Heart of Glass

15





At breakfast the next morning, I can barely eat. Not only because of my excitement at Roberto’s release, but because Faustina is making so much fuss that it’s impossible to even pour coffee without her bustling over to take the silver pot from my hands. Scalding liquid splatters on the linen tablecloth, and I sink back in my seat, defeated.

“Oh, now look!” Faustina cries, as though this was anyone’s fault other than her own. She wags a finger in my face. “You’ll have to be less clumsy when you show the prince around Venice. Not that I approve in the first place. Really, can’t you find an excuse to get out of it? He’s so”—she waves a hand before her own chin—“hairy!”

Emilia bursts out laughing across the table. She’s getting used to our servant’s ways. “Oh, Faustina, only you could say something like that. He’s a prince! He asked for Laura especially! You should be glowing with pride.” She gives Faustina a sly look. “Think how jealous the other servants in the city will be.”

Faustina’s shoulders straighten. “Maybe you’re right. But you, young woman!” She’s staring hard at me again. “I said a prayer for your honor and chastity last night. I just hope my prayers are heard.” She waddles out of the room.

“She seems to have forgotten I’m engaged,” I say.

“She means no harm,” Emilia says. “She clearly loves you very much.”

“And I love her,” I tell my new sister.

A short while later, I’m making my way to the front door. Father emerges from his study, clutching a book. He follows me out onto the steps and pats me on the head like a small dog. My spirits are so high today, it doesn’t even annoy me.

“Really, I think he’s been most impudent, demanding your time like this,” he grumbles. He’s maintaining the illusion of the grudging father with some aplomb, I must say.

“There’s nothing worse than impudence from someone so very highborn,” I reply. As suspected, the reminder of Halim’s royal blood makes my father puff out his chest. He kisses me lightly on the cheek.

“Try to be charming,” he tells me, before disappearing into the gloom of the interior. I climb inside the coach and rap my knuckles on the roof.

“To the port!” I call.

I’m so full of thoughts about how to compose myself that the journey passes quickly. Halim is already waiting for me when I arrive. He wears Venetian fashions today: a tight-fitting doublet in black, with black boots and a black leather belt. Despite the dozen or so Ottoman guards posted around him, he is the one to step forward and help me down as I climb out of the carriage. His fingers press lightly around mine.

“A beautiful sight,” he murmurs, and my glance flickers up to his face. Then he spreads his arm out to take in the city. “Don’t you agree?”

“The most beautiful city in the world,” I tell him. “I only hope to do it justice.”

He bows his head in acknowledgment. “With you as my guide, I know I will learn to love this place even more. Shall we?”

He leads me towards a waiting gondola. I see my face in the varnished wood and I am smiling. It’s partly his outfit—there’s something funny about a prince dressing down—but I realize too how light my heart feels.

Halim steps into the vessel and holds out his hand to help me down. I give him my arm and scoop my skirts up in my hands, but as I step into the gondola the heel of my shoe catches and I stumble into him, knocking us both onto the velvet cushioned seat at the rear. My chest bumps against his and our faces are suddenly so close that I can feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek. I push my hands against his body to lever myself up.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what—”

“Please don’t apologize,” he tells me. I smooth down my skirts and settle on the rear bench of the vessel. The guards have climbed into their own crafts. Our gondolier gazes over our heads, pretending not to notice what just happened. Halim calls to him, “You may proceed!”

The man uses his long paddle to push us off from the jetty. The gondola begins to sway lazily through the water. I gaze out at the sides of the buildings and wait for my heartbeat to slow. What a strange sight we must make—the prince and his fleet of ships pushing into the center of the city.

Soon, we are moving between houses that rear up on either side of the water. People lean out, their elbows resting on sills. I try not to feel awkward beneath their gaze. Halim’s tour has already been publicized through the gossip channels of the city.

“Throw us a kiss, young prince!” a young woman calls from a doorway, and Halim enthusiastically responds, kissing his palm and throwing his hand out towards her. The woman mimes catching the kiss and draws her hand to her lips. Halim roars with laughter, but when he turns to look at me the smile fades.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I don’t mean to embarrass you. Come. Tell me something of this city of yours.”

As I point out landmarks, I begin to forget all the people watching me with this foreign prince.

“That is one of the oldest squares in Venice,” I say as we pass a small square off to our left. “It’s easy for people to miss. It’s said that is where the Lords of the Night would gather before doing their rounds.”

“The Lords of the Night?”

“Those who police the streets.”

“Ah! It sounds so romantic.”

I try to find something else to tell him. “Here is the church of St. Mary of the Visitation. It once hid an assassin.”

Halim raises his eyebrows. “Don’t you Venetians call the church La Pietà?”

“You know more than I realized,” I say. “Perhaps you should be guiding me!”

Halim smiles and holds his open palm out to me. I hesitate, then place my hand in his. Within moments, his lips brush the skin of my wrist. I shudder and pull my hand away, hiding it in my pocket. “You shouldn’t.”

