Heart of Glass

30





I climb out of my simple clothes and pack them away, back in Bianca’s chest. Brushing a hand over the rough linen, I think, for the hundredth time since my visit to the convent, of the simple girl who lived in seclusion. Were things better then? My days were long and empty, yes, but the slow burn of that existence hardly compares to the pain of this. I knew nothing of love and its joys, but nothing of its disappointments either.

I close the chest and rest my forehead against its lid. I consider saying a prayer for Roberto, but then my body sags with exhaustion. They would be empty words sent up to a God I no longer know.

I hear voices in the courtyard. More visitors? I rush over to a window and lean out, momentarily forgetting that I am wearing nothing more than my linen undergarments. Raising a hand to shield my eyes from the sun, I spot a group of six soldiers in Turkish uniform waiting at the front gates and a carriage behind them. A moment later Faustina bustles in.

“That brute is here!” she says. “Hide the jewelry!”

Bianca enters next, equally flustered. “There’s a visitor for you,” she says. “I told him your father and brother are out in the city, but he insisted. He waits for you in the library.”

Why has he come? What could he possibly want now, after the last time he showed me from his quarters with so little ceremony?

“Don’t go to him!” says Faustina. “He can’t be trusted.”

“I’ll be down in a moment,” I tell Bianca. I fetch out the first dress I find—my lemon silk. My hands twist around behind me, struggling to tighten the strings of my bodice and fumbling with the tiny satin-covered buttons of the dress.

“What are you thinking?” asks Faustina. “People will talk!”

“Then perhaps you should practice silence,” I tell her.

I hastily plump out my skirts and brush the hair off my face, while loosening my curls. Taking a few deep breaths to compose myself, I descend the stairs. The double doors to the library are open a crack, and I see Halim gazing at the books on the shelves.

As I step inside the room, he trains his eyes on me. I close the doors on Faustina.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. I don’t have the energy for polite conversation.

“I’m sorry for your deep suffering,” he says.

I will not break down now. Not in front of him.

He reaches out and takes my hand, raising it to his face. The gesture so takes me by surprise, I don’t stop him. His lips brush against my fingertips and I feel goose bumps tighten. “I never wished to cause you harm.”

Now I pull my hand away from his as the tears well in my eyes. Before I can brush them away, Halim offers a handkerchief to me. I hesitate—this man has sealed Roberto’s death—before taking it.

“I know what you must be thinking,” he says. His face creases in pain. “But I’ve acted the only way I can.”

“Roberto wouldn’t murder an innocent woman. He simply couldn’t. Venice is a brutal city, but he is the gentlest soul I’ve ever met.”

I could say more. I could tell him that I cried daily when Roberto was away in Constantinople, and of the longing in his eyes when he returned. Those lips, when I kissed them, were not lying to me. I would stake my life on it.

Halim’s look is one of heartfelt pity. He’s stood up for what he believes to be true. What is the truth—his version or mine? Is it possible that we’re both in the right? I saw the strength of his feeling when he learned of his sister’s death. We’re each fighting for what we believe in.

I’m unable to break his gaze, and now I see there’s something else there whom I barely dare acknowledge. I feel the heat emanating from his body and realize that we haven’t pulled apart since he wiped away my tears. With a sudden, awkward movement, I go to sit down and indicate another chair at a fair distance from me. “Please, take a seat.”

Halim shakes his head and casts a despairing glance around him. “This place—this city—you deserve better.”

“It is my home.”

“Then I hope you can find happiness again—somehow.”

“Happiness?”

He must see the wretched look of shock on my face. “Your soul is too good to be trapped in grief.”

As he hurries to the door, I follow. I don’t want us to part like this. Our differences are great, but we share something greater I don’t yet wish to relinquish. He turns in the doorway, and we collide.

“Oh,” I murmur.

His hand is on the small of my back.

“You mustn’t …,” I begin to say.

“Mustn’t what?” Halim asks. His breath smells like cinnamon.

Our faces are so close, our bodies too. His eyes are all I see.

“Mustn’t grieve too much for your sister.”

There’s a sudden movement and the door is pushed open wider. Emilia stands there, staring at the two of us, her mouth hanging open. “I’m sorry. I …”

Halim draws away, but slowly—as though we have nothing for which to apologize. As for myself, I can feel my cheeks flaming.

“I should go,” he says, looking past Emilia and into the hallway for his servants. He walks past her without a backwards glance. I retreat into the room and curse silently as I hear Emilia follow me.

“What just happened?” she asks.

I shake my head. “I need to rest,” I murmur.

It’s the grief, I think, sinking onto a couch. That’s all. I need to rest.