Heart of Glass

11





In my hand is a bouquet of lilies and white poppies tied with purple ribbon. A fresh breeze comes off the water and threatens to tug my hair from its pins. I think of Roberto alone in his stinking cell and my hands tighten around the stems. What am I doing here while he lives a nightmare?

I stand in a line of women, all gazing out across the harbor from St. Mark’s Basin. To one side of me is Emilia and behind me stands Faustina. We are each dressed in our finest, at Venice’s formal welcome party for the Ottomans. They have sent an ambassador to join the talks with the Doge, and as a member of the Grand Council, Father insists that his family be represented today.

“The daughters of Venice will be on hand when the Turks arrive,” he explained. “And you will be among them. Is that understood?”

I tried to tell him that my grief for Roberto made public appearances impossible, but how could I ever have expected Father to understand?

“Roberto has brought shame on this family. It is up to you to retrieve some honor. You will be there,” he said, his voice laden with threat.

So, here I stand. Faustina considered carefully what outfit I should wear. Finally, this morning, we settled on the cream satin embroidered with gold fleur-de-lis, with a front-laced bodice. My hair is plaited and wound around my head, and a string of iridescent shells hangs from my neck. Emilia brought out her best gown from her luggage, and Faustina steamed the peacock silk until every last crease had been smoothed out. It took her the best part of a day to prepare.

Another breeze drifts off the water. Sails flutter, and Venetian flags ripple and snap above our heads. The harbor is alive with noise—people chattering, noblemen talking in whispers. Behind us, musicians play trumpets, clarinets and drums. Ahead of us is the Turkish galley ship, surrounded by smaller vessels. The Ottoman Empire has a huge fleet; everyone in Venice knows that. Constantinople’s shipyard is legendary.

Massimo, the man who commands Venice’s warships, has trimmed his beard back a little, I see. He heads a detachment of soldiers who form an escort to the Grand Council. The show of might is hardly subtle. I have no doubt of the importance of these talks, for they concern the trade routes across the sea that bring silk, grain and spices to our markets, and money into our purses. But my affection for Venice cannot override my love for Roberto, and the pain I feel is like an iron cage pressing my ribs tighter and tighter. I have asked Allegreza for another interview to discuss the mysterious woman at Murano. Surely, this woman holds more clues. I was a fool to allow Allegreza’s empty words about wheels turning to keep me from asking more questions. There are secrets waiting to be unearthed, and I must do the digging.

For now, though, I have no choice but to play my part in this spectacle. The lead ship of the Ottoman fleet has three masts and is squat in the water. It is an imposing object, with none of the gilded beauty of our gondolas. If ships could speak, this one would say, I fear nothing.

“Are you nervous?” Emilia whispers to me as the breeze plays with the curls at her temples. Her eyes are fixed on the water, eating up the scene.

“No,” I tell her. I feel almost nothing. The rest of life dulls to gray beside the nightmarish color of the blood I saw on Roberto’s floor. I close my eyes and try to push that image from my mind, but it is branded behind my eyelids.

“You should be nervous!” Faustina’s voice protests. I dare not look round to face her; I must appear as a lady of Venice, entranced by the Ottomans’ arrival. “I’ve heard that all Turks are goblin-faced brutes. This Halim—their prince, as they call him—I’ve heard he can turn people to stone with his ugliness! Whatever you do, don’t gaze into his eyes, girls. I won’t be answerable for what happens.”

On the edge of my vision, I see Emilia’s shoulders shaking with contained mirth. A smile plays around my own lips, despite myself.

“You’re talking nonsense,” I murmur over my shoulder.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” is Faustina’s last shot. There’s no time left to speak. The ship has docked, and men are scrambling up the masts to let down the sails. A gangplank has been set against the side of the vessel. Men walk down it, gazing around them with open curiosity. I wonder how Venice appears to eyes that have never seen it before; the canals and piazzas, the colorful market stalls and soaring spires.

A sudden blast of trumpets sounds, and the crowd swells forward as a solitary figure appears at the top of the gangplank. He wears an outfit of dazzling white that almost seems to glow in the Venice sunshine. A thick silk sash circles his waist and his head is decorated with a turban, the coils of linen gleaming as they snake around his brow. On all sides of me, the crowd gasps in delight. The clean simplicity of the man’s outfit is in stark contrast to the luxurious embellishments in which most Venetian men indulge. His skin shines golden, and his broad shoulders shift as he raises a hand in salutation, smiling so that his teeth sparkle white.

