Heart of Glass (11 page)

I stand outside the dining room, framed by the doorway. A cloud of warm air, heaving with the scent of wine, billows towards me. Things have evidently moved on in my absence. The men no longer politely take a couch each; now they encourage girls to sit beside them or they talk in groups, laughing raucously. I wonder how the Doge and his Council can have such scant regard for their daughters—they must truly want to impress their guests. But then, I suppose this is all part of the game of diplomacy. Cheeks are flushed red and eyes are alight with pleasure. One of the men standing near me has dark circles of sweat beneath the arms of his toga. It’s Massimo, Admiral of the Fleet. Over the course of his lifetime he has risen through the ranks.

I step into the room, still smiling. I can’t stop thinking of Roberto. I pass from group to group as fingers pick at the still-warm biscuits I carry. I hide a smile when one of the Venetian delegation rolls his eyes in disgust; the Turkish man he’s talking to ignores the fork with its crystal handle,
instead reaching for the platters of cold meats and eating with his right hand. This is all a long way from the usual delicate courtesies of a Venetian meal.

“Is that quite necessary?” the Florentine mutters quietly—but not quietly enough.

Prince Halim moves across the room and takes his own slice of cured ham. I watch, mesmerized, as he rolls the meat neatly between two fingers and presses it against a slice of fig. He offers the delicacy to me but I shake my head, so he shrugs and eats it himself. His eyes stay fixed upon the Florentine’s face.

“Who needs knives and forks!” Nicolo says. The Doge’s second son has always had an easy charm, and his arrival punctures the tension. He reaches for a piece of fried squid dripping with basil dressing. With a flourish, he drops it into his mouth. The room rings with relieved laughter, and the man from Florence, who looked appalled a moment ago, smiles awkwardly.

Prince Halim turns to gaze at the Doge, who is still sitting on his own couch. “Where is your other son? Roberto, isn’t it?”

The laughter dries up. Halim looks around the room, from one face to another. Nicolo is staring hard at the floor.

“Have I said something wrong?” Halim asks quietly.

The Doge gets to his feet. “You must excuse me,” he says. His politician’s smile has faltered and, for just a moment, we see the man as he truly is—old and ill. He walks from the room, leaning heavily on a servant’s arm, refusing to look into anyone’s face. As he passes me I swear I see his lip tremble.

The doors creak shut behind his back, and noise instantly returns—sounds rolling around the room like ocean water against rock. The wine flows once more, and the guests reach for the platters of delicacies. To a newcomer, it might seem that everything is normal. But as I go about my duties with the other girls, I’m surrounded by whispers of my beloved’s name. They are all talking about the rumors that fill Venice—that Roberto is a murderer. He’s not here to defend himself, and I cannot be seen to react. If I scramble to protect his reputation, I know what these people will think: she protests too much.

“Can I tempt you with something?” I mutter, lowering my platter to a man sitting on a long couch. When our eyes meet, I see it is Massimo. He smiles, taking a pastry from me and popping it in his mouth. He chews with his lips open and swallows noisily. I start to move to another part of the room, when his hand darts out and gently restrains me.

I look into his face, surprised. “Yes?”

“I have an invitation for you,” he says, wiping his hands on a napkin.

I feel my brow crease in a frown. “I don’t understand.…”

He waves a hand in the air to silence me and gets to his feet. He walks to a corner of the room and I understand that I’m expected to follow. Putting my platter down, I go to join him.

“Well?” I ask as he turns to face me.

“Prince Halim has asked to be chaperoned around the city. He requested you especially.” On the last word he raises his eyebrows.

I feel blood rush to my cheeks. “I’m not sure that my father would—”

“Your father and I have already cleared it with the Doge and guards will be on hand to protect you at all times. You see? There really is no reason in the world to say no. You’ll meet him at the harbor tomorrow morning?”

I find myself nodding my acquiescence. “But …”

“Good. That’s settled, then.” Massimo walks away from me and is soon laughing with a group of men. My father knew of this? Why in God’s name would he say yes? There must be hundreds of people better suited to act as tour guide. Even now, after months out of the convent, I feel I barely know this city.

Once again, I feel the cogs turning, and I am powerless to stop them. I could refuse, I suppose, but sometimes it’s easier to swim with the current than fight against it. Roberto is released tomorrow, and I shall see him soon after. Nothing can ruin that.

And besides, one question burns in my head as Halim flicks a glance towards me, raising his glass.

Why has he chosen me?

15

At breakfast the next morning, I can barely eat. Not only because of my excitement at Roberto’s release, but because Faustina is making so much fuss that it’s impossible to even pour coffee without her bustling over to take the silver pot from my hands. Scalding liquid splatters on the linen tablecloth, and I sink back in my seat, defeated.

“Oh, now look!” Faustina cries, as though this was anyone’s fault other than her own. She wags a finger in my face. “You’ll have to be less clumsy when you show the prince around Venice. Not that I approve in the first place. Really, can’t you find an excuse to get out of it? He’s so”—she waves a hand before her own chin—“hairy!”

Emilia bursts out laughing across the table. She’s getting used to our servant’s ways. “Oh, Faustina, only you could say something like that. He’s a prince! He asked for Laura especially! You should be glowing with pride.” She gives Faustina a sly look. “Think how jealous the other servants in the city will be.”

Faustina’s shoulders straighten. “Maybe you’re right.
But you, young woman!” She’s staring hard at me again. “I said a prayer for your honor and chastity last night. I just hope my prayers are heard.” She waddles out of the room.

“She seems to have forgotten I’m engaged,” I say.

“She means no harm,” Emilia says. “She clearly loves you very much.”

“And I love her,” I tell my new sister.

