Heart of Glass

22





The noise greets us even before our coach arrives at the cathedral. It is the sound of mourning—wailing voices and low sobs. But nothing prepares me for the sight we come upon as we turn into St. Mark’s Square. Beside me, Emilia lets out a small cry of shock, and I feel my breath catch in my lungs. So many people!

Venice is mourning Nicolo’s death. Hundreds are crammed into the square and lining the surrounding streets. Rope barriers have been erected and soldiers stand before them to keep back the press of the crowds. Women dab their eyes with handkerchiefs and opportunistic stall sellers are offering black-stained flowers to throw upon the coffin when it passes. The scent of incense is heavy in the air, and a distant band of street musicians plays a lament. Agile young men climb the fountains and statues to get a better view of their dead prince when he arrives.

The funeral has been organized quickly. In this heat, no one wants to leave a body waiting for burial. Word traveled the streets, the canals and the narrow alleyways, sent out from the Doge’s palace: the ceremony would take place on the second Sunday of the month, four days after Roberto bent to hear his brother’s last words. I haven’t seen my beloved since, and my messages have received no reply.

Now, even the Segreta are keeping secrets from me.

The coach draws to a halt, and I step out, helped by my father. The skin of his hands is papery and dry, and when I look up into his face I see nothing there but accusation. You bring us to this, his eyes tell me. You and the man you insist on loving. If I hadn’t been loyal to Roberto, defending him against Halim’s attacks, Nicolo would still be alive and my family would have been saved from scandal. Perhaps Paulina was right to attack me. But the moment I think this, my heart twists. How can loving Roberto be wrong? What could I have done differently?

As I move across the square, the black taffeta of my skirts swishes noisily. I wear a single string of pearls at my throat, and my hair is framed by an embroidered cap. The sky is gray above us, and the tiny pieces of jet sewn across my bodice barely glimmer.

Lysander looks up at the dense clouds threatening rain and shudders. “The perfect day for a funeral,” he comments.

“Don’t,” Emilia reproves.

“Show some respect,” Father hisses from behind us.

“Yes, show some respect!” calls a stranger’s voice. I look over my shoulder and see a woman, her bosom spilling out of her corset, lunge towards me. Her eyes are wild, and I can smell the wine on her breath. “Look, everyone! It’s Laura della Scala—betrothed to a murderer.”

More noise erupts around us, angry shouts and curses. Lysander puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me to him. “Ignore them,” he whispers into my hair. But I can feel the blood drain from my face as the awful truth hits me with the taunts and insults that ring in my ears. The people of Venice hate me! They are filled with hate, filled and overflowing.

“Shall I try to talk to them, to explain?” I twist my neck to look up into my brother’s face, but he’s too intent on scanning the crowd to respond. He pulls me along now, forcing me to walk faster than my petticoats allow. I almost trip, and it’s only Emilia’s hand on my elbow that saves me from falling into the waste that pours down the open sewers of the street.

Thud! Something smashes into the side of my head. I stagger slightly as the sensation of warmth and moisture creeps down my cheek. I put a hand to my face. When I take it away to stare at my fingers, I frown with confusion, my thoughts struggling to keep up with what is happening. Someone has thrown a rotten fig at me, its golden seeds squelching out of the purple skin.

“You should be ashamed to be here!” shouts a man. He pulls back his head, purses his lips and then spits. Warm saliva hits my chest, and Emilia hurries to wipe it away with a handkerchief.

“Don’t,” I try to tell her, “don’t take it away.” But she can’t hear me for the clamor.

“Is that your daughter, old man?” someone else cries. I glance back at Father and see him turn away. He doesn’t try to defend me. I stumble onwards, looking neither right nor left.

“Your fiancé is a coward!” someone in the crowd shouts. “He deserves to die.”

“Murderer’s creature!”

“Harlot!”

“Roberto’s head should have rolled already,” a woman yells, her eyes narrowed. “Just because he’s the Doge’s son …” She stoops beneath the rope barrier and lunges towards us.

“Guards!” Father calls, his voice straining to be heard above the crowds. “Come and help!”

Men in cloaks carrying swords at their waists run over, and suddenly I am surrounded by a wall of broad shoulders. I am able to move quickly inside this cavern of safety, and our family is escorted the rest of the way to the Basilica, with its lead-covered domes and turrets. Lifting my skirts, I run up the steps. I can’t believe my arrival at Nicolo’s funeral is so undignified. Tears of shame swell in my eyes, and I wipe them away with a fist.

