Heart of Glass

34





I spend the next few days at home, and each day I expect a note from Roberto, some hint that he’s alive. I’ve asked Bella Donna to spread the word through her contacts, to tell me if anyone sees anything suspicious. The hope of news keeps me going, but nothing has come. How I long to see his face, or just hear his voice.

The curfew is still in place, following the action against the Doge. Faustina fusses and presses food on me, draws me baths and lays out my clothes. Even she has no homely wisdom to offer hope in these strange times. Father is deeply involved in the new revolutionary Council, and tells us that the Doge is confined to the palace. I treat him with the cold disdain he deserves, and this only makes his temper worse. Massimo insists the martial law is only temporary, but I know from this city’s troubled history that the reins of power, once grasped, are all but impossible to relinquish.

My brother is trying to entertain Emilia as best he can—which is difficult. Venice is no place for a couple in love right now, its streets full of dissent and revolution since the foiled execution. The people think that justice has been snatched away from them, and they’re angry. Bianca tells us that the guards who allowed Roberto to escape were later dragged out onto the stage and flogged almost to death.

This morning, Faustina has come to my bedroom to style my hair, twisting blonde locks into intricate braids. I reach over my shoulder and take the silver comb from her, drawing her hand down to rest against my cheek.

“Thank you for looking after me,” I tell her.

She shakes her head and takes the comb back. “Stop being so sentimental,” she chides, concentrating on a tangle of hair. She won’t look at my reflection, and I know she’s trying not to cry. We’ve both been doing a lot of that, these past days. I, for Roberto and everything that’s happened. Faustina, because she cannot bear to see me distressed.

“It sounds far-fetched to me,” Emilia’s voice rings up the stairs.

“I wish I could say the same thing,” says Lysander. “I’ve always wondered what women can gossip about for hours.”

They pass my door, and I see Lysander rearrange his features from a smile to something more somber. He’s clutching a pamphlet. “I’m sorry, Laura. I thought you were out.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” I say as brightly as possible. “Life can’t stop because of my troubles. What’s that you have?”

Emilia smiles at me. “They were giving them out at a stall,” she says. “Apparently, there’s a secret society of women running Venice behind the scenes.”

“A secret society!” says Faustina. She guffaws heartily. “Because women really have nothing better to do, what with all the laundry and cooking, housework, sewing.…”

“They say it’s noblewomen,” puts in Emilia. “But still, it seems absurd.”

I keep my voice calm. “Can I see?”

Lysander holds the pamphlet out and I take in the silly woodcut print of a group of women in witches’ caps, their faces twisted with ugly smiles as they huddle together. The drawing is rough and unsophisticated, clearly done in a rush. The words tell of a coven of she-demons intent on undermining the morals of our city. Silvio, it reports, was found dead in his bed, his throat cut. It asks for God’s help in hunting down the black-hearted women. I stand up, knocking my stool back.

“Are you all right?” says Lysander, studying my face.

The pamphlet bears the mark of the Admiralty—it’s Massimo’s work.

“Quite all right,” I reply, handing the pamphlet back. “How ridiculous.”

“The city is troubled enough without secret societies meting out their own justice.” He waves the pamphlet in the air. “They killed an innocent man!” He reads aloud from the bottom. “ ‘Justice has turned her eyes from this cabal of women for too long. Now is the time to crack down!’ ” Lysander nods. “Lots of readers will agree with that.”

“How do you know?” I ask. Lysander looks at me in surprise.

“Laura, darling. Do you need to ask? These women are making a fool of Venice. Do you know who they’re led by? Allegreza, the Duchess’s cousin. Can’t you see? She’s bringing shame on the Doge. This shouldn’t be happening. Whatever you think of Massimo’s tactics, this must be stopped.”

I pace the room. “But how?”

Lysander peers at the writing. “We’re being urged not to give shelter to any of these women or communicate with them. Apparently, Allegreza is in custody and being interrogated in the Piombi.”

I gasp. “But the Piombi is a place for men.”

“Massimo is making an example of her. Quite right too.”

“I saw Roberto after he was mistreated,” I say. “I can’t bear to think of someone else suffering like that.”

Lysander raises his eyebrows. “Perhaps she deserves it, little sister.”

“Well, I for one hope she isn’t suffering,” says Emilia, shaking the shawl from around her shoulders. “I think there’s more to it than the pamphlets suggest. Women don’t go round stirring up trouble and murdering people for the sake of it.”

“You’re right,” I say. “There’s a reason this happened, surely. If it’s even true.”

“I don’t care about reasons,” Lysander says. “The law is the law! No one should take a life. If this is what women do to make their voices heard in Venice, then they should be silenced!”

I can’t listen to him any longer. “Would you have me silenced?” I demand. “Or Emilia? Are you saying we don’t deserve a voice because we wear dresses? For shame, brother. I thought better of you.”

Emilia places a hand on Lysander’s chest. “Really, darling, we should leave Laura alone.”

But now Lysander’s blood is up too. He shakes her off and points at me. “Don’t twist my words,” he says.

“I don’t need to,” I say. “You already sound just like Father.”

A low blow, I know, but Lysander has made me so angry.

He seizes Emilia’s arm and leads her with him from the room.

“Lysander!” Emilia tries to protest, but he isn’t listening.

Faustina is gaping, still holding the comb to her chest. “Men!” she mutters.

From my brother’s chamber, I hear raised voices behind the closed door. I hurry down the stairs, away from the angry sounds. At the bottom, I pause. Whether it was deliberate or not—I cannot tell—I find myself beneath the portrait Roberto painted of me.

That day he delivered it, before I knew who he really was, the work astounded me. He’d captured every detail of my face, and each brushstroke sang of his insight. He knew me so well, even then.

But I don’t recognize that girl anymore. The glint in her eye, the promise that seems to linger about her, both have gone. All that remains of the girl I was is this portrait.

Roberto fooled me back then, when he was Giacomo the painter. Perhaps he’s fooled me as Roberto too.