Heart of Glass

20





The sun sits low, just over the city’s many spires. Soon, it will dip below Venice’s skyline and we will all be forced to stay indoors, under the rules of the new curfew. I walk down a cobbled street with three other women—Allegreza, Grazia and a young woman called Sophia.

Four Venetian women, our faces hidden behind fans.

Four members of the Segreta, secrets hidden in our hearts.

The city is quiet—quieter than I’ve ever known it. A lace seller lounges on a stone bench beside her wares, looking sad and bored. Soon, I’m sure, she’ll disappear indoors to eat an evening meal alone. Perhaps even she has been touched by the news of Nicolo’s death.

We turn a corner and travel down a path lined on one side with a series of stone archways. Above each arch is carved a trefoil knot of three overlapping rings. They cast distorted circles of light and shade on the wall opposite. Sophia and I are honored to be among these two, selected for this private discussion, but thus far we have yet to touch upon the topic closest to my heart.

As Allegreza details the plan for dealing with Teresa’s husband, Silvio—a plan simple and direct—I’m thinking about the best way of opening the subject of Roberto and Aysim, Halim’s poor dead sister. For she must have been the girl I was sent to meet on Murano.

“By the time that monster leaves, he’ll have sworn never to raise his hand to a woman again,” Grazia says, her voice rich with satisfaction.

“Teresa’s not the only person in Venice who needs help,” I say. “Roberto may be out of his stinking jail cell, but he still stands accused of murder.”

“Everything in due course,” says Allegreza. “Are you sure you’re clear on the plan for Silvio?”

“Yes, yes,” I say, growing impatient. “But you said Aysim was coming here to meet us? There must be a clue, something …”

Allegreza raises a hand to halt my speech. “When the time is right, we will turn to these matters. Laura—you brought Teresa to us. Small plights are as important as big intrigues.”

I hold back the scream that wants to come. Roberto’s fate is more than an intrigue to me—my life is caught up with his. Can’t these women understand that? Are they so heartless? I think, then immediately feel guilty. Allegreza and Grazia are two of the most important women in the Segreta, and therefore in all of Venice, and have done more than anybody to change countless lives. I should not be so ungrateful; I should remember the patience I was taught at the convent.

Allegreza gives me a sympathetic glance as though she can read every thought. She leads us to a bench inside the archways. “Let us sit.”

Alleys stretch out in every direction, curving out of sight and into the unknown. This city is as convoluted as any intrigue.

After a pause to make sure no one is approaching, Allegreza begins talking. “Aysim risked a great deal coming to us.”

Grazia nods. So she too knows more than I do.

“We’d been in touch for some time through … intermediaries,” says Allegreza. “Of course, almost no one is completely trustworthy. Especially when a network starts reaching abroad.” She takes a deep breath and raises a hand to her face. Startled, I realize that this older woman is close to tears. “We encouraged Aysim to join forces with us, but ultimately we let her down. I will have that woman’s death on my conscience for as long as I live. But at the moment much is unclear. It would be foolish to rush in when our security is at stake. Do you understand?”

Sophia sits quietly, her profile illuminated by the setting sun. I have no idea what she’s thinking.

“I’m beginning to,” I say quietly, but my mind is shouting, That’s not good enough! We might not have long!

“Good girl,” Allegreza tells me, with something like fondness in her voice. “Let us deal with Silvio first and discuss Roberto after.”

She leaves us, slipping beneath an archway and out of sight. The sun is setting, and the darkness summons the people of the city to their homes, and the women of the Segreta to their duties.




The heat in the small dressing closet is stifling. Grazia stands on one side of me, and Sophia on the other. We each wear heavy woolen cloaks with hoods and black felt masks that hide our faces. My mask makes it difficult to breathe, and I can feel pinpricks of sweat in my armpits. I slip my hand into the pocket of my cloak and stroke the hilt of a stiletto dagger, its blade sheathed in a leather holder. Grazia gave me this weapon before we arrived. My fingers tremble in my pocket. I’ve handled more weapons in the last day than in the rest of my years combined, even with my months of practice with Roberto.