A short while later, I’m making my way to the front door. Father emerges from his study, clutching a book. He follows me out onto the steps and pats me on the head like a small dog. My spirits are so high today, it doesn’t even annoy me.

“Really, I think he’s been most impudent, demanding your time like this,” he grumbles. He’s maintaining the illusion of the grudging father with some aplomb, I must say.

“There’s nothing worse than impudence from someone so very highborn,” I reply. As suspected, the reminder of Halim’s royal blood makes my father puff out his chest. He kisses me lightly on the cheek.

“Try to be charming,” he tells me, before disappearing into the gloom of the interior. I climb inside the coach and rap my knuckles on the roof.

“To the port!” I call.

I’m so full of thoughts about how to compose myself that the journey passes quickly. Halim is already waiting for me when I arrive. He wears Venetian fashions today: a tight-fitting doublet in black, with black boots and a black leather belt. Despite the dozen or so Ottoman guards posted around him, he is the one to step forward and help me down as I climb out of the carriage. His fingers press lightly around mine.

“A beautiful sight,” he murmurs, and my glance flickers up to his face. Then he spreads his arm out to take in the city. “Don’t you agree?”

“The most beautiful city in the world,” I tell him. “I only hope to do it justice.”

He bows his head in acknowledgment. “With you as my guide, I know I will learn to love this place even more. Shall we?”

He leads me towards a waiting gondola. I see my face in the varnished wood and I am smiling. It’s partly his outfit—there’s something funny about a prince dressing down—but I realize too how light my heart feels.

Halim steps into the vessel and holds out his hand to help me down. I give him my arm and scoop my skirts up in my hands, but as I step into the gondola the heel of my shoe catches and I stumble into him, knocking us both onto the velvet cushioned seat at the rear. My chest bumps against his and our faces are suddenly so close that I can feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek. I push my hands against his body to lever myself up.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what—”

“Please don’t apologize,” he tells me. I smooth down my skirts and settle on the rear bench of the vessel. The guards have climbed into their own crafts. Our gondolier gazes over our heads, pretending not to notice what just happened. Halim calls to him, “You may proceed!”

The man uses his long paddle to push us off from the jetty. The gondola begins to sway lazily through the water. I gaze out at the sides of the buildings and wait for my heartbeat to slow. What a strange sight we must make—
the prince and his fleet of ships pushing into the center of the city.

Soon, we are moving between houses that rear up on either side of the water. People lean out, their elbows resting on sills. I try not to feel awkward beneath their gaze. Halim’s tour has already been publicized through the gossip channels of the city.

“Throw us a kiss, young prince!” a young woman calls from a doorway, and Halim enthusiastically responds, kissing his palm and throwing his hand out towards her. The woman mimes catching the kiss and draws her hand to her lips. Halim roars with laughter, but when he turns to look at me the smile fades.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I don’t mean to embarrass you. Come. Tell me something of this city of yours.”

As I point out landmarks, I begin to forget all the people watching me with this foreign prince.

“That is one of the oldest squares in Venice,” I say as we pass a small square off to our left. “It’s easy for people to miss. It’s said that is where the Lords of the Night would gather before doing their rounds.”

“The Lords of the Night?”

“Those who police the streets.”

“Ah! It sounds so romantic.”

I try to find something else to tell him. “Here is the church of St. Mary of the Visitation. It once hid an assassin.”

Halim raises his eyebrows. “Don’t you Venetians call the church
La Pietà
?”

“You know more than I realized,” I say. “Perhaps you should be guiding me!”

Halim smiles and holds his open palm out to me. I hesitate, then place my hand in his. Within moments, his lips brush the skin of my wrist. I shudder and pull my hand away, hiding it in my pocket. “You shouldn’t.”

His eyes have not left my face. “I’ve offended you?” he says, looking suddenly crestfallen.

“No,” I reply. “It’s just that if people were to see …”

He breaks our gaze and looks out at the merchants’ mansions we are passing. “It’s said you can judge a city’s character by the morals of its women. Would you agree?”

It could be a reference to the Segreta, but it’s not, of course. From the smile that plays around his lips, I can see he’s not serious.

“If that’s the case, I hope you’ll find Venice to be everything it should be—beautiful, classic and luminous. Just like its women.”

Halim laughs loudly and a lemon-seller on the dock looks round, startled.

“I knew you’d be good company,” he says, slapping his leg.

The gondolier is grinning too, but wipes the look off his face when he sees I’m watching him. Nothing spoken in a gondola is private. In many ways, the gondoliers’ currency of secrets must rival the Segreta’s.

“Do you like classical or Eastern-influenced architecture?” I ask, looking up at the church of Madonna of the Miracles. Better to keep the conversation on such matters.

“Ah, built by Lombardo,” Halim murmurs, taking in the building. His hand moves through the air, tracing the geometrical patterns. “Byzantine-influenced, I believe. All very different from our mosques.”

I shake my head. “Are you sure this is your first time in Venice?” Finally, I spot a building that Halim can’t possibly know more about than I do—the convent that was my home for more years than I like to remember.

“This is a very special place in Venice,” I say as our gondola draws near.

Halim frowns. I can understand why—the convent of Mary and the Angels looks unprepossessing with its bars and grilles. I think of my servant nun, Annalena, and the dull ache of separation lodges in my heart. I wonder what she is doing now. Does she still pray five times a day on the floor of her narrow cell? She will be
conversa
to a new sister now, of course. She’s probably forgotten her Laura. Certainly, her eyes would pop out of her head if she could see me now, sharing a boat with an Ottoman prince!

“So tell me why it’s special,” Halim says. He has pulled a short dagger out of his sleeve. It has a golden hilt, inset with mother-of-pearl. He twirls it once in his hand, then again. I try not to be disturbed by the glitter of the metal.