Heart of Glass

42





From below, the dinner gong rings a second time.

“Laura!” Father calls gruffly. “Get down here, before the food turns cold.”

Faustina is sworn to secrecy, but I shouldn’t keep my father waiting and force her to make a suspicious excuse for my tardiness. After his bath, Roberto crawled into my bed and fell into a deep slumber. I tuck a blanket around him and kiss his forehead. “Sleep well, my love,” I whisper.

Over a plate of grilled sardines, Father is full of excitement. “Two days!” he declares. “Then we will sink Halim and his filthy crew. Our men will make Venice proud.”

Easy for him to say. Father won’t be carrying a sword or musket; he won’t have to risk spilling his own blood. Members of the Grand Council are too important to lay their lives on the line. It will be new recruits or loyal soldiers—sons and brothers and young fathers—who will leave families grieving.

Ever since my reunion with Roberto, my mind has been constantly turning over. Even if Halim were to discover that he’s in Venice, it would not avert the battle. He would accuse us of giving him shelter and seek retribution before we had time to reveal his lies. It’s clear that our visiting prince doesn’t set much store by honor. He’s determined this war will go ahead, whatever the stakes. Venice is too great a prize, and Carina’s meddling has played right into his hands.

My thoughts are interrupted by a polite cough from the doorway.

“There’s a visitor with a message for the lady of the house,” a manservant says, looking at me. He appears to be nervous.

“Show him in, show him in!” cries my father. “Pour him a glass.”

“Are you sure?” the servant begins to say, but Father slams a fist on the table, making the crystal decanter shudder.

“Do as I say!”

The servant’s nerves have made my own senses heighten. I hear stately steps. Then Father gasps and pushes his chair back. I lift a napkin to hide my smile.

Bella Donna hasn’t even bothered to discard the yellow scarf that marks her as a prostitute. Her hair has been curled around her face, and she wears a low-cut maroon bodice embroidered with gold thread, the sleeves slashed so that clouds of white linen poke through. She sports no gold or pearls, but there is heavy rouge on her cheeks and she carries a gaudy peacock feather fan in one hand. A black veil spills from the crown of her head, but does nothing to cover her chest or arms, and she moves towards us on high-platformed shoes. She does her best to ignore Father’s shocked expression, and her best is very good.

“Calm down, Father,” I say. “This is a friend of mine.”

“She’s a … a … in my home!”

“Won’t you take a seat?” I ask her.

Bella Donna sashays into the room, going to sit next to Father. He shakes his head with disgust.

“Whatever you have to say, you can say it standing!”

Bella Donna smiles sweetly. “Don’t worry,” she tells me. “I simply came here to tell you that the gloves you left in the convent have been found.”

Aysim. Bella Donna has found her.

“Thank you so much,” I say. “I thought I’d lost them forever.” I get to my feet to follow Bella Donna from the room. “Take me to find them.”

“What’s this? Gloves! You come into my home and talk to my daughter about a wretched pair of gloves? Get out—both of you! Laura, have you not brought enough shame on this family?”

I don’t hear what else he has to say; we’re already out in the hallway.

“Where is she?” I hiss.

“At my place of work,” Bella Donna tells me.

I swallow hard. The idea of returning to the unseemly place where we trapped Silvio makes my stomach clench. But our needs are of the utmost importance. I must go where Bella Donna leads. For Venice, for Roberto. “Take me to her.”

“You’re sure about this?” she asks. “You, an ex–convent girl?”

“Don’t be silly,” I joke. “How much difference can there be between a brothel and a convent?”

Bella Donna raises her eyebrows.


We arrive at a low, discreet doorway in a tiny alley off the Calle Bressana.

“The House of Provocation,” Bella Donna murmurs, cocking her head to the sounds of laughter that emerge from a window set high in the wall. “Ready?”

I draw my cloak closer around my shoulders and nod. Bella Donna pulls back the hood of her cape to show her face to the man at the door, and he grunts in acknowledgment, stepping aside to let us in.

“The girl was caught trying to steal food from a stall,” Bella Donna explains as we walk past an open salon where a group of men and women chat in low voices. “She fell and sprained her ankle trying to escape. We took her in to save her from being beaten by the stallholder.”

