Remember, my dear Lord Waterford, that while in Serenissima, every word you utter, every action you take, is in Our name. All you do, you do with Our authority and with Our unequivocal blessing, as We have long discussed. Always strive to achieve a mutually agreeable outcome. We will look forward, over the following months, to your reports and to blessing Our new Serenissian friends with Our bounty, for they have suffered much and the time has come to cast aside old enmities and rebuild relationships that will further everyone’s interests. Above all, Our goal is to work in our common interest, helping Serenissma regain her health so she in turn can help Us. We do not need to remind you that the rewards for such an enterprise are potentially immeasurable.
We trust that you understand the gift We have given you with this most precious of postings and the attendant power it bestows and that, when the time comes for you to return to Us, you will bring gifts of equal value from Our beloved Serenissima – namely, their heart and trust, so that We will be reminded of our fresh accord daily.
The missive was signed with Zaralina’s usual curlicue.
To anyone else but him, it would seem typical of a ruler’s instructions to a new ambassador. Only he understood it had been written with full knowledge that it would also be read by those for whom it was never intended. The warning was implicit in her words – play his role well, offer everything to the Serenissians, earn their confidence, be bountiful and generous, and find the Estrattore. Unravel the mystery of the boy whom the Mortians located, and discover the whereabouts of the girl of the legends. The girl that Queen Zaralina wants so badly. That was the gift he was charged with bringing home. Once again, he was being forced to be little better than a trader in slaves. No, he was worse. At least slave traders didn’t pretend to be anything other than what they were. He’d already brought his Queen one child; now she was asking, no, demanding another. And, if there were two Estrattore dwelling here, then he had to get them both, whatever it took. Were there no depths to which he would not stoop? Again, thoughts of his wife and son rose in his mind. No. Where their safety was concerned, there were no limits. Zaralina knew that – she counted upon it.
He picked up the glass of wine and downed it in one gulp before refilling it. His hands were trembling. The song of the castrato rose, filling Waterford’s ears and soul. He swilled the glass, holding it to the light, watching the way the flames of the fire and candle exposed unexpected depths and currents.
Other lives depended on him. His countrymen, gods help them, depended on him and what he was brought to Serenissima to do. He had better play his part well, whatever the cost.
If he didn’t, if he failed, it would be his beloved wife, son, and all of Albion, of Farrowfare, who paid the price.
Waterford drained his glass and then, with unaccustomed frustration, dashed it into the fire. The flames hissed and sparked before consuming the shattered fragments. With shaking hands he picked up the jug and began to drink from the lip.
THE MIDDAY BELLS IN THE CAMPANILE had long tolled when I entered what I quickly christened the workshop for my first lesson with Baroque. Situated just off the courtyard at the rear of the casa, it was a large, dark room, the only light coming from a grubby window beside the door. A fire was burning in the small grate, the wind whistling through the open door threatening to extinguish the flames. The thick wooden mantelpiece surrounding the hearth had shelves above it, upon which were stacked a range of materials that piqued my curiousity. Not far from the fireplace was an internal doorway that, I quickly discovered, was the entrance to Baroque’s bedroom. A huge trestle table stood in the middle of the main room. On this lay an assortment of objects. I could make out a couple of pestles and mortars, a few boxes, some candles – mainly tapers – as well as bunches of herbs and a few small vials with liquid in them. Underneath were a pile of dented pots and a variety of containers.
Baroque came out of his bedroom wiping his hands on a towel that, as soon as he set eyes on me, he tossed over his shoulder. ‘Forgive me, Signorina Tall – Tarlo. I did not expect you so soon.’
I curtsied and felt strangely self-conscious. ‘Lunch was finished and the others went for siesta, so I thought …’ My voice trailed off. I felt my cheeks growing hot.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I am not criticising. You’re punctual. I like that.’ He glanced behind me into the courtyard beyond. ‘They let you come here unescorted?’
I knew to whom he referred. ‘Sì. Giaconda is resting as she is … busy tonight and Hafeza has gone to the mercato.’
‘I see. We’re alone then. Bene.’ He rested his hands on the tabletop and nodded thoughtfully. The bruises and cuts that had so distorted his face were healing. He looked more like the man I remembered than a victim. I found the old resentment starting to churn inside me. I tried to swallow it and waited for him to commence.
Aware of my agitation, he sought to distract me and reached over to one of the shelves, pulling a piece of fabric from a pile. It was an apron. He passed it to me. ‘Put this on. You don’t want to damage your dress.’
I nodded my thanks and pulled the apron over my head and tied it around my waist.
He dragged a stool over and indicated that I should also find one and sit on the other side of the table. There were two propped under the window. I grabbed one and perched on it.
‘So,’ said Baroque after almost a minute. ‘I am to teach you.’
‘Sì,’ I said slowly.
I felt Baroque studying me. I didn’t look at him, but stubbornly remained focused on the tabletop.
Finally, he sighed. ‘Look, Tarlo. This isn’t easy for me either. I am not a teacher. I’m a spy. A man few trust and who has made a life out of double-dealing and death. The Maleovellis hired me to find you. I did what I was paid to do. I know you don’t like it; but that’s the way it is.’ He paused as if waiting for me to comment. I didn’t.
He rubbed his hands over his face. ‘I am old, tired and loath to pass on what I know to someone … to someone like you.’
My eyes widened.
‘But I’m forced into this position, so I’ll do my best.’
‘Forced? How?’
‘The Maleovellis. They have something of mine that I want. That I need.’ He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s my problem.’ He gave a half-laugh.
‘You’re not being paid for this?’
‘Not exactly. My expenses are covered and, if it all works out … who knows?’ He shrugged.
I thought for a moment. ‘Why don’t you want to teach me what you know? Is it because I’m a woman?’
He gave my question some consideration. ‘No. It has nothing to do with your sex. It’s because of what you are. The gifts of an Estrattore are … special. They’re not meant to be used in the way I believe the Maleovellis want to use them. The way they want to use you.’
‘You don’t think I have some say over the matter?’
He seemed surprised by my question. ‘No, I don’t. Do you?’
I spluttered at the honesty of his reponse. ‘No. Not really.’
‘Good. I didn’t think you were stupid.’
Before I could reply, he continued. ‘So, whether we like it or not, for a few hours a day, we’re stuck with each other. We’d better make the most of it, hey?’ He chuckled at the expression on my face. ‘Now, before I begin to tell you what I know, I want you to show me what you can do. Show me what you used to do with the candles.’ He slid one of the creamy tapers towards me. ‘Go on,’ he urged as I hesitated.
It wasn’t working with the candle that gave me pause. The familiarity of its form and texture excited me. It was what Baroque had said. He wasn’t being paid, he was being coerced; he was not a willing agent of the Maleovellis. For some reason, this made me see him in a different light. Perhaps I’d judged him too harshly.
I slowly picked up the candle and turned it over in my hand, feeling the smoothness of the wax. I held it to my nose. Beeswax. ‘These are good quality,’ I said.
‘Sì,’ agreed Baroque. ‘I was to buy the best.’
I twirled it in my fingers. ‘What would you like me to show you exactly?’
Baroque considered this for a moment. ‘What was it you used to do with the ones that were so successful in the Candlemakers Quartiere?’
‘Without going into too much detail, I used to infuse them with happiness.’
Baroque snorted. ‘Really? That was it?’
‘Sì, basically,’ I said sharply, my cheeks colouring. His derision bothered me. He hadn’t seen what they could do, the contentment they brought to people. ‘But remember, I would make them from scratch. I was able to hide the strength of the extraction. I’m not practised in changing candles that someone else has made. This will take time to get right.’ I held up the taper. ‘I will have to be very careful. I will make many mistakes.’
