Heart of Glass

13





I stand in the entrance of the Doge’s palace, surrounded by laughing young women. We are all dressed as maidservants at a Roman banquet, despite the fact that most of us come from Venice’s most well-to-do families. Faustina has done a fine job with my outfit. A sheet from the linen cupboard, as white as swan feathers, has been pleated along its length and clasped at one shoulder, leaving my arms bare. There’s something unpleasant about this masquerade. Are there political points to be scored in reducing Venice’s gentlewomen to these games? Does the Grand Council want to fool the Ottomans into thinking that everyone in Venice is silly and shallow?

Looking around, I see that the other women are all enjoying the charade, carrying baskets of fruit or jugs of wine. For myself, I know all too well what it is to be truly servile, bound as I once was to the Abbess of our convent, scrubbing her floors and embroidering altar decorations until my fingers bled. There’s nothing glamorous about running to the shouted orders of others. Still, I must paint a smile on my face and pretend that I too am having a pleasant time.

I put a hand to my head to make sure that the rosebuds are still firmly nestled among my curled hair—Emilia brought the flowers up from the garden as Faustina readied me. The only adornment to my simple costume.

Paulina joins the gaggle of girls and catches my eye. She takes in my outfit and the heavy bowl I am carrying, filled with pastries that are covered in crystallized rose petals.

“You make a good servant,” she says. I can’t judge whether she’s gently teasing or if there’s something more cruel in her tone of voice.

“That’s what the Abbess used to tell me,” I say. Paulina’s smile fades.

“I’m sorry to hear about Roberto,” she says. This time there’s no cruelty at all.

“Come, come, ladies!” calls a slightly older woman who’s in charge of us girls. I recognize her as Agnesina, the wife of one of the Grand Councilors, but not, as far as I know, a member of the Segreta. “Don’t forget to circulate and ensure that all of the men have something to eat. If you spot anyone without a partner, it is your duty to go over and entertain.”

She snaps her fingers and turns sharply to face the door leading towards the dining hall. Then she walks down the marble hallway. Sharing secret glances and enjoying a final whisper, the other girls trail after her. I am the last to move, bringing up the rear.

When we step inside the dining hall, even I feel a shiver of excitement. I’ve never seen this part of the palace before. The painted ceiling towers over us, and the room is cool, despite Venice’s heat beyond the windows. Oil paintings in gilded frames decorate the walls, and thick rugs of woven silk are scattered across the floor.

But an extra effort has been made for the Roman theme. Lounging couches fill the room. There is a man in an approximation of a Roman toga reclining on each, their bodies draped against the cushions. They lean over the armrests to fill each other’s goblets. Heavy bunches of grapes hang from the chandeliers, and buntings made of fresh flowers weave between the paintings on the wall. In a corner, a servant boy sits plucking at a tiny harp, and, most exceptional of all, an ice sculpture of a Roman goddess—Aphrodite, I think—stands in the center of the room, the ice melting into a silver basin in which float candles. Bottles of lemon liqueur sit cooling in the melted water.

“Have you ever seen anything like it?” a girl whispers to me. She has not yet noticed that a man to the side of us is greedily feasting upon her with his eyes. He clears his throat loudly, and she jumps, then hurries to fill the goblet that he holds out to her. As she bends over the glass, his eyes follow her chest.

Agnesina watches me sternly. I am the only girl not to have hastened to someone’s side. I lower my eyes and readjust the heavy bowl against my hip. But I misjudge the balance and the bowl begins to slip from my hands, threatening to shower sugared petals over the sumptuous rugs. I almost cry out, but then I feel the grasp of fingers around my arm and a tanned hand reaches beneath the bowl to catch it. When I gather myself, I find that I’m looking into the eyes of none other than Prince Halim.

“Here. Let me take that,” he says. His eyes are quite remarkable—deep pools, almost black in this light. Looking into them is like staring into a well at night. Before I can protest, the bowl has been placed on a low table, and men reach for the pastries. Prince Halim and I watch for a moment; then I feel his hand against the back of my waist and realize that he is steering me towards one of the open windows, where a long muslin curtain billows in the breeze, providing a moment’s seclusion and a rare glimpse of the Doge’s private gardens below. As we move towards the window, I notice Agnesina nod in approval.

“Quite beautiful, no?” Prince Halim asks. Dutifully, I glance out of the window, but when I look back at him I see that he isn’t looking at the gardens at all. He’s staring straight at me. There’s nothing aggressive or predatory in his glance. It unnerves me because it is quite the opposite—calm, patient, enigmatic. What is he thinking? His appreciation for my looks is brazen, but too honest for me to feel insulted by it.

“Thank you for your help, Your Highness,” I tell him. “I nearly humiliated myself.”