A strip of light glows at the edge of the closet door, revealing a hook from which hangs an orange studded with cloves. Its scent does little to overpower the smell of mothballs tucked into the folds of garments on a shelf above our heads. Sophia’s eyes shift between Grazia and me. My left foot has almost gone to sleep. Perhaps Silvio won’t come at all.

I suppose it’s only fair that I’m one of those chosen for tonight’s task. It was I who drew the Segreta’s attention to Teresa’s plight. I shift my weight to the other side of my body, feeling the tingle of blood returning to my ankle.

“Wait!” a woman cries merrily. There’s the sound of a grunt and a heavy, unsteady footfall. A wet noise of lips smacking against skin and a moment’s silence, and then: “I said, wait!” She is laughing, the good-hearted courtesan whom I first met through the Segreta. She helps us in our work; few of the men in Venice realize that the yellow handkerchief that marks her as a woman of ill-repute hides a quick wit and more secrets than anyone can possibly guess.

“I have to be home soon,” slurs the man. “My shrew of a wife will burn my dinner otherwise!” His voice is thick with drink.

“Does your wife know where you are?” Bella Donna asks in a teasing voice.

“I don’t care,” he snarls. “Now come here.”

“One moment, my Silvio.” Bella Donna’s voice is closer now. This means she is moving towards the doorway, ready to exit. “I just need to freshen up.”

That’s our cue. The bedroom door snaps shut, and we spill out from the closet. I’ve drawn the dagger from my pocket. Around us, candles burn low, their smoky flames flickering and casting the room in dancing shadows. An unmade bed, piled thick with blankets, stands in the center of the room. Teresa’s husband scrambles back against the headboard as he sees us emerge, and we quickly move around the bed to surround him on three sides. There’s no escape.

“What the …!” Silvio scans our faces, frowning and squinting. “Who are you?” His frown turns to a sly smile as his addled brain tries to make sense of the situation. “Are you part of the entertainment?” he asks. His face is matted with stubble, and even from a distance I can smell the drink on his breath. “Come here, my darlings,” he says in a singsong voice, curling a finger.

I go to my position, guarding the door. Grazia throws back her cloak, and I understand that she is allowing Silvio to glimpse the silver dagger at her waist. His smile fades; he knows the game is over. He moves a hand towards his own waist and pulls out a leather purse. He loosens the strings and exaggeratedly tips it upside down. Nothing spills out.

“You’re wasting your time,” he says, his words bleeding into each other. “I don’t have a penny. Not even enough to pay that whore!” He throws his head back and laughs with gusto.

“It’s not your money we want,” Grazia tells him quietly. The dagger is now in her hand, held out towards him.

Silvio still refuses to be scared. “A lady’s dagger,” he says. “Isn’t it pretty? Close to useless!” He turns his back on Grazia, grunting as he shuffles towards the edge of the bed. He must be really drunk if he doesn’t realize how deadly Grazia’s weapon is. That slender blade could slide between a person’s ribs before they’ve even registered the attack.

Sophia draws a sword with a snake engraved around the hilt and trains the point on Silvio. He staggers back into a bedside table.

“Where’s my girl?” he asks uncertainly.

Sophia gives him an icy smile. “You won’t be seeing her again,” she says. She takes a step forward and slices her sword through the air, a hairsbreadth from his nose. He flinches and cries out. “In fact, you won’t see anyone else ever again unless you do everything we tell you.”

“What do you want?” he asks. His voice is weak, his eyes watery and yellow.

Sophia lowers the point of her sword, then jabs it beneath the oily sash that fastens his trousers.

“What are you doing?” he protests, trying to curl his body away. But with a sudden upward jerk, Sophia tears through the sash and his trousers sag around his hips.

“Take them off,” Grazia orders, watching from the other side of the bed. She is smiling from behind her mask.

