister as they seemed.
Their motives were apparent; they’d been frank with me, but I still felt as if they were holding something back.
I stared listlessly at hundreds of tiny motes dancing in a pulse of soft light.
‘Your old life is closed to you, Tarlo.’ Signor Maleovelli’s voice was barely a whisper. ‘It’s not safe for you to go back – only forward. Here, with us, you have a chance at a new beginning. A life of independence. Once the Estrattore are reinstated, your options will be limitless.’ Signor Maleovelli reached over and opened a little box on the table. Inside was fresh tobacco. He spent a few moments re-stuffing his pipe.
‘Before we retire for dinner, we should celebrate.’ Giaconda handed me a glass. It was filled with rich, ruby fluid. I resisted the urge to extract, to draw from the crystal and discover something of its past, of its owners’ history. Only I was not supposed to do that.
I watched as she refilled the glasses of her father and Jacopo and then, with much reluctance, Baroque’s. I could feel the strain between these two.
‘After we’ve eaten, we’ll get you to demonstrate to us what you can do.’ Giaconda signalled for me to stand. The men also rose. ‘Papa?’ she urged, her glass held aloft.
‘A toast,’ said Signor Maleovelli. ‘To our colleganza. To the power it brings us; to what it brings you.’ He raised his glass towards me. Giaconda did likewise. Her father watched her, a peculiar expression on his face. ‘To the future – to the Estrattore.’
As I lifted my glass and touched its edge against the others, enjoying the pure note that was released as they kissed, my confidence soared as, without lowering our voices or checking over our shoulders, we repeated his words, ‘To the Estrattore.’ Even the cherubs and aristocratic faces above and around us seemed to approve.
For the first time in years, I felt a peculiar sensation deep inside. Hope had once again taken up residence in my heart.
SITTING AT HER DRESSER, GIACONDA continued brushing her hair, flashing her father a smile as he closed the bedroom door. He stood behind her and studied her reflection in the mirror.
‘Did she settle?’ he asked finally.
Giaconda paused mid-stroke, a sash of sable hair catching the candlelight, revealing hints of carmine. ‘I believe so. I left Hafeza to tend her.’ She resumed her toilette while Ezzelino sat on the edge of her bed and propped his cane against the wall. There was something soporific about her action, the soft purr of the brush, the remote look in her eyes, never mind her loveliness. Unbound, Giaconda’s hair fell to well below her waist, and loose, it made her look softer, younger.
‘What a day,’ he sighed finally. ‘Who would have thought we would have the prize we’ve spent years searching for, not only ensconced in our casa, but bound to us in a colleganza?’
Giaconda put her brush down and considered her father’s words.
‘Jacopo says her mark is as good as a signature.’
‘Indeed. Anyhow, once she learns to write, we can have her re-sign the documents.’
‘She’s very smart, Papa. Her questions were not what I expected from someone so … illiterate.’
Ezzelino shuffled back onto the bed, moving the pillows until he was propped comfortably against the headboard. ‘Sì. Never underestimate an Estrattore – this one especially, with her fresh looks and innocent ways. Sixteen, she says. I would have thought older.’
‘Older?’
‘Sì. Estrattore do not age as we do and they live a great deal longer. There is a maturity about her lacking in humans her age.’
Giaconda nodded. ‘Those eyes.’ She repressed a shudder. ‘I have to steel myself to look at them. Pretend they don’t bother me. They really are like gazing into a mirror.’ She turned her head and looked into hers. ‘Only, I don’t just see this.’ She waved her hands at her counterpart.
‘What do you see?’
‘That which I would rather remained hidden,’ she said softly, staring at her father.
Ezzelino held her eyes for a moment and then looked away.
‘She will be a fast learner,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘Which will make our lives a great deal easier. All the same, we must not rush things: we must proceed carefully, take our time, or all our plans will have been for nothing.’
‘You do not have to convince me of that, Papa. Do you think she really accepts what we’re offering?’
He thought for a moment. ‘I think she realises she has no choice. She has no-one to turn to. No family, no friends. For now, we are her only option, her allies, and we have to make sure it remains that way until we’re ready for it to be any different.’
Placing her brush beside her other combs, Giaconda stood gracefully and took her father’s former position at the end of the bed. ‘I don’t think that will be too difficult. Not from what Salzi told us about the gossip in the marketplace. The city is abuzz with sightings of the Estrattore – the boy with the golden glasses!’
Ezzelino’s eyes narrowed. ‘That description will work very nicely in our favour. Very nicely. It also means the Cardinale and the Signori di Notte will be searching in the wrong places for the wrong person They will never think to look here. I would stake our lives on that.’