He weighed my words. ‘But you can do it?’
‘Sì, but it will be strong – maybe overpowering.’
‘What harm can happiness do?’
I recalled my early efforts – the happiness of the alchemist and his wife, of Francesca, the fruiterer’s daughter Lucia and her amore. I almost recoiled. ‘You may be surprised to learn, Baroque Scarpoli, it can do a great deal of harm. Excess of emotion is not good.’ Dante flashed into my mind. I pushed him away.
‘Ah.’ Baroque lowered his voice. ‘Then you have already learnt the most valuable lesson an Esttrattore can teach. What they used to both practise and preach. Excess in anything is to be avoided. Something I am yet to learn.’ He patted his belly with a wry smile.
I felt a rush of warmth. The Estrattore would teach such things?
Sensing my glow of pleasure, Baroque smiled, revealing his gold teeth. I found myself responding.
‘How do you know this?’ I asked quietly.
‘The resident expert has not told you?’ He jerked his head upstairs. I knew he referred to Jacopo.
I giggled. ‘No. Should he?’
‘I would have thought it was the most important thing about Estrattore you have to know.’ He saw the look on my face. ‘I was a spy, Tarlo. I had to know about Estrattore so that when I was asked, I could track and capture them.’
‘Did you? Find any, that is.’
His eyes took on a faraway look. ‘Once, I thought I had.’
And –’ I urged.
‘Funny. We were always told to look at the eyes. The eyes were what gave your lot away.’ His own gravitated to mine and then away again. ‘But this man I found, this man I caught, couldn’t even see.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was accused of being an Estrattore. I was sent, along with some soldiers, to bring him to the Doge. In our excitement, we didn’t listen to the pleas of his daughter. Not until it was too late.’
‘Too late?’
‘It was only after he was executed in the piazza that we realised he was blind. What we thought were the silver eyes of the Estrattore were, in fact, cataracts.’ He sighed. ‘Of everything I’ve done, I most regret that.’
I stared at him. ‘Sometimes we don’t see what’s in front of us.’ My voice was barely a whisper.
‘Vero,’ he said warmly. We exchanged a long look.
‘All right,’ he said, slapping his hands together, breaking the moment. ‘Happiness it is then. What do you need?’
‘For that, nothing,’ I said. ‘I store it in here.’ I touched my breastbone. ‘What I’ve extracted and altered from other things, other people, it’s all inside me.’
‘Do you feel it, the happiness?’
I shook my head. ‘It doesn’t work like that; at least, not for me. I don’t know how to use what I have extracted to change the way I feel, only others.’
‘Then how do you use it?’
I cleared my throat, picked up the candle and wriggled on the stool until I was more comfortable. ‘Watch,’ I said. I closed my eyes and slowed my breathing. I shut out the noise of Baroque’s steady wheeze, the crackle of the fire and the wind blowing through the courtyard. I focused inwards and began to plunder my memories. I knew exactly which ones I would use to transform this candle.
I thought back to my escapades with Dante. Of our times together hiding in the campo, watching the antics of the nobiles and courtesans during Carnivale, gobbling cheese on the awning of a shop on the salizzada, dashing away from the soldiers as they searched for those who had thrown the fruit at them while they snoozed in the sunshine with their backs against the basilica wall.
They were joyful times, wonderful moments. I extracted the pleasure from deep within myself and, with great caution, transferred it to the candle.
When I opened my eyes, Baroque’s face was the first thing I saw. He was transfixed by the candle in my hands. But the lines that creased his face had been smoothed; a softness twinkled behind those steely eyes as he recalled something from his past too – something that made his cheeks rosy and the corners of his mouth turn upwards.
‘Now, we light it,’ I said.
Baroque grabbed the tinder box and, using the flint and spill, lit the wick. In seconds, a sweet smell filled the workshop. I watched as Baroque’s smile broadened. He inhaled deeply a few times and then let out a long sigh. ‘Amazing. I feel it. I –’ He struggled to find the words. He patted an area on the left side of his chest. ‘I feel something here. And just when I thought I no longer had one.’ His voice thickened and he quickly slid off the stool, staunched the candle with his fingers and turned to the shelves, but not before I saw the tears in his eyes.
I pretended not to notice as he opened a box and pulled out two more candles. He added them to three others on the bench and pushed them all towards me. ‘Can you change these in the same way?’
‘Sì, I can. Why?’
Baroque put the lid back on and replaced the box on the shelf. ‘The Maleovellis are going to use them. They will burn them for the Signorina’s clients to enjoy. They hope they will help make them the friends they currently lack and even bring old ones back. Open their circle of acquaintances.’ He raised doubtful eyes to mine.
‘If you like, I can make sure they do,’ I said.
‘You can?’
‘Sì. I think so.’
Once again he sighed. I had the strong sense that there was an undertone of disappointment, but it wasn’t directed at me. ‘Then you had better do that too. I will let them know. They will be very … pleased.’
I nodded and applied myself to the candles. Baroque’s eyes were upon me, admiration, curiosity and a tinge of misgiving behind them.
After I finished, he reached past me and held aloft one of the tapers I’d transformed. ‘I can smell them from here.’ His eyes widened and he stared at me with something akin to respect. He began to chuckle. ‘When I heard about this in the Candlemakers Quartiere, that something had been done to the candles, I didn’t really believe, even though I wanted to. But they’re changed. Whatever it is you’ve done, no-one lighting them and breathing in their scent will be the same as they were.’ He placed them in a different box. ‘And when we’re talking about Serenissian nobiles and some of our merchants, that’s not necessarily a bad thing.’ He winked at me.
‘Is that all I have to do?’ I asked. I was surprisingly weary.
‘For today. But Signorina, you know this is just the beginning. Tomorrow, and in the days to come, I am to teach you everything I know – about potions.’ He pointed to the vials on the shelf and then to the plants drying on the bench. ‘About herbs, about the way all these things, when mixed together and in specific quantities, can make people feel certain things, act in particular ways. I’m to teach you about these so that you can collect what you learn and store it in there –’ he pointed towards my chest ‘– and use that knowledge to change more candles, distil into the wax just as you did then. By the time we’re finished, there will be very little by way of feelings or emotions, let alone physical complaints and remedies, that you won’t be able to induce in others through your candles.’ He paused. ‘I’ll also teach you what I’ve learnt over the years about people – their behaviour, expressions, how they can say one thing with their mouths, something else with their bodies – what their reactions really mean. Though I have a feeling you may already know a great deal – more than I think you will ever reveal.’
I swelled with pride at the compliment.
‘For what purpose am I to learn all this?’
I already had a fair idea, but I wanted to hear it from Baroque’s mouth. ‘So the Maleovellis can use your candles to manipulate whomever they want. So their rise to power will be swift and without doubt.’
I studied my hands for a moment. ‘I thought so. I just wanted to make sure we both knew what we’re doing.’
Baroque looked me straight in the eye. ‘You can reconcile this, with your conscience? Your soul?’
‘Can you?’ I retorted.
He regarded me for a moment before turning back to the fire and poking the embers. ‘I have no choice – not anymore,’ he said quietly. ‘But you –’
‘I have no choice either, Baroque Scarpoli. Not anymore. If I ever really did.’ He didn’t reply, but began stacking the boxes back on the shelves and rearranging the vials. I watched him in silence.
The afternoon shadows grew, plunging the room into darkness. Baroque added some more wood to the fire and lit the candles at the other end of the table. He began to hum. Wandering into his bedroom, I heard him rummaging through some paper.
