DELUGE (13 page)

“The doge is far too interested in us,” Dad said to him. “After these other Betarrinis have been here and told him who-knows-what, I cannot help but imagine he suspects we might be similarly…strange.”

“You are strange, of sorts,” Marcello said, his irritation receding, his familiar smile teasing the corners of his mouth and eyes. He grabbed my hand as I passed and pulled it to his lips as he looked up at me. “But ’tis not beyond the law to be unusual.”

“’Tis part of the family’s appeal,” Luca said, joining in.

“Enough,” I growled, pulling my hand from Marcello’s and folding my arms. “You are well aware of what unnerves us.”

“And so we shall navigate these waters, try to rescue these strange kin of yours—should they
truly
be kin—and be on our way home to Siena,” Marcello said. “We have little choice other than to make our way through it.”

Dad met my gaze.
The only way through is through
, we mouthed together, and shared a rueful smile.

“Sometimes,” I said with a groan, “I’d really like to find a nice side alley to get around that whole straight-through concept. Usually getting
through
means we end up fighting for our lives at some point.”

“Usually,” Luca said. “But that also seems to bring out the best of the famous She-Wolves and their parents, does it not?”

“We will fight,” Dad said. “But we will use our heads first, and our weapons second.”

By evening, Luca was griping at his men over tiny infractions, so unnerved was he that Lia hadn’t been returned to us. The crowds were gathering out in the piazza, getting ready for entertainment the doge had arranged, and I had a sneaking suspicion we were going to be some part of it. We had met him, briefly, that afternoon, and asked about Lia, to which he’d said vaguely, “I believe she is attending my wife.”

Caterina gave her head a little shake when I tried to ask if I might join her. Apparently, that would’ve made him mad or something.

“She is fine in the company of the dogaressa,” she said. “There is nowhere safer in the city,” she added for Luca’s sake.

In our rooms, she urged us to don our finest. We’d be presented to many of the nobles that evening, and after dining with them, we’d go outside to the piazza to join the festivities there. Reportedly, there were fireworks planned, which got Mom and Dad all excited, since they thought only the Chinese had fireworks in this era. But then they grew concerned, as the plague apparently began in China…which led them to confer about dates and what they remembered. Truthfully, neither of them remembered exact dates. Only vague information. And when I’d been home briefly, all I’d found out was that the plague hit Italy in 1348. We didn’t know if that was January or December of that year. All we knew was that 1348 was the year we’d have to pretty much go underground. Bar the gates of the castello and not go out. And that was just two years away.

But we’d seen a “pre-strain” already, when Luca and the others got sick a couple years ago. Were we fooling ourselves that we were safe until the Big Year? Maybe Mom and Dad were right—that if there were Chinese pyro-techs about, the plague might already be present in some fashion. I rubbed my belly, suddenly anxious.

Marcello was there, and wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me close. “Are you well, wife?”

“Well enough. Only worried. I wish they’d let Lia return to us.”

“He toys with us,” Marcello said. “Pushes us. Don’t let him…how do you say it?”

“Get under our skin.”

He shivered, and I smiled, remembering how he thought the phrase was creepy. But he was right. This doge was clever, and he’d likely play every card he had in order to try and corner us, wriggling out any information he could. Because knowledge was power, in this age as in any age. And he clearly wanted to know what we knew about these new Betarrinis…

“Do you think there’s any way we can talk to these ‘Betarrinis’ without someone from the court hearing us?” I asked him.

He hesitated, then his broad fingers slowly rubbed a circle at my lower back. “It is unlikely. Given how this is unfolding, I suspect the doge himself will be there.”

“Can you not request it?” I asked, looking up at him. “As a favor to one of the Nine?”

“Mayhap,” he said. “If I am given the opportunity this night, I shall ask it of him. But, Gabriella, even that might not be the best. He will assume we have something to hide, or that we know these men. It well may be best to proceed as if we have nothing to hide, and together, negotiate how we respond.”

There was a knock at the door, and Marcello and I parted. “Enter,” he said. Four servants did so, carrying trunks in their arms.

