Heart of Glass

5





A girl in scarlet tights walks above our heads. Emilia and I crane our necks back to watch as she balances on a taut rope stretched between two hooks high on the walls. She holds out her arms over the stiff net skirt that surrounds her hips, as satin slippers, dyed the same color as her stockings, curl with the precarious grip of her toes on the rope.

“Don’t jump!” calls out a boisterous man, and his friends laugh as the girl passes over them. They stare greedily at her long limbs, encased in silk.

“Unbelievable,” Emilia breathes. A group of lute players passes before us, followed by a performer wearing the familiar uniform of a colorful patched tunic and leggings. He hops nimbly and turns a cartwheel, and we are forced to leap, laughing, out of his way.

Emilia’s cheeks are flushed from the heat of the ballroom, and she holds her hands to her sides. She is wearing an embroidered dress with a frilled collar at her breast. Her throat is as white as alabaster, and her hair sparkles with the gold ribbons that draw back her curls. Around us pass men and women wearing ornate masks covered in feathers and sequins, gathered scraps of lace and fluttering curtains of silk. Sinister hooked beaks, laughing clown faces and feathered hats abound. Ribbons quickly work themselves loose, and the heat of the room has people pushing their masks down to dangle around their throats.

“Good evening, Laura!” a voice calls out—one of Father’s friends. People dance with dramatic flourishes, goblets are quickly drained of wine and platters of cold meats are picked clean.

“So, how do you like it?” I ask Emilia, taking two glasses of wine from a passing tray.

“It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen before,” she replies, grasping the stem of her glass. “Do you ever grow used to this?” Her eyes shine with admiration.

“It’s new to me too!” I reply. I remember listening to these long nights of celebration from my convent cell.

“When you grow used to nights like this,” says Lysander, “you know it’s time to rest.”

I look up and see a prominent merchant leaning against a wall on the far side, smiling into the face of a younger man. The youth, in doublet and hose, leans a hand on the wall so that his face draws near the other man’s. He whispers in the Councilor’s ear and then nestles his face in the crook of the man’s neck. As the elder statesman smiles, his glance catches mine across the crowded room. If we were out in the streets of Venice, by light of day, he would undoubtedly flinch away from his companion under the scrutiny of a stranger. Instead, he raises a hand in greeting. I send a curtsy in return.

There is the loud stamp of a staff on the parquet floor and two wide doors swing open.

“The Grand Council of Venice and the Florentine embassy!” announces a crier. A group of men in ornate ruffled shirts and deep robes walk into the room. My father is one of them, his chin raised proudly. He walks beside a man whom I recognize as Massimo, Admiral of the Fleet. They call him the Bear on account of his being so stocky and heavily bearded. Behind the Councilors come our visitors from Florence. Each wears a cloak dyed red, with what I guess is cochineal, and sewn with gold thread. Florence’s wealth is on show tonight. The men arrive in the center of the ballroom and turn to greet the women who have gathered around them, in their skirts of rainbow colors. As lips brush against fingertips, it is like watching an ancient and complex ritual.

“When do I get to meet your betrothed?” Emilia whispers in my ear. She stands on tiptoe to survey the room.

“I don’t know,” I say, feeling momentarily embarrassed. Where is Roberto? I had thought he would be with the other dignitaries. “He may be on business,” I murmur. “We’ll see him eventually.” A flash of memory recalls the image of him throwing his shirt to the floor, his torso slick with sweat, and I ache to be beside him again.

A hand grasps mine, and I am torn back to the present. “Come and dance!” A stranger pulls me onto the polished wooden floor, and I feel the suede of my shoes slip across the wax. I swirl into the waiting arms of someone in a saffron doublet and can’t help laughing as we move easily into the stance of a Venetian canario, stamping our feet on the floor in unison. I move from one man to the other, grasping arms and swinging bodies, chests pressed against each other. Candles burn on the walls and the flickering flames reflect in my partners’ eyes. The sound of lutes and singers carries over the warm air to us, and I close my eyes as I sway in the embrace of the music.

“Hello, Laura,” a woman’s mocking voice whispers.

My eyes snap open. Despite the heat of the room, a shiver passes through me.

“Carina?” I murmur.

“Are you all right?” my dance partner asks, frowning. We’ve come to a stop, nearly tripping the people behind us. “Would you like a tumbler of water?”

I am led to the side of the room, pushing past bodies. I look over my shoulder, to where the voice came from. “Carina?” I ask again, louder.

It can’t be her. She’s dead. The last time I saw her she was aboard a blazing ship that was sinking into the sea. She drowned, if she did not first burn to death.

I find my breath coming in shallow gasps and feel a sudden urge to be out of this room, away from the excited faces that surround me. As I find my way through the open patio doors, I lean heavily on the stone balcony and gaze up at the clear Venetian sky, glittering with stars. Their reflections bob in the water of the lagoon. Carina is down there, locked in the depths.

There can be no doubt.