Heart of Glass

23





I wake the next morning and watch the muslin curtains billow in the warm breeze. The masked figure haunted my dreams, waiting each time I closed my eyes. Not for the first time I ask myself, Can I trust the Segreta?

I barely have the energy to leave my bed and get dressed. Nicolo’s funeral and the hatred shown to me in the streets have left me drained.

I can hear Faustina in the courtyard below, slapping wet sheets against a washboard. Then there’s a voice that makes me sit up sharply.

“Is she in?” gasps a young boy. It’s the messenger who brought me the notes from Grazia. I’ve contracted him with a steady supply of food from the kitchen to apprise me of any interesting developments. After all, if I am to help Roberto survive the scandal that has beset him, I must know what whispers are abroad.

“Yes,” answers Faustina, puffing heavily. I hear the creak as she turns a mangle, squeezing water from fabric as it passes between the wooden rolls. “I’ll take you to her.”

I leap out of bed and draw a dressing gown around me, tie it hastily at the waist and run towards the main stairs. Barefoot and with my hair loose, I descend into the main hallway—just as Faustina, her hands red from scorching hot water, leads the boy indoors. They stare at me in surprise.

“Aren’t you dressed yet?” Faustina asks. She wipes the soapsuds from her hands onto her apron. “I’ve been working since dawn!”

The boy gawps at the open collar of my dressing gown, and hastily I pull it tighter. “You have a message for me?” I ask. The boy nods, his mouth still hanging open. I throw a glance at Faustina, who has folded her arms and is giving me a long, narrow-eyed look. “You may leave us,” I tell her formally.

She opens her mouth to protest, then thinks better of it, turning on her heel to walk back out to the wooden washbasin that rests on the courtyard tiles.

“Well?” I ask.

The boy swallows hard. “A ship has docked in the harbor,” he says.

I feel my skin prickle with anticipation. “Whose ship?”

“That Turkish prince’s—Halim.” The boy’s face colors. “The one you fought with a sword.”

“And how do you know about that?” I ask sharply.

“Everyone’s talking about it.”

I feel my face stiffen. “I can hardly set foot outside my own door. I rely on you to tell me what’s happening in Venice—remember?” The boy looks as though he’s about to burst into tears. I soften my voice. “Thank you for the message.” I walk over to where my purse hangs from a wooden clothes hook and dig inside it for payment. As the coins fall into the boy’s open palm, I give him one last instruction: “Tell our coachman to prepare the horses.”

“Where shall I say you’re going?”

I look out the open front doors of the villa. In the far distance, I can see the sparkle of water. “Where is Halim staying?” I ask.

“I know that!” the boy says proudly. “I asked around before coming here. He’s taken apartments near the harbor, on Albanesi.”

“Well done,” I tell him, smiling. I slip him an extra coin.

That’s where I’ll go, then, I tell myself.

When I emerge from my room, ready for the journey, Lysander and Emilia are standing in the hallway. They are dressed in walking clothes.

“Won’t you join us?” Emilia smiles. I shake my head, glimpsing the coachman waiting patiently out on the drive. Lysander looks over his shoulder, following the direction of my gaze.

“You’re going out alone?” he asks.

“Why not?” I say. “I’m not going to be a prisoner here.” But as I start to walk towards the open doorway, Lysander grasps my arm.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” he asks, drawing me to one side. “Remember what happened before the funeral.”

“I have to leave this house one day.”

Lysander’s eyes are pained and he lowers his voice. “I’ve heard rumors, Laura … about Roberto.”

“Oh yes?”

“Consider, how well do you really know this man? He was hidden for many years, living a life free of restriction.…”

“Just say what you mean.”

“Do I have to?” he asks. “I know what young men are like, sister.”

“Really?” I say. “Well, you don’t know Roberto. He’s a good man. I know this from the depths of my soul.”

“All women in love say this, and we both know that some are wrong,” says Lysander. “Please, listen to my counsel.…”

I shake myself free, firmly, but I don’t want to cause a scene in front of Emilia.

“I’ve heard the rumors too,” I say. “But if I believed every rumor to take to the air in Venice, I’d be a fool indeed. Roberto. Really, brother.” I force a smile onto my face. I don’t want him to ask where I’m going.

Turning to the waiting coachman, he calls out, “Take care of her!”

The man nods in acknowledgment. Hastily, I go outside and climb into the coach. As the driver slams the little door shut behind me, Emilia’s face appears at the window. She reaches inside the carriage and takes my hand.

“Stay safe,” she tells me. “We love you, you know.”

“I’ll be fine,” I reassure her, wondering if she too has heard this new gossip about my beloved Roberto. She steps away from the coach, and I hear the crack of a whip. Then the coach lurches and I ride out towards the harbor. To the man who can change everything.

I ask the coachman to drop me off a few streets away from Halim’s apartments. I cannot risk word getting back to my family as to my whereabouts. I duck down the alleyways, keeping to the shadows. Perhaps it’s the clandestine nature of my visit that makes me check frequently over my shoulder, but that masked face stays with me. Turning a corner, I glimpse a flash of purple skirt slipping out of sight. It could be anyone, but three more turnings on, I see it again, dipping behind a stall. There’s a wooden bench ahead, and I pause beside it, as if trying to get my bearings. My senses are stretched taut, but I don’t see the dress again.

In the Calle dei Albanesi I spot two dark-skinned guards posted at a doorway. The men are dressed in short red jackets and billowing trousers tucked inside leather boots. Swathes of green cloth bind their heads, and each carries a short sword shoved inside a leather belt. Their thick beards make it impossible to read their expressions.

“I’m here to see Halim,” I say.

One of the men grins. “No one sees the prince without permission,” he says in Italian. “And he hasn’t said anything about a Venetian courtesan paying him a visit.”

I keep a straight face. These men are not thugs, I know that. I have heard about the Ottoman army and the privileges of learning and social status that their soldiers enjoy. To call me a courtesan is not a mistake, but a well-aimed weapon. The guard’s companion joins in the mocking laughter. He nods towards San Polo, where most of Venice’s prostitutes live and work.

“You’re a long way from home,” he tells me. “Better run back to your customers.”

I dip my head modestly. “There must be some mistake,” I tell them. “My father sits on the Doge’s Grand Council. I am sure Halim will see me if he knows I’m here. Tell him … tell him that Laura della Scala wishes to visit.”

The men share a doubtful glance and speak to each other in their own tongue.

“That’s right,” calls a voice from the hallway. The prince steps out of the shadows, into the column of sunlight streaming from the open doorway. “She’s the one I’ve been speaking of.”

“My lord,” I say, dipping into a curtsy.

Another figure sidles from within the apartment and stands beside the prince. Faruk.

He speaks urgently to Halim, looking at me with barely concealed disgust.

The prince waves a hand through the air. “Paper and ink can wait,” he says, staring at me. “Come inside, Laura.”

The guards step aside.

I take Halim’s outstretched hand, feeling his fingers curl around my own.

“Thank you,” I say. He has no idea how much I mean it.

Then he leads me into the hidden darkness of his rooms.