Heart of Glass

6





Somewhere, a clock strikes, tearing me from my reverie and reminding me that I have a job to do. I glance over my shoulder at the room, women leaning against men and strangers kissing. It’s time to leave. I worry about Emilia, but then I spot her with Lysander, his arm snaked around her waist.

I check that no one is paying me any attention and head down a narrow flight of ivy-clad stairs. Even at this hour, the stale warmth of a spent day drifts up to greet me from the city’s canals. I walk quickly through the streets, keeping to the shadows and darting from one tiny alley to another covered walkway. It’s surprisingly easy to move unseen. Others are abroad, but they turn their faces away from me, hiding their own secrets. I spot the yellow scarf of a prostitute beneath an awning, and at another window two men are talking urgently to each other. As I pass, they slam the shutters on me.

Finally, I arrive at a concealed pier. If the Segreta had not told me how to find this place, I’d never have known that boats docked here. The entrance is disguised by heavy leather curtains, stained with blood and grease. It looks like a butcher’s warehouse, a place to hang venison or pigs, and the slap of waves is concealed by the sound of singing that comes from a nearby bar. Someone has put a lot of thought and care into keeping this place hidden.

I slip between the leather curtains, carefully tucking my skirts around me, and walk down the pier. The skeleton of a boat sits across the canal, abandoned by the shipbuilders for the evening. There’s a sudden splash in the water, and when I turn I see that someone has pulled up beside the pier in a low boat. On the prow is the faded mark of the Segreta, a painted key. The woman stares up at me and we give each other a sharp nod. Not a word is said until I am in the boat, having climbed down the short flight of slippery steps. I sit on the bench opposite her, holding the side to steady myself against the sway of the current.

“You know where to go?” I whisper.

“I know.”

She adjusts the scarf across her face, and we begin to slice through the water. Her shoulders move strongly as she rows, and her feet are braced against the floor of the boat. I have no doubt that this woman can get me to my destination quicker than any paid gondolier.

I thought that I would resent leaving the ball, but I am glad to be out on the water, away from voices of the past. We cross the choppy lagoon in silence, cleaving into the darkness. After a short while, the glassworks of Murano stand in tall silhouettes across the island. Many of the rich men of Venice own studios here, or have shares in the factories. The island is another place of secrets—the artisans who work here are forbidden to share the details of their craft. The windows are frosted and no one can see out—or in. Perfect for our purpose tonight. So why do I glance over my shoulder, my nerves throbbing?

I climb up some steps and the woman slips her oars into the boat as it moves silently beneath the boardwalk. “I’ll be back,” I whisper.

Turning my back on the small pier, I step into the nearest glassworks. This one is owned by Julius, the husband of Grazia, but he has no idea of my assignation. As planned, someone has left the door unlocked for me. My feet crunch loudly on grit as I walk past the workbenches. A fine layer of glass dust covers everything in sight, and I dare not touch a thing, for fear of leaving clues. On a pedestal in the middle of the room is an unfinished urn. Half of a galloping horse is sketched into the side of the glass; the front legs are still to be completed. Beside it are a small copper drill, a bottle of linseed oil and another bottle of emery. The oil glints in the moonlight.

A sudden noise from a corner of the studio makes me scramble back behind a store cupboard, but then I hear the flap of wings and spot a pigeon resting in the eaves.

My thudding heart slows. Calm down, I tell myself. I’ve run secret errands before; I can do this. I find a low wooden stool and gather up my skirts to sit and wait. I rest my elbows on my knees and perch my chin on my fists, watching the doorway leading to the pier. When our contact arrives, I’ll see her in an instant. My body shivers with anticipation. I feel honored that the Segreta have chosen me for this task, but now I’m impatient to find out what the latest secret is. Who will this person be?



There is no way of telling the time here, but I know it’s been hours.

My back aches and my legs have turned numb. I get to my feet and stretch my arms over my head, bringing the blood back into my limbs. Grazia didn’t tell me how long I’d have to wait, but this feels too long.