‘Is there anything else for me to do?’ I called.
Baroque’s head appeared around the door. He was chewing. ‘Goodness. Mi dispiace, Tallow … I mean, Signorina Tarlo. I thought you’d gone. I didn’t notice you sitting there. Lesson is over for the day. I will see you tomorrow.’
‘Bene,’ I said and slid off the stool, dropping him a small curtsy. ‘Don’t apologise,’ I said as I straightened. ‘I have become quite used to blending in over the years. I’ve learnt how not to be seen.’
‘Then that’s something I believe the Maleovellis will want you to unlearn. If I understand their intentions correctly, they want you to be noticed by everyone. Just not yet.’
I stared at him then nodded. ‘Grazie, Baroque. Grazie mille. I enjoyed my lesson.’
‘Anche me. Me too,’ replied Baroque.
I hid my smile by turning away. I wandered out into the courtyard. As I ascended the stairs, I knew if I turned round, Baroque would be in the doorway watching me.
DAYS BLURRED INTO WEEKS AS HISTORY, reading, writing, manners and dress, herbal lore and candle fixing filled my time. I could not think of it as candlemaking, not when I’d played no role in giving the wax its form, but I enjoyed working with my beloved medium, practising my talents, refining and adding to my knowledge.
I’d thrown myself into the lessons. I needed distractions, something to keep me from thinking too deeply about what I was doing; how easily it could all go wrong. I also found that keeping myself occupied prevented me from touching the little harlequin that glimmered invitingly in the afternoon light, urging me to extract what I continued to place in there – my feelings for Dante, which arose every time a fresh memory was plumbed, as well as my doubts and qualms about the entire Maleovelli enterprise.
Even though there was still a great deal I didn’t know about the family, they’d shown me nothing but an extraordinary generosity. I wasn’t so naïve that I didn’t know they’d eventually demand their price; but they’d been frank with me about that. So far, they’d given me a splendid roof over my head, clothes such as I had never even dreamt of owning and delicious food. And they were educating me. At least, that’s what they called it.
Every morning, Giaconda would come into my room and, with Hafeza in tow, talk about my ‘toilette’; how to make sure I was clean in the areas that count. For a lady, this was my face, my armpits, in my décolletage and between my legs. I was to perform this ritual daily and, once a week, I would enjoy a bath and wash my hair that, owing to my healthy diet, was growing quickly. It already swept my shoulders. I often touched the wisps that would escape my coiffure, twining them around my finger.
Giaconda taught me to add particular fragrances to the water to ensure my skin smelled sweet. There was a rich and heady musk from Hafeza’s home, Moroko, and an infusion of florals from Firenze, a city-state a few weeks from Serenissima. There was a citrus perfume from Iraklion, infused, so Giaconda told me, with olive leaves, as well as a range of spicy oils to awaken and inflame the senses that came from as far away as Konstantinople. There were also the scents of roses, dewdrops, sunshine and fabulously shaped containers labelled with ridiculous claims such as ‘innocence’, ‘lust’ and ‘energy’, though how you could extract those without being an Estrattore defeated me. I used them anyhow, and enjoyed the sensation of their perfume lingering in my nostrils throughout the day.
After my daily wash, which Hafeza would inevitably perform while Giaconda watched, I would learn about female clothing. It took me a while to get used to the fine undergarments that a woman was expected to wear – the long-legged drawers with the silk ties and the gossamer-like camicia that stopped the corset rubbing my skin raw. I found it strange to wear anything under my dress, especially when it took me so long to gather up the yards of material in the skirt before pulling down my pants in order to relieve myself. When I complained about this one day, Giaconda exchanged a long, knowing look with Hafeza.
‘You won’t always wear them, Tarlo. Do not worry. These are very temporary.’
I wasn’t quite sure what to make of that.
It wasn’t till the beginning of my third week that Giaconda introduced me to the zoccoli. These added inches to my height, and I struggled to maintain my balance, even with Hafeza’s arm to clutch as I tried to walk around the room.
‘Glide, Tarlo. Slide your feet forward as if you’re dancing,’ suggested Giaconda in her calm way. ‘Don’t try to lift your legs; the shoes are too heavy for that. You’ll look graceless.’
‘I think I’ve achieved that already.’
Giaconda just smiled patiently. ‘By the time you’re ready to be introduced to society, you’ll feel as comfortable in those as you used to in your old boots.’
I doubted that, but shut my mouth and stumbled around, every step being met with a loud crack as the wooden heel slammed into the floor. Hafeza winced and threw her hands up in the air. But Giaconda was right. After a week, I was accustomed to the heavy, ornate shoes and enjoyed the additional height they gave me.
On top of these were lessons in table manners, dancing, and how to speak to nobiles of different rank and merchants of varying degrees of wealth. Giaconda would constantly ride me about my accent, making me repeat words over and over to remove the vulgar strains of the Dorsoduro Sestiere that I’d apparently adopted.
She also taught me how to tip my head, whose eyes I could meet and whose I should not. How to curtsy and how deep; how to use my dinner knife; hold my glass, my napkin; how to leave a table, enter a room, how to deploy my fan … the lessons went on and on.
One day, a thought occurred to me.
‘Giaconda,’ I began, ‘I don’t understand why you’re teaching me that I can look some people in the eye and not others. Surely, being what I am, I can’t meet anyone’s eyes.’ I let my gaze rest on her face to drive my point home. We had moved to the main portego for our lesson, so the light shining on my face accentuated my silver regard more than usual.
Giaconda tipped her head. ‘For the moment, your eyes are a problem. At night, I am hoping your … differences will not be so difficult to obscure. Men are not interested in your eyes.’ Her lips curved. ‘But you’re right, Tarlo. We do have to work out what to do with them. Glasses are out of the question, since you used to wear those in your old life. Certainly no courtesan would consider placing a pair upon her nose.’
I’d almost forgotten my glasses – the thin gold frames and burnished lenses that Katina had ordered Pillar have made for me. They’d allowed me to take liberties I’d never known before. The freedom to explore my quartiere and beyond; to meet people. It was because of them that I’d met Dante. Dorato, he’d called me. His golden boy.
‘… But he hasn’t found anything yet.’ I lost most of what Giaconda said as my head filled with images I’d thought I’d buried in the harlequin.
‘Scusi?’
‘Jacopo is combing the histories, searching for a solution. In order for our plans to work, you need to be able to leave the casa. Don’t worry, Tarlo.’ She reached over and pushed a stray lock behind my ears. ‘We’ll find a way. We always do.’
Before lunch, I would spend time with Jacopo. These were my least favourite lessons – not because of the content, which I actually found fascinating, but because of my instructor. Jacopo, Baroque informed me, was no nephew of Signor Maleovelli, but a bastard son sired by a young woman who fled to a convent when she discovered she was with child. She died during the birth, which was complicated and, I thought as Jacopo struggled around the room, accounted for his deformity. That Signor Maleovelli took the child from the nuns and kept him surprised me somewhat. In the Candlemakers Quartiere, cripples were hidden from sight. They brought shame upon the family. I know. I was treated like one all my life. In the Maleovellis’ casa, Jacopo was entrusted with managing their accounts and general affairs. He was their notaio – their notary.
Each day I would join Jacopo in his room near the top of the stairs for an hour or two. Unlike the portego, which faced a piazzetta and had views of the grander Circolo in the distance, his had a small window that looked down on a calle and faced another casa. It was so dark that even in the middle of the day it required candles. It was also very close and musty.
