Heart of Glass

9





I wander through the streets, barely hearing the conversation that passes among the stallholders. A woman selling lace sets out her skeins of ivories and creams, while a man carrying a wicker basket of fresh sardines teases her.

“That would make a nice hem for a wedding dress,” he comments, pointing at a roll of lace. He gives her a fat wink. The woman throws me a smile, rolling her eyes, but I duck my head and hurry past. It galls me that they should talk of weddings, when the prospect of mine has vanished in an instant.

Arriving home, I hear the sound of raucous singing mixed in with the dawn chorus of the birds. Are people still up? I feel a jolt of alarm, but then realize that Father won’t question where I’ve been. He’ll be too drunk.

I find them in the dining room. Father has dragged Lysander in here to carry on where the ball left off. The two of them crouch around a bottle of port and two small glasses on a silver tray. Father’s singing an old naval song, as though remembering the ribald youth at sea that he never actually experienced. He throws his head back, his arms spread wide as he uses language that a daughter should never hear.

I stand in the doorway and wait. On the last verse, he notices me. “The lady of the household joins us,” he says. “Where the devil have you been?”

“Laura!” Lysander cries out. “Leave her be, Father. She’s young and in love.” He smiles knowingly, though what he imagines the past few hours have brought my way could not be further from the truth. He waves me into the room.

It’s clear my brother has been drinking too. Well, at least he and Father are no longer quarreling.

“Where’s Emilia?” I ask as I settle into a chair opposite them.

“Gone to sea!” Father shouts, then laughs uproariously at his own joke. Lysander and I share a glance.

“Which is more than we can say for you,” I reply. I mustn’t let either of them know what I have seen tonight. I must smile and pretend.

Father’s laughter dries up. “I beg your pardon? I am a member of the Grand Council. I’ll ask you not to forget that.”

“Yes, but you’ve never climbed a rope in your life,” Lysander teases, miming a sailor’s shimmying hands behind Father’s back. “You get seasick in a gondola.”

Father looks over his shoulder, and Lysander quickly drops his hands, painting an innocent expression on his face.

“You two!” calls a gentle voice from the hallway. “Stop teasing an old man.”

Emilia steps into the room. She must have fallen asleep in her gown. The silk is crumpled, and there are other creases in her cheek from where it’s been pressed against a pillow. No matter—she still looks beautiful.

“My darling,” Lysander calls with an exaggerated flourish of the hand. “Come to me!”

Emilia ignores him and pads over to plant a kiss on my temple.

“Old man!” Father protests. “I’m not old!”

Emilia must have noticed the look on my face, because her brow furrows with concern. “What is it, sister?”

I feel privileged that Emilia already feels close enough to address me so. The strain of the past night weighs down on me and suddenly I feel my whole body shaking.

Emilia draws me to her. “Shush now, shush …”

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Lysander reaches across the table to take my hand. Father pours himself another drink.

“It’s nothing. Too much excitement.” I wave a dismissive hand through the air. “I’m tired, that’s all.” I wipe my eyes with the hem of my sleeve.

There’s a loud tutting noise, and Faustina hurries into the dining room, mopping spilt port from the table. “You should all get yourselves to bed,” she chides. “The servants will be up and at their duties soon. Do you want them to see you like this?” She throws me a pointed glance as if to say, What ails you, child? But I cannot answer any more questions and, weak as a lamb, I allow Emilia to lead me up the steps to my room, careful to keep Allegreza’s shawl wrapped tightly round my shoulders, its length covering the stains on my dress. I will have to hide it and dispose of it when I can.




Lost in a deep slumber, I find myself dreaming of Carina. I’m kneeling beside the water’s edge, gazing down at my reflection as it bobs and shifts with gentle waves. I can’t seem to look away, no matter how hard I try. Then the water parts and a hand thrusts up towards me, fingers clawing the air.

“Get away!” I try to yell, but my mouth won’t work. Then the hand’s around my throat, grasping my collar, trying to drag me down into the water. I struggle and fight back, but my body tips over, over.… With a rushed intake of breath I sit up in the bed, pushing the sheets back and scrambling up against the pillows. I gaze around me, failing to recognize my room until sense settles and I understand that it’s all been a bad dream. My nightdress is damp with sweat.

“Just a dream,” I tell myself. “Only a dream.”

I wait for my breathing to calm down; then I ease myself out of bed. I hear voices from the courtyard and quickly dress. I’ve slept late. Then the reality of the previous night hits me like a blow to the stomach. Roberto. The dead girl. It cannot be as it seems.