Silvio’s eyes widen. “You’re joking?”

Grazia shakes her head and tosses her dagger from one hand to the other.

“Do it,” I say.

Slowly, Silvio unlaces his trousers and they shudder down his white legs to gather at his feet. He steps out of the trousers and kicks them into a corner of the room. Bella Donna can burn them later.

“Now your shirt,” I say from my place at the door.

Trembling, Silvio heaves his filthy cotton tunic over his head, struggling to free his arms. For a moment, all we can see of him is his round belly, soft as dough. It sways from side to side as he tries to maneuver out of his shirt. Grazia and I share a glance while Sophia stifles a smirk.

“You heathen women,” Silvio bellows from inside his shirt. With a loud tearing sound, it finally pops over his head and he throws it to the floor. “Happy now? Does my humiliation amuse you?”

“It does indeed,” Grazia answers smoothly. “But it isn’t over yet.” She dips the point of her blade towards his undergarments. “And the rest.”

Her eyes haven’t left his face. He hesitates for a moment; then with a grunt of disgust he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his stained cotton hose and pulls them down, bending at the hips. I keep my eyes fixed on the wall above him. I can hardly believe what Grazia’s making him do—but after all, he has forced Teresa to endure much more than petty embarrassment.

Silvio straightens up, cupping his hands over his groin.

“Are you women or witches?” he spits, his eyes swiveling between our three masked faces.

Grazia draws near to our victim. Her smile has faded. “Now, if you ever raise a hand to your wife again, or betray or cheat her, I promise it will be more than your clothes you lose.”

Silvio’s face hardens in partial understanding. “Teresa is behind this? How do you know her?” I can see the anger rising inside him. He must be warned.

“If you make your wife suffer for what has happened tonight, the consequences will be severe,” I tell him. “So far we have been lenient.”

Silvio throws me a scornful glance. “Who do you think you are?” he asks. “No woman tells me what to do!”

Within a moment I am upon him, the tip of my dagger at his throat, drawing a bead of blood. I can feel my heart thudding and the roar of anger pushing through my veins. One thrust and I could have this man’s throat cut open. Where has this taste for blood come from?

“Do you understand?” I hiss into his face.

His lip trembles, and his brow looses a bead of sweat that trails along his jawline. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it! Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it.”

I sense the other women watching.

“Careful now,” Grazia’s voice tells me. I press the flat of my blade against Silvio’s Adam’s apple. Then I pull away, taking my weapon with me.

“Then go,” I say. “Take your hateful face out of our presence and thank Teresa that you still have your life. And remember, we can find you anywhere.”

Silvio staggers slightly as he bends to retrieve his clothes.

“Oh no you don’t,” Sophia tells him, kicking his shirt under the bed, out of reach. “Those don’t belong to you anymore.”

“What? You …” He starts to protest but then thinks better of it. Holding his hands over his nakedness, he waddles out of the room, cursing under his breath. I slam the door shut behind him, then move to the window, watching as he emerges into the alley below, looking over his shoulder nervously. He’s lucky. The nighttime streets of Venice will likely preserve his modesty. I almost wish we had struck during the day, so that he could be openly mocked in the busy markets. But the cover of night is always best for us.

“All clear?” asks Bella Donna, poking her head around the bedroom door. Grazia beckons her into the room, and we conceal our weapons. Bella Donna rests her hands on her thighs and guffaws. “I was watching through the keyhole. Did you see the size of that belly? I thought he would pop with outrage!”

We pull down our hoods and take off our masks, shaking out our hair. We trust Bella Donna enough to share our faces with her—a rare privilege. It’s good to go back to being Laura, a woman with a face.

“Your performance was the best,” Grazia says to me. “The move with your dagger was very clever—even I thought you were going to run him through.”

I bow my head modestly, but only because I don’t want her to see my face. She can read eyes, that one. And I know what she would see in mine—guilt. These women can’t know how close I came. How my anger almost won.