At some point not long after the lesson began, Giaconda would join us and sit quietly in a corner. I knew her presence made Jacopo uneasy. I didn’t need to extract – his entire body reacted to her by tensing, and sweating profusely. After a couple of hours, his odour would so permeate the room that I found it difficult to breathe. If it bothered Giaconda, she never made mention. She would remain, unmoving and silent, while Jacopo, sitting beside me but never looking directly at me, with his turned leg stretched in front of him, would have me copy out letters on thick pieces of paper with rough edges. At first he sat so close to me, his thigh brushed mine, his fingers hovered over the back of my hand as I wrote. I shifted aside, out of reach, but he chased me across his chair, almost ending up in mine. I longed to push him away, to distil something into him that would force him to keep his distance, but with Giaconda there, I didn’t dare. It wasn’t till one day, when he placed his hand on my leg, that Giaconda broke her silence.
‘Jacopo,’ she said with such intensity he froze. ‘She’s not to be touched. Do you understand?’
Sniffing and licking his lips, Jacopo withdrew his hand. I moved my chair back. After that, he ceased to try. I was grateful to Giaconda and now understood why she stayed.
I would re-use the paper given to me, spinning it around to write across what I had done the day before, then turning it over to start afresh. I mastered the alphabet very quickly, learning to sound out my vowels and consonants. After a day or two, Jacopo began to teach me to script basic words.
I was a quick student. While I was forbidden from initiating touch with anyone in the house, or directly holding certain objects, they hadn’t thought much about the pieces of paper I wrote upon. Every time I came in contact with one, I would delicately extract. From that, I could feel the other hands that had passed over its surface, the quills that had scratched letters and words, words that time had faded but in which the memories of the author were imprinted. I assimilated these as well as my lessons and I knew that Jacopo was impressed with the speed at which I learned and which he attributed in a self-congratulatory way to his teaching. That was something that his quill, which I occasionally touched, told me. It also revealed to me a great darkness within him. It was something I didn’t want to explore.
My education proceeded at a good pace and my teachers were pleased. I enjoyed what I was being introduced to and, for all my restlessness, there was much to stimulate and satisfy me – providing I wasn’t left with my own thoughts and recollections for too long. Those I fought daily to repress.
My little harlequin was my secret repository, my redeemer. Every time something became too much for me, I would distil it into my figurine. It sat atop the cabinet – my greatest secret, filled with my longings and the pain of far too many memories.
Memories I foolishly hoped never to have to deal with again.
THERE WAS THE RUSTLE OF ROBES and the clang of keys. Katina stirred atop her bed and sat up. The candle almost guttered and she quickly cupped her hands around the flame to preserve the light. Reassured it wasn’t going out, she stood up and straightened her clothes. No-one was expected and she wondered who it could be. Fortunately, she’d washed a few hours ago and been given a fresh robe. She twisted her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck and rubbed her eyes, waiting to see who entered her cell.
The door swung open and in walked an old man in dove-coloured robes carrying a tray. Over his shoulder swung a heavy bag. He turned towards the guard.
‘You may leave us,’ he said and waited until the guard had shut the door behind him.
‘Elder Maggiore.’ Katina bowed her head, trying to hide her astonishment. An Elder, and of all of them, Maggiore, visiting her? What was going on?
‘Katina.’ Smiling gently, he held out the tray. ‘Sì, sì.’ He verbally dismissed her as she went to kiss his hand. ‘Enough of that. Take this, would you? Before I drop it.’ She bore it from his shaking hands and placed it on the small table against the wall. It was laden with food and a brimming jug. Vino splashed over the lip as Katina set the tray down.
Elder Maggiore let the bag drop from his shoulders. It spread in a loud plashet at his feet and out rolled an apple. Ruby red, it glowed in the semi-darkness and, despite herself, Katina felt a longing to bite into it and draw the moisture into her mouth. She picked it up and squeezed it onto the tray. Why were food and drink being given to her?
Rotating his shoulder to ease the muscle, Elder Maggiore made a leisurely study of Katina’s cell. Her eyes followed his.
Small, it was nonetheless dry and comfortable. She had a bed, a table and chair, a supply of candles and some reading materials. Every so often, a guard would appear with washing water and a change of clothes. Conversation was brief and neutral but it was not denied. She may have been in deep trouble, but the guards were not forbidden from communicating with her. Each time the key turned in the latch and the door swung open, her heart leapt. She foolishly hoped to see Debora, Alessandro or even Dante. But they’d all been kept from her. She understood why, even though it pained her.
Alone for so long, at first she had tried to occupy the hours by reading. But with each tale or historical account, her mind had begun to drift and the questions she’d pushed aside for so long would come to the fore, bringing doubts and distress. Over and over, she replayed the events that had led to her being held within the palazzo awaiting trial.
Why were the Elders so afraid of Tallow? Why was it so important to sever her from her past? The Elders, particularly Nicolotti and Pisano, had been determined that Tallow feel isolated, alone. And that was before their intention to use her – to have her release the souls of the Bond Riders from every pledge stone – had been made apparent. But killing Dante made no sense, not really.
Was it the Obbligare Doppio that caused their fury with her or was it the fact that she had saved Dante? Sure, she knew she was forbidden from making such a pact, but at a time when Bond Riders’ souls couldn’t be released from the pledge stones anyway, why did it matter so much that she had? Especially, when as far as she understood, she was acting in the best interests of the prophecy.
The prophecy.
The first she’d ever heard of it was the night Constantina rescued her and her twin, Filippo, from certain death. The night Serenissima rose against the Estrattore – those who practised what was now referred to as the old faith – burning, killing and purging the city of their presence. All Katina had been told back then was that the prophecy involved a child who would, at the right time and place, restore balance to the world.
The next time it was mentioned was when she’d been given the task, along with her brother Filippo, Stefano, the new Rider, Santo, and a few others of finding the baby Estrattore they’d heard had been born, the child it was believed was spoken of in the legends. And they had. After years and years of searching, they’d found, in an unexpectedly fertile pocket of the Limen, where the Estrattore had rebuilt their lives after they were expelled from Serenissima. They’d also discovered and taken the baby. What had always bothered her was why, after learning the location of the Estrattore, the Elders hadn’t formed an alliance with them. Instead, they’d antagonised any potential relationship by stealing Tallow. Then they hadn’t even kept her, but had sent her into Serenissima, and look where that decision had led.
What bothered her most was the responsibility – no, the power, that had been given to Santo. The last Rider to be Bonded, he’d been entrusted with so much and so quickly, before he’d proved his worth. Part of that was the relationship he’d developed with Stefano, but even that didn’t explain it all. An upstart, with no experience, Santo appeared to have the ear of the Elders … or did he? Was that just how it appeared to be? Who was using whom?
Certainly, Stefano had some influence. And why had Elder Nicolotti pulled him aside like that just as she’d been arrested? What was going on?
Katina knew the Elders were up to something and was worried about the role she was playing in their plans – the roles they were all playing. That was why she’d Bonded Dante. He was her guarantee that if something should happen to her, Tallow had a chance.
Katina studied Elder Maggiore expectantly. This was her opportunity to get some answers.
‘I didn’t think I was allowed visitors,’ she said.
Elder Maggiore chuckled. ‘What would be the point of my office if I wasn’t allowed a few privileges. May I?’ he asked, gesturing to the chair.
‘Please,’ said Katina and sat on the bed opposite him. Awkward in his presence, uncertain what to say, she studied her fingernails.
Elder Maggiore organised his robe around his legs and then placed his hands on his knees.
‘You are well, Katina?’
‘As well as can be expected.’ She wondered where this was going.