We duck down a narrow corridor lined with gilt-framed paintings. Beside each painting is a closed doorway, hung with tasseled curtains. I can hear more laughter and the sound of a spinet being played. Bella Donna shows me into a kitchen with a table in the center, along which are ranged decanters of wine ready for customers’ refreshment. At one end sits a young woman, her head in her arms as she sleeps. I recognize her instantly—the golden skin, slight frame and the frown lines that crease her brow even in her dreams. The room is lit by lamps that hang from the ceiling, casting golden circles over the furniture.

Bella Donna steps forward and gently places a hand on the girl’s arm. She wakes with a jolt. When she sees me, she leaps up, knocking her stool to the ground. She scrambles away towards the back door, grappling with the iron bolt.

“Calm yourself,” Bella Donna says, going after her. “This is a friend.”

“I’m not here to harm you,” I say in French. “I know who you are, who your brother is. Halim.” The girl lets out a whimper of fear, looking wildly from me to Bella Donna. “I’m here as a member of the Segreta. You were looking for us, weren’t you? Seeking our help? My fiancé, Roberto, is charged with your murder, held accountable by Halim. We have a shared enemy, you and I. You can trust me.”

Aysim’s face is softening, and slowly, cautiously, she steps away from the door and stands behind Bella Donna. She clears her throat.

“I’m sorry,” she begins in swift, fluent French. “For so long, I haven’t known whom to trust.”

I straighten the stool that she kicked over, and the three of us come to sit around the kitchen table. Bella Donna pours us all tumblers of water, and Aysim begins her story. We hear how she arrived in Venice with her loyal maidservant, Emen. How they were wearing each other’s clothes as disguises, fleeing from Halim’s violence. They were attacked, and Aysim managed to escape, but Emen did not.

Aysim’s voice breaks. “My faithful servant, the only person to show me loyalty. I let her die.” Her dark eyes brim with tears.

“She was the girl in Roberto’s apartments, wasn’t she?” I whisper.

Aysim nods, tears coursing down her cheeks. Bella Donna hands her a linen handkerchief.

“It was me they meant to kill!”

I feel sick to my stomach. Gales of loud male laughter spill from one of the rooms down the corridor, as though mocking me. Through the kitchen doorway I see a member of the Grand Council emerge, straightening his tunic. I quickly turn my face away, and Bella Donna hurries to shut the door.

Aysim tells me of her brother’s lust for power, his hatred of Venice.

“He’s been planning this moment for over two years,” she says. “At first it was just a fantasy. His advisers told him it couldn’t be achieved.”

“So what changed?”

“He sought new counsel—a witch who covers her face with a silver mask.”

I swallow hard. “Why does she wear a mask?” I ask. Though I suspect I already know the answer.

Aysim waves a hand before her own face. “A terrible disfigurement.”

My mind fizzes as a spiderweb of connections starts to take form. Prince Halim and Carina are working together? So Roberto’s kidnapping wasn’t a coincidence—it was orchestrated with Halim’s knowledge. Can my dead sister’s old friend be behind everything that’s happened?

The scale of the plot is almost too great to believe, and I try to see its many facets. One other point also bothers me. “Roberto?” I ask her. “Have you ever … met him?”

Aysim shakes her head. “I saw him from a distance in Constantinople. After I tried to dissuade my brother from his mad plans, he shut me out of everything.”

“But Halim showed us a letter, in Roberto’s handwriting,” Even now, those words of affection sting me—they seem so real, so true. “A love letter.”

Aysim laughs bitterly. “My brother has a forger. A cunning man called Faruk. It must have been his work.”

The plan is almost perfect. Paint Roberto as the cause for a war, sow discord among your enemies. But what sort of monster would try to kill his own sister?

“What can we do?” asks Bella Donna. “Is it too late?”

Not if I can present this girl to Massimo and the Council—if I can show them Roberto too. Then they’ll have to believe me. Roberto will be pardoned, and the Doge’s authority restored. As much as I dislike Massimo and the new leaders of Venice, they do care for their city. They are not heartless, like Halim. They will do what is best for Venice, when they are shown all the facts.

I hold out my hand to Aysim. “You must come with me,” I say.

She’s quaking again, and shakes her head. “Why? I’ve told you all I know.”

“To make men listen.”