‘We may yet have to, Papa. I admit, I was worried when Baroque told us the Church has become involved.’
‘It does not change the risk we’re taking, my dear, it just makes the stakes higher and the execution more exciting.’ Ezzelino looked invigorated. ‘No doubt, something will be said in the Great Council – you know how the nobiles gossip. I will make sure I attend every Sunday from now on.’
Quiet descended. The only sound that could be heard was the occasional creak as the old casa settled, or the splash of water against the render outside.
Giaconda studied her father. He sat so still, if it hadn’t been for the candlelight glimmering in his half-closed eyes, she would have thought him asleep. Such a proud face, a noble one. The years had been kind to him. While his hair was grey, it was also thick and shiny. He was relatively unlined for a man of his years, but that was because her father rarely let his emotions show. His face was like a Carnivale mask, forever frozen into a mien that was as cold as it was unreadable. Only she was allowed to see her father’s real feelings. They appeared so rarely that she often wondered if she’d imagined them.
Sometimes, when the ennui of her existence would overtake her, and she’d allow herself the futility of imagining a different life, she would travel in time and try to pluck images of her mother from her past. She knew she resembled her. Closely. The portrait that hung in Tarlo’s bedroom indicated how much – the same dark hair, green eyes and honey skin. Fragments of moments would sometimes pool together and cohere into a memory she could relive, times with both her mamma and papa. But they were fleeting, ephemeral, and it wearied her to gather them. And, as much as she wished them to be, they were not happy. Happiness did not belong in Giaconda’s past – or present. That was for her future. A future that Tarlo would now bring to fruition.
She became aware of her father’s regard and made her features neutral. Like him, she too wore a mask. It was one that she didn’t want to remove – especially in front of her father.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked her. It was a question he posed often. Giaconda was not allowed to have secrets.
She hesitated. ‘I was thinking about what Baroque will find when he gets to the Candlemakers Quartiere.’
‘Hopefully, this time, what we sent him to. I’ve given him three days, in which time he’s to remove all traces of himself from the Usurers Quartiere as well. His place is now with us, whether you like it or not.’
‘I don’t like it but, if he proves his use, I may yet become accustomed.’
Ezzelino simply grunted.
Giaconda smiled. ‘You know she’ll want to return there, to the Candlemakers Quartiere, at some stage.’
‘Assolutamente. As she should and, if she doesn’t, we’ll force her to go. It’s important that she understand where she now belongs.’
Giaconda smiled. ‘With us.’
‘Sì, amore mio, with us.’
Giaconda plucked at her nightdress. The ribbons on the sleeves and around the neckline tickled her flesh. ‘Salzi also told me that the ship from the other side of the Limen, from Farrowfare, entered port today.’
‘So I heard.’
‘What are their intentions, do you think?’
‘Treaties, safe passage through the seas. What else do our prospective allies – and enemies for that matter – seek? Only this time, the visitors from the Limen are serious. They’ve sent an Ambassador. Another among all the other foreign bastardi who occupy our casas.’ Ezzelino snorted.
‘This means that once he’s given permission to disembark and the treaties are signed, the Doge will want to make this alliance public, display his new friends. Could be months. There’ll no doubt be a ball.’ Giaconda’s eyes sparkled. ‘I wonder … do you think …?’ she began.
Ezzelino patted the bed beside him. ‘I do. Providing it’s not too soon, it will be the perfect time to introduce a new courtesan to the city. Can she be ready by then?’
‘We’ll make her ready, Papa.’ She began to crawl up the bed, like a cat slinking along the fondamenta, her back arched, her arms outstretched. ‘Me, Jacopo … and even Baroque.’ She hissed the last name. ‘I don’t know why you trust him.’
‘I don’t. But he is exceedingly useful, and now that we have his journals, he’s our puppet, to pull the strings of as we wish.’
Giaconda threw back her head and laughed. ‘The expression on his face when we threatened to show them to the Kyprians!’
Ezzelino’s shoulders began to shake. ‘I enjoyed it most when we told him we knew Tarlo was a girl.’
‘I almost felt sorry for him. All his bargaining tools, broken.’
‘A broken horse is the only kind to ride.’ Ezzelino reached for his daughter’s hand and squeezed it tightly. ‘And now it’s up to you, bella, to use all your talents and tricks to change our little candlemaker’s apprentice, our Estrattore, Tarlo – ‘He turned her hand over and kissed the inside of her wrist.
‘Into what?’ asked Giaconda coquettishly.
Ezzelino made a noise of pure pleasure. The sound was dark. ‘Into a force to be reckoned with.’