‘Bene.’ Elder Maggiore stared at the walls then his gaze alighted on the door. He held up a finger to ward off Katina’s next question. He stood, picked up the chair, and carried it closer to her. ‘I am glad to see that you’re being treated so well,’ he said in an unnecessarily loud voice. ‘Even so, I have brought you some food and drink.’ He indicated the bag and tray.
‘Why?’ asked Katina as he finally sat, directly in front of her, so close his knees touched hers. She was about to give him more room when he laid a hand on her leg. She froze.
‘Keep talking to me as if there is still distance between us – make your comments inane,’ he said in barely a whisper. ‘We are being monitored.’
Katina’s eyes widened.
‘Why am I being given food?’ she asked.
‘Both myself and Elder Dandolo felt it was in your best interests. Without knowing the outcome of the trial, it’s important to prepare you for any eventuality.’
Katina’s heart skipped.
‘This,’ he said, gesturing to the tray and the bag, ‘will help sustain you. I will have more brought as you need it.’
‘Grazie,’ said Katina. Her mind galloped. What did that mean? Any eventuality? How many options were there?
‘Ah,’ said Elder Maggiore, reaching for one of the books on the table, ‘you’re reading the philosophies of Plato. I’m particularly fond of the cave simile.’ He glanced around and chuckled at his joke, flicking the pages. Then he leant in as close as he could again, continuing to turn the pages loudly as he spoke.
‘Katina,’ he whispered urgently, ‘all is not as it seems. Your Obbligare Doppio, forgive me for asking this, but I must know. It’s to do with Tallow, is it not?’
Katina drew in her breath sharply. Why, Elder Maggiore was breaking one of the greatest taboos in Bond Rider society by simply asking. But, just as Bonding Dante had felt right to her, so did answering him feel correct. She gave the barest of nods. Elder Maggiore blew out his breath. He placed a hand over hers. ‘My daughter.’ Katina knew he was not simply acknowledging their Rider relationship, whereby all Elders adopted the role of parent to those in Settlement, but their shared blood ties as well. ‘All may not yet be lost.’
Over the next few minutes, Elder Maggiore conducted a strange double conversation. One was held sotto voce, in hasty whispers, with Katina’s and his heads pressed together. The other was spoken at a volume loud enough to satisfy the eavesdroppers that Elder Maggiore believed were privy to their conversation.
‘Katina, what I’m about to tell you is sacred to the Elders. If it was discovered I was sharing this with you, well, I know my end would not be far away.’ He flicked a smile at her. ‘You know there’s a prophecy, sì? Do you know much about it?’
Katina shook her head.
‘While the prophecy states that the Estrattore will create a child in order to restore balance, it doesn’t say exactly how that balance will be achieved. It does, however, make it very clear that she must have free will. That she must make her own choice – not one that’s imposed. If she’s not able to do this, then chaos will ensue and the world as we know it will end.’
‘But I thought the Elders,’ whispered Katina, ‘they want to force her –’
‘Not all of us.’ He frowned and gathered his thoughts. ‘There’s been a terrible disagreement among us, Katina. Oh, we present a united face to all you Riders, but within our ranks there’s great discord. Elders Nicolotti and Pisano, along with a couple of the others, they want to encourage Tallow towards a particular choice. They feel that the term “choice” is flexible, that it’s in the Riders’ best interests to pursue a particular line. They also argue that the prophecy states the “end of the world as we know it” – not its imminent destruction.’
He rose and walked around for a moment, holding the book he’d first picked up in his hand, discussing Plato in a loud voice. Katina watched him, bemused as to how he could switch from one topic to another until she realised he was not talking about the book he was holding. She glanced at the pile on the table. There was no work by Plato sitting among them, though she was familiar with his writings. Elder Maggiore continued, discussing the philosopher’s book, The Republic, an imagined ideal state where one class ruled and all others fell into an ordered hierarchy, where certain professions were excluded and others embraced. He was not babbling. He was telling her something.
He sat back down quickly. ‘The Elders would create a new world order?’ she asked.
‘Sì. A closed one, here, within the Limen. One where Bond Riders rule.’
Katina gasped and hid it with a cough.
‘What about the Estrattore?’
Elder Maggiore stared at her gravely. ‘It’s because of the Estrattore that they seek do to this. To protect us from their intentions.’ She recoiled in disbelief. This time, he took her hand in his. ‘Katina, do you know why they brought Tallow into the world?’
Katina shook her head.
He squeezed her hands tightly. ‘We believe Tallow was created to do one thing and one thing only. She’s to destroy the pledge stones.’
Katina pulled away from Elder Maggiore’s grip and retreated to the back of the bed. She was speechless.
He watched her for a moment and then continued conversing for the benefit of other ears.
‘Why didn’t you tell us? You had us searching for the baby all that time and you knew …’ she hissed.
‘What would you have done?’
‘Back then?’
He nodded.
‘Killed her.’ Horrified by the truth of her response, Katina drew up her knees and hugged them close. She thought of how immersed she’d been in the welfare of the Bond Riders. Years ago, she wouldn’t have thought twice about eliminating a threat to them – even a baby. Thank the gods she hadn’t known. Thank the gods Tallow lived.
‘That’s what we thought,’ said Elder Maggiore, studying the expressions that crossed her face.
‘Are you certain? I mean, the Estrattore made the pledge stones. Why would they destroy them?’ How does that restore balance? How could this be true? Katina sat in shocked silence. It went against everything she knew of the Estrattore. And as for Tallow – sweet, innocent Tallow was born to be a weapon. She recalled the immense power she felt in the girl. Tallow couldn’t. She wouldn’t, would she? She shuddered; doubt replaced the fear. She glanced at Elder Maggiore and, unwrapping her arms from her body, lowered her legs.
Elder Maggiore gave her time to think about what she’d been told before he resumed. ‘Once it was discovered that Bonds could be made without the intervention of the Estrattore, that they were required only to return a person’s soul, well, you can imagine what happened.’
Katina regarded him gravely. ‘Anarchy.’
‘Sì. To many, the Estrattore lost their purpose. The nobiles started to pledge people to ridiculous, long-term enterprises, force them into Bonds. The Estrattore resisted this. This is what led to the huge schism between the Estrattore and the ruling classes of Serenissima. It was a battle for the souls of the people.’
‘And the Church of the Great Patriarch entered the rift.’
‘Esatto. And, they won. How can the popolani live without spiritual guidance? The nobiles, well, they worship soldi. And, once the Doge turned from the Estrattore, it was only a matter of time before the Church, with another band of followers, only this time with power and wealth on their side, met that need. To the Estrattore, destroying the pledge stones will destabilise the power of the nobiles, the power of Serenissima. It will allow the Estrattore to return from exile and bring back balance.’
‘So why now? The Church has been a fixture in Serenissima for centuries.’
‘Who knows? Revenge? A sense of right or righteousness? Anyway, when we learnt what the Estrattore intended, we ordered you to take the child. We had to get her away from them until we could work out what to do.’
‘How did you find this out?’
‘One of the Estrattore confessed to us.’
‘You have contact with them? But I thought …’ Her voice trailed away. She didn’t know what to think anymore.