Prince Halim smiles indulgently. “Half the men in this room fell in love when you stumbled. And please, simply call me Halim.”

I start to back away, shaking my head, but the prince clearly realizes his compliment has been too extravagant, and he holds up a hand. “Forgive me,” he says, bowing his head. “I’ve embarrassed you. I’m a poor student of your language, and my words are ill chosen.” When he looks back up at me, the sun has moved from behind a cloud, and as light pours through the window, I watch the changing colors in his eyes. They move from black to deep chestnut to a burnished mahogany, all in an instant.

“You, girl!” calls one of the guests—a fat man with a wine stain down the front of his costume. “Those pastries won’t move around the room on their own!” The other men laugh. Halim is hidden from view by the billowing curtain, and they don’t realize that they’re interrupting a conversation. Still, he nods his head as though to give me permission to leave his side and steps out from the window. The fat man gasps his apologies, but Halim waves his words away with an idle hand and goes to sit cross-legged on a rug. A glance of uncertainty passes through the other serving girls.

I pick up my bowl and make a circuit of the room. I’m careful not to make eye contact with any of the men and to step carefully between them. Father is watching me, his arms emerging like pale sticks of driftwood from the shoulders of his ridiculous toga. The Doge is draped over a couch at the far end of the room, dressed in a purple toga when everyone else wears white, to signify his power, I’m sure. He smiles and chats easily to those who surround him. No one would know his son languishes in a cell. He is the ultimate politician.

I’m about to leave for the kitchens to replenish my bowl, when a hand grabs at one of the two remaining pastries. Buttery crumbs fall to the floor as a Venetian nobleman stuffs the delicacy into his mouth. Opposite him sits the bald man I spotted at the harbor. His mouth is twisted in disapproval as he watches the other man eat. I offer him the last morsel in my bowl, but he shrinks away from me, his lip curling in disgust.

“I-I’m sorry,” I stutter. “Have I done something to offend you?”

There it is again: the warm press of a hand on the base of my spine. I straighten up quickly. Prince Halim. He’s crept beside me as quietly as a cat.

“Forgive him,” he says, smiling down at the bald man, who’s now turned round in his seat to show me his back. “Faruk is fasting—a personal observance of his religion. Some say that he is stricter than Mohammed himself!” Halim laughs gently at his own joke, but Faruk only hunches his shoulders like a vulture. He mutters something in his language, which I don’t understand, and stiffly hobbles out of the room.

I gesture to my bowl. “I must go and find more refreshments,” I say.

“Let me escort you,” Prince Halim answers. I can hardly protest, and he walks with me towards the open doors of the dining hall. As we move across the room, I feel the eyes of the men watching us—curious, envious even. I am acutely aware of my bare arms and throat, my red-painted toes and the light fabric that clings to my body. It seems to take an age to arrive at the doorway.

“I know my way from here,” I say hastily.

“Of course you do,” he says.

“Thank you,” I say, backing out of the room. For some reason, my heart is racing, and I’m sure my face must be scarlet. I turn and almost break into a run. I hardly see where I’m going, and waves roar inside my head.

When I arrive in the kitchens, a huge fire is lit beneath a steaming urn. Gleaming copper jelly molds decorate the walls, and a row of pheasants hangs from the ceiling. A leg of lamb sits on a marble stand, a silver carving fork resting beside it. At a huge wooden table, two members of the house staff with gleaming faces pour ruby liquid into glass cups. The scent of cloves sits heavy in the air.

“Are you here for the refreshments?” a woman asks, smoothing down her apron. She looks to be in charge here. Then her eyes widen and she drops into a low curtsy. Looking over my shoulder, I see the Duchess is standing behind me.

“Laura!” she cries as I set my bowl down on the kitchen table. “I’ve been waiting for you!”

The kitchen servant begins tipping butter biscuits into my bowl as the Duchess draws me aside. We step into the cool of the pantry, where bowls of dates and dried apricots rest under squares of muslin. She grips my hands so tightly they hurt. “My pleas worked! Roberto is to be allowed out of the Piombi tomorrow.”

Her eyes widen as she watches the joy flood my face. In an instant, tears are spilling over to stain my cheeks.

“He’ll be free again? Can I come to see him?”

“Soon,” she tells me gently. Her own smile fades. “He must have time. A bath, a meal, a clean change of clothes—and then he’ll be himself. Can you bear to wait? I know how you love him, but I’m his mother. I want to ensure that he has not suffered too greatly.”

I bring the Duchess’s hands up to my face and kiss them. “I understand,” I whisper. “I’m just so thankful.”

I step out into the kitchen, pick up my bowl and make my way back to the banqueting room. I cannot stop smiling, and there is no need to fake pleasure now. No glance that lingers too long can ruin my happiness. Roberto is waiting for me. I shall hold him again soon.