As we step inside, I’m grateful for the coolness that surrounds me. Lysander is looking at me hard.

“Why are they attacking you?” he asks, his voice somber. “You haven’t killed anybody.”

He suddenly sounds much older than the young man who sat at our table tipsily teasing his new wife, not so many days ago.

I look down at my stained skirts. “Neither has Roberto,” I say coldly. “It’s all such a mess.”

We turn to face the rows of official mourners. I gaze up at the cathedral’s high domed ceiling, which glistens with gold foil. We are surrounded by marble columns and bronze statues. Singers gaze down on us from the choir lofts, and the gilded mosaic ceiling makes my eyes dance. No wonder it’s known as the Church of Gold. It’s an exercise in opulence: Venice at its best—and its worst. After all, we are here because of a good man’s death.

My family walks down the main nave towards a row of seats that have been saved for us. On either side, women are dressed in their finery and men sport silken cloaks, the colors denoting their status. No one looks at us—whether out of respect for Nicolo or distaste for my presence, I don’t know. I spot a space farther back in the church and duck into it, leading Emilia after me.

“I don’t want to be too near the front,” I whisper in explanation. “For Paulina’s sake.”

I can see my friend, her back poker straight as she trains her face on Nicolo’s coffin where it rests near the high altar.

Emilia bobs her head in understanding and I sink onto a bench as Father and Lysander move ahead to take our family’s allotted place. I grasp the wooden bench in front of me, my fingers turning white. Emilia reaches over, takes my hand and holds it in her lap.

Beside Paulina sits the Duchess Besina, Nicolo’s mother. She glances over her shoulder and spots me in the crowd. Standing, she moves past the Doge and walks up the aisle towards me. Others shift in their seats, and I feel a hundred staring eyes. Emilia stands to give the Duchess her place, and the older woman sits beside me.

The Duchess carries the perfume of grief with her. I smell it oozing from her skin, beneath the stronger scent of her pomade. When she gazes into my eyes, I think my heart will break. Any light that once danced there has been extinguished. I want to draw the Duchess to me, but her status as the Doge’s wife makes this impossible. She is cast adrift, isolated by an advantageous marriage that robs her of simple human kindness. For a moment, I wonder if I really want to enter this family, to marry Roberto. Do I wish the same fate for myself? For people to fear, more than care for, me?

“Roberto,” she starts to say. She pauses and swallows hard, composing herself. “Roberto is back in the … in that place.”

“No,” I mutter. Not the Piombi.

“The house arrest was not well received. And especially after Nicolo’s death, it became a scandal. The Doge had no choice. Laura, I’m sorry. You won’t see Roberto again until his trial, two days from now.” Her voices catches. “I wanted … I wanted to tell you myself. I know you love him as much as I do.”

“Two days is a long time,” I whisper. “In two days, this nightmare could be over.”

She gives me a watery smile. “You’re right. We should be pleased for the progress we’ve made. You’re a good girl.” She strokes a hand down my cheek; then with a heavy swish of skirts she returns to her place at the front of the church.

Emilia takes her seat beside me once more, and the funeral service begins.

The formality of it helps. The cathedral is huge, and Nicolo’s coffin is a tiny oblong box a long way from me, pointing at the grand altar. To see it I have to strain my neck to peer above the crowd of heads. I imagine him laid inside there, as cold and still as my sister was in her own coffin. The voices of the priests barely carry to me, and I copy the movements of others in the congregation, making the sign of the cross when they do or sinking to my knees. I feel bleached of emotion, counting the moments until I can be out of this place. It’s not that I don’t care for Nicolo or Paulina, but life is pressing down very hard on my shoulders.

A small, almost indiscernible movement at the upper edge of my vision draws my glance to the ceiling of the church. In one of the many balconies, I spot a shadowy silhouette half hidden by a porphyry statue. The silhouette sharpens into the outline of a small waist, a curved hip—a woman. She’s dressed in black and wearing a mask that glints silver beneath the gold of the church ceiling. How strange. I’m sure the mask isn’t one of ours. Luxurious curls of brown hair cascade down one shoulder. Why is she in the balcony rather than among the congregation? I twist round in my seat for a better view, but as soon as I move, she slips behind the statue, disappearing out of sight.

As the incense clouds about me and bells are rung, I turn back towards Nicolo’s coffin. My senses are ablaze. Grief is all around me, yet only one thought fills my head.

Someone is spying on me.