Elder Maggiore sighed. ‘That we didn’t know where they were, that they were lost to us? They were. It was only because there was one who sought us out. It was from her that we learnt about Tallow; she revealed to us the ambigious nature of the prophecy and what the Estrattore were doing; just as we are doing now, they were manipulating it for their own ends. In telling us, she sought to give the prophecy a chance – maybe even restore balance; or maybe we’re still being duped and I am nothing but an old fool. But I fear with what’s happening now, what some of the Elders intend, we’ve all failed. We hover on the brink, Katina.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’
He took a deep breath. ‘Because I believe that you and Dante, with your Obbligare Doppio, can influence fate. Oh, not in narrow, conventional ways, but by allowing destiny to take its course – and I’m not the only one. You are both Bonded to Tallow. You and Dante will protect her interests – not those of the Bond Riders or the Estrattore or anyone else – just Tallow – the child of the legends. That’s what has upset the other Elders so much. You have, out of nowhere, overturned their well-laid plans. In doing so, you’ve given the prophecy a chance to unfold according to fate or free will, not somebody’s determined outcome.’
He fell silent. There was something he wasn’t revealing. Katina chose not to press him. Not yet.
Sitting down next to her on the bed, he continued. ‘You’ve seen the changes in those who trickle through the Limen over the years. They don’t think of others, only themselves. They no longer seek to fulfil their Bonds, but hide, timid and lazy, caught in the lust of their relationships, of the liberties they experience here, hoping they will never be called into Vista Mare. They’re prepared to forego their sacred promise, to commit sacrilege, and all for a false freedom.
‘We cannot go on this way. Our life has no meaning. What we do here has no purpose except to gather wealth and power – just like the nobiles of Serenissima we claim to despise. Look at us.’ He gestured to his robe of office. ‘Look at me. We’re nothing but pale imitations of what we left behind.’
‘What can I do?’ Katina asked finally.
‘Find Tallow before either the Riders who Elder Nicolotti sends or the Estrattore do – for I have no doubt they will all try to use her to influence the outcome of the prophecy. If that happens, then all hope is lost.’
‘What’s Elder Nicolotti got to do with this? What Riders?’
Elder Maggiore leant so close, his lips touched Katina’s ear as he spoke. ‘Elder Nicolotti is one of those who will seek to influence the outcome of the prophecy. He has persuaded some of the other Elders that Tallow should be our weapon and he will use what ever resources he has at his disposable to ensure he has her.’
‘So, he’s the one behind the plan to use her to release the souls trapped in the pledge stones?’
‘Sì. And, as I said, in doing so, create a new order, a new world with him at the helm. Imagine it, Katina, thousands of souls all with unnaturally long lives.’
Katina pulled away and regarded him gravely. ‘And his Riders? I am guessing you’re referring to Santo and Stefano?’
Elder Maggiore patted her knee. ‘You do not disappoint, Katina. You’re right. I do not presume to understand the nature of Stefano or Santo’s Bonds, but it seems that whatever they are, Nicolotti has suborned them and is using them for his own purpose – a purpose in which you, or at least your new Bond, feature strongly.’ The twinkle in his eye darkened. ‘You must be careful. For some reason, even beyond this –’ he reached for her hand and turned it gently so the new mark could be clearly seen ‘– you pose a huge threat to Nicolotti’s intentions.’
Katina’s fingers curled protectively over her scar.
‘What about the Morte Whisperers? They hunt for her as well.’
Elder Maggiore’s eyes slid to the door. ‘Ah, the Morte Whisperers. Sì, we know. They grow in numbers. They wait until we stray beyond Settlement and they take us.’
‘What are they, Elder Maggiore? Do you know? Or is that another secret you keep from us?’
He regarded her for a long time before speaking. ‘You’re asking the wrong person, Katina. Find the Estrattore, then ask what they know of the Morte Whisperers.’
The candle flickered and the shadows in the cave lengthened, casting Elder Maggiore’s face into darkness. Ask the Estrattore? What did they have to do with the nightmarish creatures that took whatever remained of a person’s life-force and consumed it? She shuddered. There was so much she still didn’t know and already her heart was heavy with what she’d learnt.
‘What’s going to happen to me and Dante now, then?’ she asked finally.
‘That I don’t know. I wish I did. I wish I could reassure you. I will do what I can to influence the trial in your favour. That is –’ He hesitated.
‘Go on.’
‘If you will help me, help those of us who believe in the prophecy – those who believe that in order for balance to be restored, Tallow must be able to choose freely.’ His eyes were liquid flint.
Katina could not shake the notion that she was either being moulded into a shape she detested or sacrificed for a cause she wasn’t sure she believed in. But trapped in her cell she could do nothing to influence either the direction or outcome. Outside, she had a chance and that meant Tallow had one too. ‘I will help you,’ she said.
Elder Maggiore drew in his breath sharply, his shoulders straightening as he withdrew from her slowly. Katina felt as if she’d just passed an important test. ‘Bene, bene. Eat, drink, build up your strength.’ He lowered his voice one last time. ‘All that matters is the prophecy. That it should be allowed to unfold without interference from those who feel they have a stake in it; that Tallow be able, when the time is right, to choose. What the fates decree, we will then have to accept, whoever we are. Whatever we believe.’
Katina bowed her head.
Elder Maggiore stood and shook out his robes. ‘Well, Katina, I don’t know if I’ll be able to visit again. I will try. But take advantage of the food – do not reject that which is offered, will you?’
He stared at her earnestly.
‘No. I’m not yet so foolish,’ said Katina, rising to stand beside him. ‘I am even grateful.’ She took the Elder’s offered hand and kissed it. He lifted her face and touched his lips to her forehead warmly.
‘Gods be with you, my daughter.’ Without another word, he left.
The door clicked and she heard the key turn in the lock. Katina stood in the centre of the cell staring vacantly at the spot Elder Maggiore had last occupied, his words, his hopes, his fears, his information echoing in her ears. Her head was full of everything she’d been told; the answers she’d so longed for had been given. Only with them came more questions and more doubts and foreboding.
With a long sigh, she lit another candle before collapsing back onto her bed, placing her hands behind her head. She studied the ceiling, noting the way the candlelight enlarged her silhouette, causing it to fill the uneven rock face, distorting her form. It was how she felt inside – altered, transformed. She would never be the same again.
Everything Elder Maggiore told her she went over, sifting the information bit by bit, slotting pieces into the puzzle. What had once seemed so straightforward was more elaborate and challenging than she could have imagined. Nothing was black or white, but everything, like the Limen itself, was in shades of grey. Disagreement among the Elders, the Estrattore; conflict within: all of them working at cross purposes, which led to secrets, betrayal and worse. Why was she surprised? Why should the Bond Riders be any different from anyone else? Since when did large groups of people agree about anything?
It occurred to her that she hadn’t asked about Dante. Not that she needed to. The Bond they shared let her know he was doing well – better than well. It was a wrench being away from him, especially now, when she had so much to share, information she could not impart to Alessandro or Debora for what that knowledge would do to them; the danger it would place them in.
As her thoughts roamed, a great pair of eyes filled her vision, silver ones staring at her own with such love and trust that it took her breath away. In them, she knew if she looked hard enough, she would find her own face.
Only she wasn’t so sure she wanted to see it, carved as it was into an expression of suspicion, weighed by new understanding and graven dread.
‘Oh, Tallow,’ she said softly. ‘What have we done?’
TIME FLEW BY SWIFTER THAN A PETREL, and with its passing came the heavy snows and thick blue mists that wrapped the city in soft, pale blankets, obscuring everything in their wintery embrace.
I had been with the Maleovellis for over three months, and in this period I had learnt much. But it was my time with Baroque that, above all else, I enjoyed, and not only because of the conversations we shared and the emotions we plumbed. I could relax with Baroque, let my guard down. After that first lesson, when we were both awkward with each other – like dancers who didn’t know the steps but who had been flung together to perform, day by day – bit by bit, Baroque’s and my relationship shifted. Whether it was the little scraps of gossip that would trip from his tongue, information about the Doge, his family, other nobiles and the life in the palazzo that he divulged, or that he could make me laugh, I was uncertain. All I knew was that one day, I anticipated my time downstairs in a way I hadn’t before.