When they’d set them down, the man in front said with a grand wave to the trunks. “A gift from the doge and dogaressa. Their highnesses thought you might care to don something special for tonight’s festivities. These are for you, Lord and Lady Forelli, and Lord and Lady Betarrini.”

“Thank you,” Marcello murmured.

The man gave a curt nod and then turned on his heel and exited. Once the door was closed, I scurried over to the first trunk and opened it. Inside was a fine tapestry-like tunic of ivory silk, with a mass of gold thread at the shoulder, and the Forelli coat of arms embroidered across the chest. Beneath it was the softest shirt and leggings I’d ever felt in this era, and gorgeous, soft-leather boots. I held them up, and knew they had to be Marcello’s size. “He…He didn’t just order these today,” I said.

“Nay,” Marcello said, taking the boot from me and then the tunic. “He’s been anticipating our arrival for some time.”

“Anticipating it enough to know our sizes?” I asked. A shiver ran down my back. Could the doge’s reach extend all the way down to Toscana? How could he have learned such things?

Tentatively, I moved to the next trunk and opened it. I sucked in my breath, grabbed hold of the gown, and slowly pulled it out. It was magnificent. Almost a bridal gown, in a fine ivory silk with a broad scoop neck, long, tight sleeves and a princess waist. I was relieved to see that—it was a good cut for a girl with a round belly. Down the arms and skirt was a solid ribbon of gold, embroidered with tiny pearls. I reached down and took hold of the slippers and matching head-piece at the bottom of the trunk. Again, the shoes appeared to be a perfect fit.
Creepy…definitely creepy.

But I couldn’t deny that I was excited to put on the new gown.

Two hours later, we were all in our new clothes and led downstairs. But instead of progressing immediately to a great hall of some sort, we were taken outside, to the piazza, where masses of people gathered on all four sides of the rectangular public square, and filled the
piazetta
—the small square that jutted off to the side, giving the entire public space an L-shape—along the doge’s palace, as well.

There were torches dancing on all the buildings that lined the piazza, and six bonfires in stone pits down the center. The flickering light cast ghoulish shadows across the ancient basilica, which always reminded me of a building that belonged in Istanbul more than Venice—with all its gold, mosaic tile and massive domes and arches and towers. I thought I remembered Dad actually saying it was designed after a church in Constantinople….

Noble after noble in front of us was announced by a man in ducal garb, shouted in a high, reedy voice, to which the people responded with applause, cheers, or sometimes jeers. But my eyes were constantly roving, looking for Lia. We’d been reassured repeatedly that she was with the dogaressa, she was fine, and we had edged into territory that might possibly offend our host by continually asking about her…but now, here, we assumed we’d be reunited. As agitated as I was, Luca was a mess. He was flushed and sweating, even in the chilly November air, so damp that it seemed to seep into my very bones. I thought it folly, the ladies’ fashionable gowns with their low- and wide-cut bodices, exposing so much skin, while the men wore shirts and tunics and coats buttoned high up their necks. I pulled my fur stole closer around my shoulders and took a step closer to Marcello, hoping to steal a little of his warmth.

We were next. The name-shouting dude lifted the card Marcello handed him up to the light, paused a moment, his eyes widening and then flicking over us again. He seemed to stand a bit straighter. “The Lord and Lady Marcello Forelli de Siena!”

The crowd seemed to take a collective breath, and chattering stopped. Marcello urged me forward and we descended the steps and entered the piazza, parading the full perimeter like we were exotic animals as people whispered behind their hands. I thought it ridiculous, and fought back the urge more than once to just take Marcello’s hand and haul him into the crowds. I’d much rather walk the quiet streets of Venezia, leaving this silliness behind us. But one thing kept me here; we had to find Lia. She wasn’t with the doge, but then, neither was the dogaressa, that we could see.

“Marcello,” I said, under my breath.

“She’s here, somewhere,” my husband returned. “You must wait, Gabriella. The doge has something up his sleeve, as you say. We simply must wait for him to reveal it.”

“If he doesn’t do it soon, I believe I shall retrieve my sword and begin tearing through the Palazzo Ducale—and anyone who stands in my way—until I find her.”

