Heart of Glass

38





I kneel by my bed, but not to pray. I lift the lid on the box that holds the clothes from my past. Tucked away among mothballs and sheets of lavender-infused paper are my nun’s habit and headdress. Faustina wanted to burn them, but I insisted on keeping some memento of that time. Now I’m glad I did.

I lift the robe and cowl and shake out the creased fabric as I go to stand before the mirror. On the dressing table is a small, stubby knife that I stole from the kitchen last night when Faustina was busy kneading bread. It’s nowhere near as sharp as a sword, but it will do.

I dress in the musty clothes, pin my hair back tightly, then arrange the cowl over my head. Soon, I am all but hidden. I barely recognize the woman who gazes back at me in the mirror. The picture of innocence. At my bedroom door, I wait on the landing, listening for noises.

Nothing.

A short while later, I stand before the public door of the Piombi. The guard stares at me, frowning.

“What are you doing here, Sister? This is no place for you.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, ducking my head, “but I wish to give comfort to one of your prisoners. The lady Allegreza. She has been a faithful supporter of our convent and it would keep the Abbess—and God—happy if I could share a few words with her.”

Perhaps the Abbess, if she knew, would call it the ultimate blasphemy, but God will surely forgive me.

The guard folds his arms and looks embarrassed. “I’m under orders to search everyone who enters. No exceptions.” I gasp meekly, and see the tide of red travel up his cheeks.

Before I came, I dug out my Bible from beneath my bed. It was covered in dust, but I gave it a cleaning, and it looks for all the world like my dearest possession. I hold it out to the guard.

“I have nothing to declare but my faith,” I say, smiling. “Feel free to search me, but this is all I carry. All I need.”

The guard clears his throat and his eyes look up and down the street. It’s thronged with people, too many to pay us much attention. He kicks the door behind him, and it opens a crack. Without shifting his stance, he jerks his head in its direction.

“Go on, then. Quickly, Sister.”

In the darkness of the prison corridor, I see the shape of another guard, sleeping in his chair. He snorts and stirs as I draw near.

“I’m here to see Allegreza di Rocco,” I say, keeping my head bowed in case he recognizes me from my previous visit. But he doesn’t even spare me a glance.

“Up the stairs, first cell on the right,” he grunts.

From the foot of the staircase I see a prisoner reach a skinny arm between the bars of his cell and paw the ground. “Help me!” he calls, his mouth frothing. I shudder and look away, running up the stairs. The heat is already oppressive, even this early in the morning. Beyond the turreted roof I can hear the noises of Venice. How horrible this must be for the prisoners, knowing they are so close to the life and energy of the city, yet so hidden from it.

Allegreza crouches at the rear of her cell on a bed of old straw. The acrid stench of urine stings my eyes. Through her torn dress I can see the nobs of her spine as she holds herself in a tight ball, protecting herself from whatever blow may come next. It is the same gown I last saw her wearing, the day that she was arrested. Now it is filthy, the silk covered in stains. A scattering of bruises decorates her arms and the skin exposed above the neckline of her gown. As she shifts, patches of baldness reveal themselves among her gray hair.

She shifts on her haunches and notices me for the first time. Her eyes widen in fear, and she scuttles back, pinning herself against the rear wall of the cell, until a second glance allows her to take in my cowl and Bible. Her face softens and she tries to smile, but her lips crack with dried blood.

“Prayers are no good to me,” she says, her voice faint.

This is not the Allegreza I knew. For a moment, I want to race down the stairs and away from here, wiping this vision from my mind’s eye. But then I remember what I’ve come to do.

“I’m not here to pray,” I say.

The change in her is immediate. Her chin jerks up, and she narrows her eyes, as though testing to see if her vision deceives her. I smile and pull back part of my cowl so that she can see my face.

Allegreza braces her hands against the wooden floor and heaves herself up to standing. As she limps towards me, I notice for the first time what has happened to those beautiful hands of hers, once so adept at playing the spinet. Her fingers hang useless and gnarled, and where her polished nails should be are crescents of dried blood.

A sob emerges from me, despite myself. Allegreza shushes me as she used to. Up close, I see that what remains of her hair has matted into a solid, tangled blanket.

“How could they do this to you?” I ask.

“I suppose I could use some beauty sleep,” Allegreza says, pressing her thin body against the bars. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe.” She looks down at her hands and gives an ironic laugh, which dies away, and she looks into my face. “You must go,” she orders.

“Not yet. Allegreza, you need to know—we tried to get you out. A letter was delivered to Massimo, threatening to expose his secret about the useless gunpowder. Did anyone say anything to you? We hoped he’d release you, rather than risk his secret coming out, but …” I don’t know what else to say. My plan has failed—like so many of my efforts on behalf of the Segreta.

A frown creases Allegreza’s pale brow, and the look in her eyes is one I recognize—her mind turning over, calculating.

“What is it? Did they say something to you?”

She shakes her head. “Quite the opposite. Nothing has been said at all. You’re sure Massimo received the letter?” Her voice has sudden life in it, as if her injuries are forgotten, at least for a moment.

“Paulina delivered it,” I say.

“Paulina?” She frowns, as if considering the name. “She is an odd choice for such a mission.”

Even now, in her sufferings, she has the power to make me feel small.

“She volunteered,” I say. “She has access, and …”

“Yes, of course. You should go now, Laura.”

“I came here for a reason,” I say, remembering how this conversation was meant to go.

She gives me a wry glance that takes in my outfit. “To spread the word of God?”

“Better than that.” I take my Bible and slip it between the bars of the cell.

Allegreza draws back. “I told you I have no need of prayers,” she says, almost angry.

“Look inside,” I tell her in a whisper.

Allegreza opens the thin pages. Last night I gouged out a coarse hole in their center with a knife. Inside it rests the vial my brother gave me.

The woman who saved me from a ruined life looks up into my face.

“What’s this?” Though her eyes tell me that she already understands.

“Your escape.”

A glossy sheen spreads in Allegreza’s eyes, but the tears evaporate before they’re shed.

“Thank you.” With shaking hands, she starts to prise the cork out. “Now you must leave,” she says firmly. “Let the others know—I have not spoken a word about us.”

“I will.”

I reach between the bars to retrieve my Bible. Then I wipe the tears from my cheeks, smooth down my skirts and straighten my back. As I walk down the stairs, I don’t look back.

When I step outside, the light hurts my eyes, and they water. I take in a deep lungful of the salty air coming off the sea.

“Did the prisoner find her solace?” the guard asks gruffly.

“I think so,” I say.