Jacopo may have read about Estrattore and be considered the family authority, but it was Baroque who instinctively knew how to teach me.
From him I acquired knowledge, not just about the Estrattore and potions and herbs, but also the fierce Sultans of the Ottoman Empire and their bloodthirsty legionaries, the Kings of Moroko, Aquitaine, Konstantinople and Hibernya. About the sand people of Banghazi that ruled the dry lands across the Mariniquian Seas with their dark, smooth skins like Hafeza, and the courageous warriors who dwelled in the Contested Territories of Judea. He did not tell me with words so much, but by bringing me samples of produce such as cloth from a merchant who traded across Vista Mare, or the dried seeds of fruit that had tumbled out of a barrel brought from Hellas. Every day, I would enter the workshop and he would either gesture to a new object on the table or he would pull something from underneath his jacket – a piece of wood, an earring, lace, grains of dirt, salt or spices; seemingly innocuous, they were like plunging myself into a vat of experience.
He also kept his promise to the Maleovellis and taught me that which he did not wish to – the tricks of his former trade. I learnt how to crush the petals of certain flowers and herbs to cure fevers, make a laxative, create feelings of great well-being and aid sleep. I also discovered how these same flowers, when mixed with the ground root or bark of other plants, could be malignant.
At first, I found it difficult to work with these powders and pastes. I found myself gasping for air, becoming lethargic, euphoric or breaking out in a sweat and shaking so badly that I couldn’t wield the pestle against the mortar. We’d have to stop and I would flee outside and breathe in the cold air.
It took a few days to discover the source of the problem.
‘You’re extracting while you’re mixing,’ complained Baroque. ‘If you keep doing that, there’ll come a time when you’re no longer able to prevent the effect it has on your system. What if you’re mixing a poison and you’re overcome? What use is a dead Estrattore to anyone?’
Desperation entered his eyes.
‘You’re right,’ I said slowly. ‘I am extracting. Not deliberately – I do it instinctively because it helps me understand what it is I’m handling.’ I ran my hands over my face. They came away damp. ‘It’s how I used to make the candles.’
Baroque frowned. ‘I thought as much. Some of the potions we’re making, the essences we’re creating – there’s a huge difference between the effects of what a little can induce and what a larger amount can do. You must be more careful. We must be. You need to understand how to work these, the balance required before you can even think about distilling the effects into your own body, let alone the candles.’
He placed his hand against my forehead. ‘Hmmm. You have no fever, but you’re clammy. Would you like to stop for the day? Rest?’
I glanced through the window towards the small patch of sky above us. Although it was cloudy, the light was still bright. It was only early afternoon. ‘Can we keep going? I am so close to being able to understand what it is this plant can do.’
And so we’d resumed.
It was a relief to lose myself in the pure essence of plants such as comfrey, the sweet-scented melissa, periwinkle and the beautiful tri-coloured flower, heartsease.
Whether grinding these plants into potions or ointments or simply studying them to extract their properties, they offered me an escape that being in the casa didn’t allow. Over the weeks, I’d learnt to mine the essence of the plants and distil them to their most rudimentary form. Whereas Baroque told me that comfrey was used as a poultice to mend broken bones, I was able to discover that when I drew on its essential components alone, I could distil its quintessence in different ways. Candles infused with a little comfrey worked to heal broken relationships as well, to make whole what had once been fractured emotionally or physically. Once the Maleovellis realised the effects of these candles, they began to burn them whenever they had the chance, working hard to re-establish old friendships, encourage partnerships. As the candles melted, so had the hardened hearts of those who once swore never to associate with the Maleovellis again.
Periwinkle, used to staunch blood, became valuable for expelling negative thoughts. Burning a comfrey candle beside one infused with a concentration of periwinkle made an irresistible combination. Nobiles entered into colleganzas with the Maleovellis, banishing their lack of enthusiasm for an association, keen to establish new and fruitful relationships with a house and family they once thought all but finished.
When tiredness overcame the household, I burnt candles suffused with a new seed that had been brought back from the provinces of Phalagonia and which Signor Maleovelli believed would make their fortune – the cacao plant. Baroque had managed to smuggle a few back from the docks to the casa for me to experiment with and I discovered that they banished fatigue, providing those who inhaled the candles with unnatural energy. As the days flew by, I relied on these more and more.
My life fell into a pattern – one that, for the time being, I could not see altering but with which, for the most part, I was content.
WHEN THE REST OF THE FAMILY retired to their rooms to relax for the afternoon, it was time for me to go down to Baroque. I was just waiting for Hafeza to arrive. She’d recently taken to escorting me whenever she could. It was because of Jacopo. Lurking in the corridor outside my door had become his favourite pastime; that is, when he wasn’t occupied with another task. Not even Giaconda’s terse warnings had stopped him. I was grateful for Hafeza’s company. Jacopo, as much as I didn’t want to admit it, made me nervous.
I closed the window, latched it and crossed to the bed. I strapped my zoccoli back onto my feet. I had eaten very little at lunch, despite the five tempting courses that had been presented. I was too excited. I knew that today Baroque was bringing a special plant for me to work with. Today we were trying something that would both stretch me and test me to my limits.
Hafeza knocked just as I tied the last ribbon around my ankle. I rose to my feet, shook down my skirts and waited. Impatient, Hafeza knocked again. ‘Enter!’ I cried. I could not get used to having to give people permission to come into my room.
She opened the door and curtsied, waiting. I gave her an apologetic smile and walked as gracefully as I could into the corridor.
‘Buon giorno!’ I exclaimed as I entered the workshop.
Baroque muttered something in return. He was stooped over the bench, his hands busy pulling vials and other objects from his jacket. It always amazed me how much he was able to secrete around his body.
I glanced outside to ensure Hafeza had gone. I tied my work apron around my dress and dragged a candle closer, peering at what he’d brought. There were a few bottles filled with powders and liquids of different shades of yellow, as well as a large cutting from a plant, which he’d laid to one side. It had pretty green leaves, if somewhat wilted, that hid a profusion of bright-coloured berries. It also had purple, bell-shaped flowers. I reached for it immediately, only to find my wrist gripped tightly.
‘Wait,’ said Baroque, and released my hand, pulling more objects from his pocket.
‘Why?’
‘You need to be cautious with that plant.’
I raised my eyebrows and said nothing.
‘It’s poisonous.’
‘Oh.’ My heart began to beat against my ribs.
‘It’s belladonna.’
‘That’s belladonna? This lovely plant?’ My lips curled. ‘It means beautiful lady – yet it’s deadly. Who named it? A Serenissian man, no doubt.’
Baroque’s mouth twitched. ‘You are spending a great deal of time with Signorina Maleovelli, aren’t you?’ He took in my dress. It was a ruby red today, not unlike the robes of the senators. ‘I’m serious. It’s toxic.’
My smile disappeared.
‘Touch it carefully; remember not to extract too much. And, when you’re ready, tell me what its effects are. Why it’s so lethal.’
With less haste I picked it up, allowing the weight of the head to bow over my fingers. I inhaled sharply as sensations of great sleepiness and utter exhaustion almost overwhelmed me. I wanted to find somewhere to rest my head and shut my eyes. Instead, I pushed through this and allowed myself to probe deeper, but cautiously, into the plant’s properties. What I sensed sent chills along my spine.
I put it down very carefully.
‘It kills. The plant is noxious. It can send people to sleep – but they may never wake. When it is used in other ways, death is swift and agonising.’