This is no goblin-faced brute.

He stands on the pier now, and one of the Grand Council introduces himself. Prince Halim listens politely, but his eyes travel along the formal row of Venetian ladies. As he looks at each young woman, she dips in a curtsy. Finally, his gaze comes to rest on me. His eyes are a deep brown, chestnut rich. I lower mine and bob from the knees, fingertips grasping my skirts as I curtsy. But the girl to the left of me does not move. When I straighten back up, Prince Halim is still looking right at me. The sound of giggling has broken out and my cheeks flame as I realize that I am being singled out for attention.

“Don’t look into his eyes!” Faustina hisses from behind me.

Finally, thank heavens, the Doge steps forward to greet the Turkish prince, and the moment is broken.

“Have you turned to stone yet?” Emilia teases, to my right. I shake my head, to prove Faustina’s theories wrong. But I can’t stop watching the men as the Grand Council gather around Prince Halim, their heads close together, talking. One of the prince’s servants has drawn near and seems to be eavesdropping shamelessly. The bald skin of his head gleams, and I notice a slight hunch to his shoulders. As he listens, he watches the crowd. When his glance catches mine, he turns away.

There’s another trumpet call to tell the crowd to disperse. People make their way through the streets, noisily eating snacks and discussing the scene that’s just played out.

“He’s very handsome!” says an older woman gleefully. “Not at all what I expected.”

“Did you see that ship?” a young man murmurs to his friend. “I’ve heard the Turkish vessels are the fastest on the seas.”

“Such insolence!” mutters Faustina. “I saw the way his eyes wandered.”

My father comes over to speak to us. “You did well,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “Prince Halim noticed you. Good girl.”

I turn my face away. He’s forgotten already that while people fawn over the visitor, Roberto sits in a filthy cell. Father notices my expression and draws his lips close to whisper in my ear.

“Don’t think you’re too good for all this, because you’re not. You were good only for the convent, until my eldest daughter’s death.”

Fortunately, Julius and Grazia de Ferrara draw near, before I forget myself and speak back to Father in public. Faustina has taken my hand and grips it gently, silently reassuring me.

“Ah, Julius!” Father says. He bows his head towards Grazia. “What news of Carina?” As if he cares about anyone but himself! I keep my glance firmly on the ground, unable to catch Grazia’s eye.

Julius sighs. “Still nothing. She always was a wayward girl. But we live in hope that one day soon she will turn up.” He tries to laugh lightheartedly, but the sound dries up in his throat. My heart goes out to him, a father’s grief still so fresh.

“I know what it is to lose a daughter,” my own father says. “When Beatrice died, I thought my world had ended.”

“Yes, but my daughter isn’t dead.” Julius throws him an angry glance, and I look up to see Father’s mouth open and close as he struggles to find something tactful to say.

“Let’s let the men talk, my dear,” Grazia murmurs to me, and the two of us draw away to one side. She turns her face from the sun, and it is almost impossible to see her expression. “The Segreta meet this evening to discuss the situation with Roberto. You will attend, of course?”

“Of course!” I say hurriedly. “It will be difficult at such short notice, but I’ll be there, certainly. I want to hear more about the girl at Murano also. Do you know if …”

I’m about to ask Grazia if she has any morsels of information to give me when the crowd suddenly heaves to one side and I stagger. Regaining my composure, I see a group of men rushing the harbor. Their fists strike the air and one of them is shouting, spittle flying from his mouth.

“Get the foreigner out!” he cries. “Go home, heathens!”

Before he can get near the ships, soldiers rush forward on a barked command and the group of men are driven back at the points of swords. Their leader stands firm, but is dragged back by his comrades. Another is wrestled to the ground. I see a knee jerk into a stomach, fists connect with skulls. The shouts die and the men are led away. I notice Prince Halim watching the group, his face serious.

“What was that?” I ask.

Grazia’s face is like stone. “Hatred, that’s what.” She shakes her head. “When will this city ever learn?” Then she gives a small nod. “I will see you later.” As I watch her move away from me across the docks, her skirts swaying, relief blossoms inside me. Tonight I will be with the Segreta, and one step closer to getting Roberto out of his stinking prison.