Giaconda shared the laughter that followed. ‘Naturalmente.’
‘Now,’ said Ezzelino and pulled her closer. ‘Come and lie beside me. It’s getting cold in here and I have a desire to be warm.’
BACK IN HER ROOM, TALLOW CLIMBED out of bed and made her way to the window. Though she was exhausted from the events of the day, she couldn’t sleep. Her mind kept replaying everything that happened – all she’d seen, heard and to which she’d been asked to commit. She remembered the fleeting moment of pure panic when she’d made her mark on the piece of parchment beside Signor Maleovelli’s signature. The ink looked like a bloodstain as it was rapidly absorbed by the vellum. A fleeting twinge of doubt had almost made her pull back. No. She would forge ahead and take control of her destiny. But if she was so certain about that, why did she feel so … ambivalent?
She pushed her shoulder against the glass, forcing it to open. Resting her chin on her hand, she let the chilly air wash over her feverish thoughts.
She was to become a courtesan – Tarlo Maleovelli. She shook her head in disbelief. With not a soldi to her name, she had no-one to turn to, no-one to help her, except the Maleovellis and, in an ironic twist of fate, Baroque Scarpoli.
Glancing skywards, she tried to see the stars, but the casas were so close, the only light that reached her was muted. It turned the world into a pocket of shifting shadows.
She gave a deep sigh and noted that her breath frosted. Autumn was here and winter was just around the corner. There would be snow atop the Dolomites. For a moment, she closed her eyes and tried to recapture the view from her old rooftop, but it eluded her. Instead, images of Quinn’s twisted face as she raised a hand to strike interposed with that of Pillar. She tried to shut Quinn out and focus solely on Pillar, remember him as she’d last seen him on the bridge, before Dante … she bit her lip. It was no good. Instead, memories of the moment Pillar ordered her to leave the house flooded her mind. Unkempt, dirty and drunk.
Where was Pillar now? What was he doing? Was he safe?
It took her a moment to realise the wet sensation against her cheeks were tears. She brushed them away rudely. What was she crying about? She was better off now than she’d ever been. She was being offered protection. Anyone in her position would be grateful, should be grateful, and here she was weeping like a baby – and over what? Never again would she have to endure being beaten, hungry, rejected, or thrown out. A life where she had to pretend to be what she wasn’t.
But isn’t that what you’re going to be doing now?
She lowered her head onto the sill, the imprint of the ledge marking her cheek. At least she was choosing this time – she was in control, not at the whim of some prophecy in which Katina and the Bond Riders believed.
Katina … Tallow found her chest hurt when she thought of her friend. Friend? Could she really call Katina that any more? That was someone else who’d deserted her, left her to Quinn and Pillar – and look where that had led.
She stared outside, seeing nothing as her eyes became argent slits, allowing the rage deep inside her to erupt to the surface. She gripped the ledge with her hands, ignoring the pain that shot through her arms. Because of the Bond Riders, she could never go back to her old life. Not to Pillar, not to Dante, not even to the Macellerias – a family who, though scared of her, had offered her succour and companionship. They’d tried to understand.
No, Katina was no friend of hers, not anymore. Her fingers began to ache. She looked down in surprise. The wood around her hands smoked. She lifted them away in shock. Eight neat gouges appeared – her anger was inscribed upon the wood. Reaching out, she traced the outline of each one. Feelings of fury and despair washed over her. Oh yes, her wrath was profound.
She took a few deep breaths, allowed her rage to wash over her, and instead tried to focus on everything that had happened that day. Her awakening, her healing, her dress, Hafeza. Now she was a funny one. There was history there, Tallow knew. Then there was the bestowing of her new name. She actually liked it. And what about Baroque? She frowned. She never thought to see him again. What was he up to? What was he not telling the Maleovellis? She knew he was hiding something, something very important.
There was also the colleganza. Unable to read, she’d listened as Jacopo, in his high, fluting tones, had read the document aloud. Jacopo reminded her of a grub, the kind you find in a nice-looking piece of fruit, but only after you’ve already bitten into it. The way he watched her, as if he thought he couldn’t be seen, how he trembled as he held her hand over the paper as she scratched her mark. It hadn’t been fear that made him shake either. Tallow had stepped away from him eagerly, almost knocking over a candle in the process.
Briefly she wondered what it was the Maleovellis would ask her to distil into the candles. In exchange, she’d be educated and trained. It seemed fair to her – so long as they didn’t ask her to kill anyone. Katina had made it very clear that was something Estrattores were forbidden from doing.
Could she trust anything Katina had said to her? Or was she like everyone else in her life so far, prone to letting her down, misleading, rejecting her, being so afraid they either beat her to within an inch of her life or failed to defend her from harm despite promises to the contrary?