After at least another half hour has passed, I begin to walk back towards my waiting boat. But as I pass beneath the roof of the studio, I hear another noise—no bird this time, of that I am sure. It’s the ragged intake of a human breath.

“Who’s there?” I call out. I try to keep the nerves out of my voice, but I can hear how startled I sound. There’s another muffled noise—something scraping across the floor—and then a darting shadow. A woman! Her silhouette races ahead of me, and, lifting my skirts, I break out into a run. The shadow swirls round and hands slam into my chest so hard that I stagger and lose my footing, falling to the ground. I leap up immediately, but the woman is already running away from me. Not towards the pier, but towards a hidden door that I now spot behind shelves stacked with plates and vases. There’s the sound of a key turning, and the woman is gone.

“Come back!” I cry. “I’m here to help!”

I follow her out of the doorway, into an open courtyard at the rear of the glass factory. Her footsteps echo on the cobblestones as she races away beneath an arch set in a low wall. I run after her, my skirts gathered in my fists. It’s so dark I can hardly see what lies before me and can only hope that there are no loose cobblestones waiting to twist an ankle.

As I emerge from the arch, I see dozens of shelves stacked with crates and glass products. From between two of the shelves a pair of bright eyes watches. “I’m a friend,” I say, stepping towards her. She jerks away, and at once the shelf begins to lean towards me. I leap backwards as the whole tower topples with an almighty crash inches from my feet. The sound of breaking glass fills my ears.

Breathing fast with panic, I pick my way around the debris, looking for the girl, wary of any further dangers. She’s nowhere to be found, and after a few more minutes I have to admit defeat.

The woman has escaped.

Pushing hair out of my face, I stumble past the glass factory and to the pier. I’ve failed. Whatever Allegreza sent me here to discover, it remains a secret.

I dust down my skirts, and as I climb into the boat, the woman raises her eyebrows.

“You were a long time,” she says. “What was that noise?”

I shake my head and settle on the bench. “Let’s go,” I tell her.





7





When I return to the ball, things are very different. The glamor of a few hours ago has burned itself out. Now, empty food platters are cast aside, flagons drained of wine. The few dancers that are left lean into each other heavily, heads resting on shoulders, eyelids drooping. I wander out to the white marble balcony with its fluted columns. Beyond the balustrade, the landscape of Venice stretches across an imaginary canvas. An orange tree in flower sends out its scent from a pot beside a bench, on which my brother sits with his wife.

“Laura,” he says, smiling lazily. Emilia leans into his side, a hand resting beneath her chin as she sleeps. Her curls have loosened, and the ribbons in her hair are strewn around her neck.

“She looks worn out,” I say.

“Roberto was here earlier, looking for you,” Lysander says, stroking a hand across his wife’s cheek. She moves slightly in her sleep and then resettles. “Where have you been?”

I shrug and gaze out over Venice. Dawn mist curls off the canals. “I needed some fresh air,” I say. “The streets are always interesting at this time.”

“I bet they are,” Lysander says, “but I’m not sure they’re the right place for an unaccompanied young lady.”

“Shush,” I tell him. “You never used to care when we played hide-and-seek in the mariners’ quarter as children.”

He grins, a little sadly, and I know he too is remembering Beatrice. She used to act the damsel in distress and Lysander and I the brave soldiers come to rescue her.

“Listen,” says my brother, interrupting my thoughts. “Roberto had to leave.” His brow creases in a frown. “He seemed a little … worse for wear?”

“You mean drunk?”

“Your words, Laura. Not mine.”

I laugh. “Well, it’s not like Roberto to go finding himself at the bottom of a glass. But with all of the wine on offer here tonight, I’m not surprised that people are woozy.”

“He was woozy, all right,” Lysander comments. He glances down at Emilia and kisses the top of her head. “Come, my darling. It is time to get you home.”

Emilia lets out a low murmur and smiles at some hidden detail of her dream.

“Come on.” Lysander slips an arm around her waist, another beneath her thighs and in a single movement lifts her. I watch as the gray silk of her gown’s hem whispers against the stone tiles.

“Are you coming with us?” Lysander asks.