“That,” he said, casting me a loving look, “would not go over well. And you want to meet these mysterious kin, do you not?”

“I do.”

“Then play his game.”

“How do we play a game when we are not aware of the rules?”

“We discern the rules as we play it.”

I stifled a sigh and forced a smile as a lady beside us curtsied and the man next to her bowed. We could hear the twittering as we passed, the crazy whispers of our prowess in battle, the rumors that I was with child, the thought that I was liable to give birth to a werewolf, half man-child, half-wolf. Some wondered over my beauty, seeming surprised that the rumors were true. Others thought I looked more like a man than a woman, given my great height.

It wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard before. I was used to it, in cities, in villages, where dramatic stories were the centerpiece of every evening’s public gathering and much of the gossip shared through the day. And I hadn’t exactly lived a quiet, casual life here in Italia, so this was the logical outcome. I had what I needed at Castello Forelli—all the people I loved best, who truly knew and loved me in return. But some of it still stung a little, as much as other portions made me smile.

People would talk; there was no controlling them. All I could control were my own actions. We came to a stop beside other nobles when we reached the base of the watch tower outside the Palazzo Ducale. Eventually, it would become the brick
campanile
, or bell tower, that was part of the famous Venetian skyline, but now it was a bit shorter, with a wooden spire on top, apparently used to keep tabs on the flow of traffic in the lagoon—sort of like a medieval aircraft control tower. But, you know, for boats.

I looked up with the others, and around to the front of San Marco, the old basilica, with her war-plundered bronze horses at the top center. What was the fuss all about? What were they expecting? Everyone was staring upward, toward the tower, as if anticipating something to emerge there. Was that where they were going to set off the fireworks?

Mom and Dad arrived behind us. “Where is she?” I whispered, knowing they’d be as anxious as we were.

Luca arrived then, too, not part of the announced gentry, given that he had no land of his own. He ran a hand through his hair.

“The dogaressa has been announced. But I cannot find Lia. Where could she be?”

A trumpet sounded above us, and the rest of the crowd looked upward. I didn’t like the idea of that trumpeter being so close to the fireworks, but just then I saw a figure in white climb to the railing. With wings. She had huge wings on her back. Two men behind her attached a belt around her to a rope above. My eyes narrowed as I focused on the swooping rope, coming down at a wide angle across the piazza, down to where it was anchored at the center.
It’s some sort of crazy-town zipline.
Then I looked back up the figure, who was taking a bow in hand and nocking an arrow.

“What are they doing?” Dad murmured. “The Flight of the Angel?”

“Flight of the what?” I asked.

“But it’s not Carnivale,” Mom protested, gazing upward, too distracted to answer my question. That, I knew, was the city-wide festival here every year…at some point in time.

“It doesn’t take a feast for the doge to put on a spectacle,” Dad said.

The figure shifted, and a man with a torch approached her, setting the tip of her arrow on fire, illuminating her face, the hint of golden hair.

“Oh, no, no, no,” I said under my breath.

Because the figure above us—so terrifyingly high above us—was my sister.

CHAPTER TWELVE

~EVANGELIA~

The dogaressa gave me no option once she’d come up with the idea. I was taken directly to her dressmaker in the city for a fitting, then returned for a bath, and then hair and makeup so overdone that I looked like a freakish doll.

It didn’t matter to her that the Flight of the Angel usually only occurred during Carnivale; it was going to make this party tonight something that people would talk about for years. And given her court—all the ladies parading about with pet monkeys, squirrels and parrots on their shoulders—it didn’t take long to figure out this girl was all about the drama. If I wanted her on our side, and if I wanted the doge to introduce us to the mysterious Betarrinis, I had to do this for them. They didn’t say it, exactly. But they didn’t have to. There really was never a choice.

I looked to the target on the far side of the piazza again. I was to send my flaming arrow flying directly into its center, which would ignite the fireworks. I thought it extremely foolish; if I missed, I could set the building on fire. And in medieval times, a fire in one building surely meant that at least a whole city block could be toppled, if not the whole city. But even this protest fell upon deaf ears.