Heart of Glass

2





Faustina huffs and puffs as she struggles to keep up. We make our way down a cobbled alley that stretches out from the palace, like a single strand in the spiderweb of paths and roads that crisscross Venice. Our feet turn towards the Cannaregio district. As she walks, Faustina flaps her knotted hands before her face, then reaches into a pocket and snaps open a paper fan with a scene painted across it.

“A present?” I ask, slowing my pace so that she can keep up.

“Never you mind,” she retorts.

“Must be from an admirer,” I say. A man passes, carrying a tray of sardines. He smiles and dips his head. I raise my eyebrow at Faustina.

“How dare you!” she says. The man looks alarmed and scurries past us, moving closer to the wall. “I’m too old for such nonsense, you know that.” She looks over her shoulder as the market trader turns down another alley. “Though, once … Oh, never mind.”

“You must tell me!” I say, grasping her hand. We walk side by side, our bodies jostling comfortably.

Faustina gives a dramatic sigh and raises her head to gaze at the towers and columns that rise above us. The sky is a clear blue this afternoon, though tinged at the edges by the sunset that will soon be upon us. We pause by a stall and I hand over a few coins for a pan dei dosi each, the pastries studded with hazelnuts and dried fruit. I pass one to Faustina and begin to eat my own, licking the cinnamon from my lips as we walk.

“Our families knew each other,” says Faustina. “We all lived in the same courtyard. He’d never noticed me until …” She casts a hand across her ample bosom. “I grew up.” I swallow quickly and bite my lip to stop myself from laughing. But Faustina hasn’t noticed; she’s lost in the memory. We pass beside a fountain with a young man’s naked body holding aloft a giant scallop shell. “He was so handsome. Like that statue.”

“What happened?” I ask. Faustina has never married, devoting her life to caring for me and my siblings. The death of my only sister, Beatrice, was as hard for her as it was for me.

Faustina’s face colors. “It wasn’t to be.”

We’ve arrived at an arched doorway carved out of golden sandstone. Fluted columns stand on either side of it. A young girl opens the door for us. “This way, please,” she murmurs.

“We’re waiting for a friend,” I explain, glancing up and down the cobbled street. I smile at the maid.

Faustina explodes in a fit of coughing and hastily pulls a crumpled piece of paper from inside her bodice. She shoves the note into my hand, the paper damp from her sweat.

“I’m so sorry!” she wheezes. “I forgot to give you this. It arrived this morning.”

Carefully, I open the note and flatten out the paper. My eyes scan the writing quickly. It’s from Paulina.

My dearest Laura,

I can’t join you today. I’m so sorry. I know you’ll choose the perfect wedding dress!

Paulina

I crumple the paper back up in my hand and paint a smile on my face, ignoring the stab of disappointment. Paulina knows better than most how much this wedding means to me, how much I suffered to get to this place. My mother and sister are both dead and cannot be with me today. I was looking forward to my childhood friend helping me choose the most important dress of my life. Not even a proper explanation! I push my uncharitable thoughts away. She must have a good reason.

Faustina is watching my face carefully, and the maid is drumming her nails against her folded arms.

“Please, show us the way,” I say to the servant.

We follow her up the gloomy marble staircase to the grand floor where the dressmaker accepts visitors. Faustina made an appointment for us a few weeks ago.

A white-haired woman sits on a low couch, a string of coral at her throat. She wears a simple cotton dress with a pattern of flowers woven into the fabric and hems the square of gold silk on her lap, a silver thimble on the middle finger of her right hand. Seeing her work reminds me of the many hours I toiled at making lace during my time in the convent, before I was summoned home upon Beatrice’s death. A moment’s pain passes behind my eyes, but as the woman looks up at me and smiles, it falls away again.

“Welcome,” she says, getting to her feet. Faustina goes to greet her, and waves a hand towards me. “Do you see what I mean? Beautiful, yes?”

“Yes, quite charming.” The dressmaker does not have to introduce herself. Her name is famous in the streets of Venice: Gabriella da Mosto. She made the wedding dresses for Roberto’s mother and, years later, for Paulina, when she married Roberto’s brother, Nicolo.

The woman turns her attention to me. She holds out her hand, and the young girl who answered the door runs to place a wooden bobbin in her palm. Around it is a thin roll of waxed canvas, marks etched along its side.

“Come here, my dear,” Gabriella instructs. I feel clumsy and awkward before her. Lightly, she takes my hands and lifts them away from my sides. “Stay like this,” she orders. Then she brings the tape around my waist and holds it before the front of my bodice, frowning in concentration as she murmurs numbers to the girl, who scribbles them down in a ledger. I stay where I am as Gabriella moves from shoulder to neck to waist. Finally, she steps away and casts an assessing glance down the length of me. “Doria!” She snaps her fingers without looking round. “The deep rose pink.”

Faustina and I share a glance, and my servant smiles encouragingly. She lowers herself slowly onto the couch, and a male servant brings two steaming glasses of mint tea and a plate of marinated shrimps, setting them on the table before her. Faustina pops a curl of tender flesh into her mouth as the girl returns, a heavy bundle of fabric balanced between her outstretched arms. Reverently, she places her load onto a varnished oak table, and Gabriella comes to stand beside her.

The dressmaker takes hold of a bolt of the pink silk and unfolds it. I can’t help but draw near. This is the fabric that I am to be married in. As she works the silk loose, Gabriella talks.