His eyes have not left my face. “I’ve offended you?” he says, looking suddenly crestfallen.

“No,” I reply. “It’s just that if people were to see …”

He breaks our gaze and looks out at the merchants’ mansions we are passing. “It’s said you can judge a city’s character by the morals of its women. Would you agree?”

It could be a reference to the Segreta, but it’s not, of course. From the smile that plays around his lips, I can see he’s not serious.

“If that’s the case, I hope you’ll find Venice to be everything it should be—beautiful, classic and luminous. Just like its women.”

Halim laughs loudly and a lemon-seller on the dock looks round, startled.

“I knew you’d be good company,” he says, slapping his leg.

The gondolier is grinning too, but wipes the look off his face when he sees I’m watching him. Nothing spoken in a gondola is private. In many ways, the gondoliers’ currency of secrets must rival the Segreta’s.

“Do you like classical or Eastern-influenced architecture?” I ask, looking up at the church of Madonna of the Miracles. Better to keep the conversation on such matters.

“Ah, built by Lombardo,” Halim murmurs, taking in the building. His hand moves through the air, tracing the geometrical patterns. “Byzantine-influenced, I believe. All very different from our mosques.”

I shake my head. “Are you sure this is your first time in Venice?” Finally, I spot a building that Halim can’t possibly know more about than I do—the convent that was my home for more years than I like to remember.

“This is a very special place in Venice,” I say as our gondola draws near.

Halim frowns. I can understand why—the convent of Mary and the Angels looks unprepossessing with its bars and grilles. I think of my servant nun, Annalena, and the dull ache of separation lodges in my heart. I wonder what she is doing now. Does she still pray five times a day on the floor of her narrow cell? She will be conversa to a new sister now, of course. She’s probably forgotten her Laura. Certainly, her eyes would pop out of her head if she could see me now, sharing a boat with an Ottoman prince!

“So tell me why it’s special,” Halim says. He has pulled a short dagger out of his sleeve. It has a golden hilt, inset with mother-of-pearl. He twirls it once in his hand, then again. I try not to be disturbed by the glitter of the metal.

“I lived there for many years, incarcerated as a nun.” I wait for the words to settle, to see how he’ll react. He pockets the knife in a practiced move and brings his focus back to me.

“Incarcerated?” he repeats. “You did not dedicate yourself to your God?”

I incline my head. “It’s not uncommon in Venice for second daughters to be sent to convents, if they are in danger of being a financial burden on their family. I was one of many.”

“But still …” Halim’s words fade away as he glances at the small windows.

I point to one set high in the wall. “For five years, that small room was my home.”

Halim looks at me, then back at the window, as if unbelieving. “Five years?”

“And every day the same.”

We drift beneath the shadow of the monastery in silence. “But surely you received visitors. Your father? Your sister? You say you were a second daughter.”

“It was forbidden,” I tell him. “Visitors take away the mind’s focus, or so the Abbess used to say.” I won’t say her full name out loud. She belongs to the past.

“My sister used to keep a pet bird in a cage,” says Halim. “It was the most beautiful thing, and it used to sing every evening. I thought it very cruel that it was locked up like that.”

“We were allowed to sing,” I tell him, glancing upwards, “but only at prayer.” I’m in danger of becoming maudlin.

Halim reaches across and places a hand on my arm. His skin has the shade of varnished olive wood and there’s a scattering of dark hairs across his wrist. “How did you get out?”

“My sister died.” The truth, but only a fraction of it, like a painting made up of a million brushstrokes seen only from a distance. It is so simple when said like that. My voice does nothing to betray the pain I felt, looking into her coffin. He cannot understand.

Our talk turns to other things—the love that Faustina has shown me, the return of my brother with his new wife, the happy times. Halim listens quietly, nodding, smiling. The boat drifts on. It is as if we’re on our very own island of intimacy, the sun rising higher and higher above our heads. The sounds of the city have fallen away. Only the occasional slap of paddle on water reminds me the gondola is still with us.

“What about you?” I say eventually. “What was your childhood like as a prince? No barred windows for you, I’m sure!”

Halim shakes himself as though waking from a dream. “Maybe not, but there were other … constraints. My father …” He hesitates.

“You don’t have to tell me,” I say.

“He was very strict,” Halim continues. His dark eyes cloud over. “For many years, my life wasn’t my own.”

I think back to my own father, either drunk at the dinner table or ensconced in his library or toadying up to the Doge and his Council. But always, always telling me what to do for the good of the family.

“I know all about strict fathers,” I say gently. “Why do you think I ended up in a convent?”

“But you escaped!” Halim says, his eyes brightening again. His hands grip the sides of the gondola. “You had it in you to forge your own path. Look at you now! That’s what I want too. I’ve emerged from the shadow my father cast—it was a long one. But now it’s time for me to make my own mark.” Color has rushed to his cheeks. He looks almost feverish.

“Are you feeling well?” I ask.

“Of course!” He grins at me. “Never better. Gondolier! Moor here, please!”