‘Sì,’ said Baroque. ‘When ingested in certain quantities. Now, perhaps, you won’t make silly jokes when I tell you to be more careful.’ I didn’t respond. ‘Hmm. Now, I want you to touch it again. There’s more to belladonna than meets the eye. It doesn’t have to kill. It can also do many marvellous things. I want you to uncover what these are. Search its properties, identify what they can do, Tarlo, and tell me what you find.’
There was an edge to his tone that I couldn’t quite fathom. I wiped my sweating palms down the front of the apron. Slowly, I touched the petals of one of the flowers and allowed my senses to open to its effects once more.
My elbow began to twitch. I tried to manage it, but before I could, spasms began to twist my body. My knees shook. I felt my neck begin to jerk. ‘Steady.’ Baroque’s voice was loud in my ear. ‘Go further, deeper.’
I did as I was told, diving into the sensations. I wrested back control of my body. ‘You’re right. There’s something else here too, Baroque.’ Pictures of women picking these lovely plants filled my head, smiling women whose eyes sparkled and flashed like jewels. I saw them pounding the buds, the violaceous juices squirting. There was excitement, not caution. These women knew something, used the liquid for … I reached for it, but whatever it was eluded me. I withdrew and took a deep breath. I resisted the urge to stamp my foot. I was so close.
‘What is it?’ Baroque bent and examined my face.
‘I was almost there, Baroque. You’re right. The belladonna has many purposes and not all are bad.’
‘Then you have already learnt something very important.’ Baroque leant over the table. The candle flickered between us, throwing our silhouettes over the crushed belladonna, turning Baroque’s face into a dark prism. ‘Remember this, Tarlo. Even that which seems to serve only evil has another side. Good and bad co-exist. One may triumph over the other; it may be that you cannot find the good; you cannot discover the bad. But they’re all there. Sometimes you just have to search hard to find the other. When you do, expose what’s there and use it for your own ends.’
I looked at Baroque for a long moment, then at the belladonna. Baroque’s eyes were fixed to mine.
‘You’re not talking only about the flower, are you?’
Baroque sighed. ‘I am talking about the world, Tarlo. About everyone and everything around you. As an Estrattore, you have the capacity to extract both good and evil, that which is heinous and what is decent. Sometimes, you just have to search hard, look deeply to find it. Sometimes, you have to make a choice.’
Baroque’s hand covered my own. I could feel the roughness of the skin, the precious metal in the band he wore on his middle finger. Without thinking, I began to extract.
His eyes widened. ‘Don’t!’ He pulled his arm away so fast he banged it against the mortar. Pain twisted his features and he nursed his hand under his arm. ‘What do you think you’re doing? That’s forbidden!’
‘Mi dispiace! I wasn’t thinking. I couldn’t help it.’
Baroque slowly withdrew his hand and shook it a couple of times. ‘Of course you can help it. I see how careful you are all the time. I know you extract when you think no-one knows. But we do, Tarlo. We do. Your touch is still clumsy. We’re not made of wax, you know. We can feel you.’ He jabbed his chest. ‘Here. It hurts. Take what you want from the objects I bring, but leave me alone!’ He turned away.
I felt tears prick the back of my eyes. ‘How am I to trust you if you don’t let me know you?’
Baroque made a funny noise. ‘Trust me?’ He spun round and began to laugh. It was not a nice sound. He stormed across the floor and slammed the door shut. ‘Grow up, Tallow! You can’t trust me. You, my dear, can’t trust anyone, and the sooner you realise that, the safer we’ll all be.’ He shook his head. ‘Did you really believe that I was any different? Do you really think that you can trust any one of them up there?’ He stabbed his finger in the direction of the piano nobile. ‘Oh, Tallow,’ he smacked his forehead. ‘I thought you were learning. I thought you were smarter than that. You think a few shared laughs and an exchange of gossip is grounds for friendship? For trust? Not when you’re an Estrattore they’re not, and especially not with someone like me.’
My insides burned with shame and rage. I’d misread Baroque’s treatment of me so badly. Just because someone was nice to me, didn’t mean they were my friend. A tear rolled down my cheek. I used my shoulder to sweep it away. I had no friends. I coughed and cleared my throat, aware Baroque was waiting for an answer. I straightened my back. Self-pity did not become me. I was stronger than that. I had to be. I just couldn’t speak … not yet.
Baroque sighed and swung the door open, leaning against it. ‘Leave the belladonna, Tarlo. We’ll do that another day. The Maleovellis want some candles. Not your usual kind either. We’ve wasted enough time today. We need to get these done.’
I tried to push away my sorrow.
‘Oh,’ I said, my voice breaking in an effort to be light. ‘What sort do they want?’
‘Ones that will make their new friends trust them.’ He laughed. ‘Ironic, isn’t it?’
‘Sì,’ I said quietly.
‘Bene.’ He slid a box of candles towards me. Inside were half a dozen creamy tapers, different from the ones we’d used the last few weeks. I lifted one out. They’d been rolled well and the wicks were of good quality. Slow burning. They looked like the work of Master Querini on the salizzada in the Candlemakers Quartiere. I didn’t dare extract to see if my supposition was correct.
‘You’re to infuse these with loyalty – confidence – and a bit of gullibility, so those inhaling the scent will have faith in what’s being discussed. Capisce?’
‘Capisco.’ I replaced the candle and pushed the box to one side and picked through some of the objects Baroque had left on the bench. Using a piece of stone that had been partially carved, and a sea bird’s feather, I became aware that they carried within them many other emotions, many other stories.
Concentrating, I distilled what was asked of me into the candles. The stone gave me the requisite confidence, the bird feather loyalty, and the fish it had greedily snatched from the ocean as they broke the surface, credulity. I also used a piece of myself, how I’d felt just before Baroque reminded me of who I was; what I was. As I had infused musk into my washing water this morning, so I gave that heady scent to the candles, knowing that whoever breathed their perfume would believe whatever they were being told. The changes took only moments to effect. The candles appeared luminous in the waning light.
Baroque pressed the taper to his nose and inhaled. Then he turned to regard me. ‘No wonder the Doge wanted you all gone. This is incredible. I can actually feel myself responding to the scent.’
‘Me too.’
‘I’d always thought you were immune.’ Baroque put the candle back in the box and placed the lid on top, pressing down as if to stop the smell escaping.
‘Not entirely.’ I didn’t reveal that all I needed to do was touch something else, extract a different emotion for the affect to alter or end.
‘Do you know when these are to be used?’ I asked, trying to keep my tone indifferent.
‘No. Not exactly, but I can guess. The Maleovellis are preparing to have guests.’
‘Guests?’ I was astonished. Since I had been here, only a few tradespeople and some debt collectors had been at the casa, the latter to receive soldi owed. I had heard them singing the praises of the Maleovellis as they left. I’d also smelled my candles burning in Jacopo’s office downstairs.
‘Sì. Tonight.’ Baroque regarded me steadily. ‘And so it begins, Tarlo Maleovelli.’
‘What does?’ I asked, the innocent note in my voice fooling neither of us.
‘The purpose for which you were brought here – to ensure the Maleovellis rise to power.’
My heart began to pound and a roaring filled my ears. I resented his accusatory tone. ‘It’s the same reason you’re here too, Baroque Scarpoli, only my reasons are not so selfish. As they rise, the return of the Estrattore comes closer. I am doing this for my people.’
Baroque gave me a long, long look. ‘Then how is your reason any different from mine? Do you expect me to believe you won’t personally gain from that?’
I didn’t want to answer. Instead, I packed up quickly and fled to my room.