“A low bodice, I think,” she says, “and tight sleeves in the Spanish mode. A cap of green netting and perhaps even a sable pelt. Gathering at the waist. Of course, silk thread for hand picking the seams.” She allows the thick fabric to fall back to the table in a waterfall of color.

“I’d like a secret pocket in the lining of the skirt,” I tell her.

Faustina coughs uncomfortably, and Gabriella cocks her head to one side. Perhaps she isn’t used to such requests.

“A secret pocket,” I repeat. “I must insist.” This woman will make me a beautiful dress, of that I am sure. But I want a hand in it. This is the dress that will take me into my future.

A smile spreads across the dressmaker’s face. “With our seams, you could hide a dagger and the hang of the skirts would give nothing away.”

From the couch, Faustina sighs with relief.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Betrothed to the Doge’s first son,” Gabriella continues. “This will be the marriage of the year.”

Coming from Gabriella da Mosto, creator of wedding dresses for generations of Venetian women, this is high praise.

“I am blessed,” I say.

“Wait here a moment.” The dressmaker retreats to the back of her quarters, and I take a seat beside Faustina, who’s making short work of the shrimps. I take a sip of mint tea. Doria and the male servant are bowed over the oak table, smoothing out the silk. I catch a whisper, and it sounds, though I can’t be sure, like “Doge’s funeral.”

I feel my face stiffen, and as my eyes meet the girl’s, she blushes and looks away.

Do even common servants know about the Doge’s falling sickness, the ailment that places his life and reputation in peril? And if they know, where have they heard it? Despite all my happiness, all my blessings, in that moment the past tugs at my stomach. His sickness was the secret I shared in order to be accepted into the Segreta. It was a mistake, a betrayal, but at the time it seemed the only coin I had to barter for their help. Our community of women trades on secrets, but if what I shared has become common knowledge … Well, the Doge has plenty of enemies looking for just such an excuse to topple him.

Gabriella returns. “Your dress will be ready for a first fitting in three weeks. Until then.” She nods a goodbye.

Faustina and I say our farewells and we descend the stairs, out into the fading afternoon sunshine. For a moment, I feel weary—my allegiance to the Segreta is weighing me down. But Faustina is impervious to my mood.

“Jewelry next!” she announces. “To match the glass beads of your headdress.” She is already striding down the road, and I break into a modest trot. But as we turn a corner, we both stop short. A woman a little older than I am is walking towards us, wearing a black velvet dress with raised stripes of gold thread. But there is another stripe too—this one down her face—a streak of blood that runs from a deep cut on her forehead. She holds up a hand to try to hide it, but there is no disguising the swollen bruise that is forcing her left eye half shut.

“Come here,” I tell the woman, going to take her by the arm. “What happened to you?” She tries to pull away from me; I can feel her body trembling. “You don’t need to fear us,” I tell her. “Please. Let me help.”

“Who did this to you?” Faustina asks, bustling over. “The beast!”

A few people look round at Faustina’s shrill cry, and the woman flinches.

“It’s nothing to bother yourselves with,” she says, trying her best to turn her body from us. But I reach out a hand and gently bring her back round to face me. I take a handkerchief from the folds of my skirt and dab at the blood on her temple. She doesn’t pull away.

I spot a teahouse with stools ranged beneath an awning. “Come,” I say gently, taking the woman by the arm. “Sit for a moment.”

I lead the woman over to the wicker stools. She sits with a sigh, resting her head in her hands. Faustina calls for the tea and pours, holding out a glass to the woman. She takes it with shaking hands. We wait in silence for her to recover as she takes small sips. Eventually she offers us a watery smile.

“Thank you,” she says.

“I’m Laura. What’s your name?”

“Teresa,” she whispers.

“What happened to you?” I ask.

She laughs bitterly. “My husband happened to me.” She starts to get to her feet, but her face turns suddenly white and she’s forced to sit back down.

Faustina huffs. “Men!”

“Go and buy some figs,” I tell her. Anything to get her out of earshot for the moment. “Something for our friend.”

Faustina nods eagerly, glad of something to do. My nurse likes to feed people. I watch her go over to a nearby market stall.

As soon as she’s gone, I lean forward and grasp the woman’s hands. “You shouldn’t have to suffer this way,” I say.

She shrugs. “It’s the way things are.”

I shake my head. “Only if we let it happen. I can help you.”

She looks at me skeptically. “I don’t think you’re a match for Silvio.”

Perhaps not on my own, I think. I squeeze her hand. “Meet me tonight in the disused wine cellar on the Ponte San Polo. It has a green door. A tarred barrel sits beside the doorway, and the name of the old merchant, Zenato, is painted on the door.”

“What can you do?” the woman says, her eyes brimming.

“Trust me,” I say. “Come, and you will find out.”

She shakes her head. “My husband holds the strings of the family’s purse. I wouldn’t be able to pay the gondolier!”

I reach into my purse and slide a coin into the woman’s palm. “Take this. Midnight, be at Zenato’s. Believe me—I really can help.” Has this woman heard of the Segreta? Does she guess what I mean?

The woman nods once, and slips out of her seat just as Faustina returns with a twisted paper parcel brimming with fresh figs. One of the fruits has burst open and its seeds glow like tiny chips of gold.

“You’ve forgotten your figs!” Faustina calls after the woman as she turns a shady corner. I watch the ebony hem of her skirts glide out of sight.

“Where’s she going?” Faustina asks, shrugging with open palms. “Not back to that husband, I hope.”

“She’ll be safe,” I tell the woman who knows me so well, but is blind to my deepest secrets. “Venice will look after her.”