“Perhaps I’ll surprise someone instead.”

My brother shakes his head in mock disapproval. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell Father—or Faustina.” He shifts Emilia’s sleeping body in his arms. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

I wave him off as he carries his wife down the steps towards a coach. But as I watch him leave, I can’t ignore the pricks of worry at the back of my neck. I’ve never seen Roberto drunk in all the months we’ve known each other.


It’s not hard to find a coach to take me to Roberto’s. They line up outside the palace, waiting to transport tired guests to their beds. I whisper the destination—a simple pension in the artisan quarter that Roberto keeps in secret, even though he could live in the luxury of his father’s palace. When we pull up outside, I slip out of the coach, its suspension creaking, and hand over a few coins to the driver.

“Would you like me to wait?” he asks. “I can be very discreet.”

I draw my cloak more tightly around my body. “No, thank you. That will be all,” I say coldly, although I can hardly blame him. Trysts between unmarried couples probably account for half his fares at this time of night. Faustina would have a heart attack if she knew where I was.

I turn to the wooden door that leads to Roberto’s rooms and straightaway I hear the sound of violent curses carrying down the stairs. The door, I see, is open a fraction. I step inside.

“Roberto?” I call up.

“Who’s there?” demands my betrothed. His tone of voice is startled and hostile.

“It’s me,” I answer stiffly.

“Don’t come in!” Roberto shouts down.

Something uncontrollable takes over. I run up the stairs.

“I will not be left to stand in the street,” I say, my voice full of anger. Roberto rushes to position himself at the top of the stairs, his feet braced, but I dart past him and stumble into near darkness.

An image flashes before my eyes: a woman’s body. I glance at Roberto, and his face is creased with anguish.

I look once more at the body on the floor. Her skin carries the faint blue stain of death. It is a color I know far too well—I saw it first on my sister Beatrice’s face as she lay in her coffin. But this woman doesn’t lie with her hands folded on her chest, her body cushioned by satin. Her dark limbs are flung out at awkward angles. Her face presses into the wooden floorboards. A trail of blood trickles from a corner of her mouth, and a larger wound blossoms across her corset. Her eyes look up at me, wide and accusing.

A scream worms up my throat, and I clamp my hands over my mouth as I look from the woman to Roberto.

In the gloom I see that he clutches a sword. It hangs from his fist, dripping blood onto the floor. He looks like a butcher. His shirt is torn open, and poppies of blood stain the white cotton. Red is splattered across his hose.

I find the strength to speak, backing towards the door again. “What have you done?” I whisper.

Roberto shakes his head over and over. He never stops shaking his head. His face is pale, and his hands tremble.

“I don’t know,” he whimpers. He takes a step towards me, and I find myself moving away. “I didn’t do anything!” he cries.

A whistle pierces the air, cutting off his words; then someone shouts, “It’s this one!” The sound of heavy-booted feet comes from the street outside. Roberto and I stare into each other’s faces, unable to move or speak. One thought flashes through my head: it was all too good to be true. My happiness is over.

Roberto runs over to me, grips my arms so hard that it hurts. “Go, quickly! If you’re found here …” He throws an anguished glance at the body on the floor. He need say no more. He hustles me over to a window at the back of the room. It is barely wider than my skirts, but I find myself climbing onto a chair and forcing my body through the tiny opening.

There’s an angry shout from the stairs, and I let go, dropping to the street a few feet below. A low bush of bougainvillea breaks my fall, and I roll off it, cowering on the cobbles beneath the window. The last thing I see is Roberto’s terrified face at the window.

“Murderer!” cries a voice, thick with disgust. Then Roberto’s eyes widen as an arm comes around his throat and drags him away. I rock my body, shoving a fist into my mouth, forcing myself not to cry out. Squatting on the ground, among the scented petals, I stare at the moon high in the sky above Venice. My whole body shakes as I listen to the sounds of angry voices, until a door is slammed, and everything turns to quiet once more. In the far distance, a lute is being played by a lone musician in the night. But I don’t follow the tune. Instead, I listen to the sound of my own heart breaking.