I wander outside and find our young maidservant Bianca is on the steps, weaving straw into hanging decorations for the garden. Lysander is sitting with Father. They’re both pale, and Lysander’s hair is not as neatly combed as usual. “Drink this,” he says to our father, pressing a tumbler into his hand.

“What is it?” I ask, drawing near.

Lysander smiles up at me. “Good morning, sister!”

“Don’t be so cheerful,” Father grumbles, “it hurts my ears.” He downs the concoction, and grimaces.

“It’s a mixture of milk, honey and lavender,” Lysander explains, crushing more lavender between the palms of his hands for a second drink. “It can soothe the soul of the devil himself.” Father is too busy rubbing his temples to pick up on the joke.

A messenger boy rushes into the courtyard, shielding his eyes against the sunshine. He clearly doesn’t see us grouped beneath the olive tree, for he goes to where Bianca sits on the steps. She puts aside her work and smiles up at him.

“Have you heard?” he asks. Immediately my senses jolt awake and I listen intently. Lysander has fallen silent also.

“What, you silly boy?” Bianca asks. She doesn’t even think to warn him that members of the household are close by.

“Murder!” he says.

I squeeze my eyes shut tight and put a hand to my waist. I can hardly bear to hear what comes next. “A woman’s been killed in Venice. They say it was … it was … Roberto, the Doge’s son!”

Now Bianca is on her feet, roughly pushing him out of the gate. “Shut up!” she hisses.

“What?” he says. “What is it?”

Father leaps to his feet and grabs a pottery tumbler, throwing it after the boy, who ducks just in time. “Get out of our house with your vile words!” he calls after him. Bianca watches us, tears brimming at her eyes. Servant girls who lose their jobs can starve on the streets of this city.

“And you, Bianca,” Father says stiffly. “Never speak to that boy again.”

“I’m so sorry,” she gabbles. “I’ve no idea what he’s talking about.” She disappears into the gloom of the house, her sobs carrying on the air back to us.

I sink onto the bench that circles the olive tree. So, word is out. But not just any words—evil, twisted stories. I feel the eyes of my brother and father on my face, but I cannot erase the worry that I know must crease my brow.

“It’s all lies,” Father says. “Isn’t it, Laura?”

“Laura?” Lysander asks quietly.

“Of course it is! Roberto could never harm anyone.”

“Rumors always dog Venice,” Father blusters. “Half of them are nonsense.”

My brother sinks to his knees before me and takes my hands. “I don’t mean what that boy just repeated. But Roberto and this dead woman—do you know anything? Last night, you …”

I pull my hands free. “You cannot ask these things,” I whisper.

Father shakes his head in disgust, and turns away. “I cannot afford my family’s reputation to be tainted in this way. Association with a murderer!”

“I’m going to get that boy back here,” Lysander announces, running into the house. “Find out the truth!”

I follow him into the shade, and watch from the main doorway as Lysander races down the drive after the boy. He takes him by the shoulder, and drags him back to stand before me. The boy stares hard at his feet.

“What did you hear?” Lysander asks. “Tell us.”

The boy shakes his head, but Lysander gives his ear a sharp slap.

“Tell us!”

The boy’s started crying, but he tells us his story. As he talks, there is a movement beside me, and a cool hand slips into mine. It’s Emilia. I give her a grateful smile as she places an arm around my shoulders. Together with Lysander, we listen. The boy tells us of the whispers about Roberto’s bloodstained hands, the corpse on his floor, the running feet of the guards and the shouts of horror that emerged from Roberto’s open doorway. Thankfully, there is no detail of a woman escaping from a first-floor window.

As the boy’s words falter to an end, I lean heavily against the doorway. Lysander’s face is serious and even Emilia looks worried. From inside the house, we can hear Father shouting.

Lysander slips a few coins to the boy and sends him on his way.

“He’s just a child,” Emilia says. “He’s probably made the whole thing up.” She tries to make her voice bright, but she doesn’t fool me.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

My brother is shaking his head. “No, it’s impossible. He knows too many details for something he’s made up.”

Father has arrived to stand behind us. “Is my family ruined again?” he asks plaintively.

Lysander shrugs and attempts a smile. “If Roberto is innocent, I’m sure there’ll be an explanation.…”

“But until then, you’ll continue to believe the worst?” I say. “Is that it?”

My brother reaches for my arm, but I pull back and walk on my own into the house.