In fact, the only people who had shown her any kindness, any form of understanding or respect, offered any hope, were the Maleovellis. She sighed. Unbelievable.
What about Dante? What about his family?
A great void opened inside Tallow, an emptiness that she now knew she’d been trying to fill with all the different things she’d seen and experienced in the last few hours. She’d been using them to avoid facing that which now tore at her heart, ate at her soul. Tears coursed down her cheeks.
‘Dante,’ she whispered into the night. ‘Amore mio, forgive me.’ His face floated before her, the tousled black hair and sparkling coal-dark eyes. A sob broke the quiet of the night. ‘How can I do this without you?’
From anger to anguish, the emotions roiled within her. She began to quiver. If she didn’t work out how to control herself, how to moderate and live with the pain of Dante’s absence, the guilt of his death, she’d be no good to anyone, and she knew that he would not want that. Of all people, he would understand the choices she’d been given and what she now had to do. Out of everything her life had been so far, out of Dante’s death, good must come. If not, she couldn’t bear it.
But how? If she fell apart every time thoughts of Dante intruded, how could she manage?
In the corner of her eye, the little harlequin twinkled. She moved away from the window and picked it up, bringing it back and holding it up to the moonlight, an offering like they used to make to the gods of old. She recalled how the figurine had made her feel the last time she held it. Then, it struck her. She knew what to do.
Before she changed her mind, she poured as much of her love and feelings of loss for Dante into the ornament as she could. She extracted from deep within herself and distilled everything: regret for a future that would never be, remorse that their friendship, no, their love, had been no more than a harbinger of death, into the glass. Purging the pain, the blossoming of desire, the longing, the many memories that together shone like a ripe sun, she placed them one by one into the harlequin. The colours glowed, the intensity making her blink and half-close her eyes. She didn’t stop; she kept going until she was a gasping, hollow puddle against the sill.
When she’d finished, she staggered to the bureau and placed the harlequin, the vessel for all her feelings for Dante, on top. As she regained her breath and equilibrium, the colours ceased swirling. Reaching inside herself, she tentatively felt for Dante’s presence. He was there, but it wasn’t painful. The emotions that had made her chest feel as if it were going to explode were now like words she would recite but not feel. Her love had been placed inside the harlequin where it would remain forever, like a Bond inside a pledge stone, hidden in plain sight.
Stroking the diminutive dancer, she knew that while her insides no longer burned with loss, what she’d done didn’t change her love. No, she might become a courtesan, but she would never give her heart to another.
In some respects, that was why being a courtesan was an appealing idea. Tallow was no innocent. Not only had she witnessed the passion between a man and a woman during hurried trysts at Carnivale time, but as an Estrattore she’d also felt the range of emotions they experienced. From utter lust to indifference and even hurt, she’d touched them all. Courtesans, unlike many women and even men, were able to control with who and when they shared these things. So far, she’d had no influence over her life; her new one would allow her that at least.
Tallow knew that the Maleovellis were keen to exploit her talents, use her skills to improve their own situation. Why, everything she brushed against screamed of their neediness, their desire for soldi, for power and control – especially of her. A wicked grin spread across her face as she remembered Giaconda’s gloves. For some reason, the Maleovellis believed if they did not directly touch her, or she them, she could not extract and therefore read them. What they didn’t understand was that she’d never needed direct contact with their flesh; everything in their casa carried remnants of them. She was able to glean the degree of debt they were in from merely holding the quill she’d been given to sign the colleganza. From that she sensed the vendor’s surprise when the Maleovellis had paid with coin and Salzi’s relief that this time he didn’t have to ask for a chit. In holding a vino glass, a dinner knife, stroking a table, never mind Giaconda’s dress, Tallow was able to assemble impressions of her new family. What she’d gathered so far was not alarming. In fact, it was all too familiar – greed, desire and secrets. Just like so many of the popolani in the Candlemakers Quartiere. For all the book learning of Jacopo, all the research he’d done on Estrattore, she was still an unknown quantity. But the Maleovellis would bring them back – that was the condition of their agreement. The return of the Estrattore. Only for that could she do what she knew would be asked of her. No price was too high. She glanced at the harlequin.
Well, perhaps one. But she could not change that. Not now.
She came away from the window and wearily climbed into her bed. The fire was a mound of glowing embers in the hearth, radiating warmth and reassurance. She snuffed out the candle and, easing herself under the covers, focused on the fireplace. The coals glowed and the flames crackled, a familiar lullaby that eased her into an exhausted, but content sleep.