Heart of Glass (16 page)

Allegreza steps into the center of the circle and turns on her heel, gazing into each of our faces. The success
with Silvio fades from my mind, and I remember why we are gathered here—because our city, and my love, is in crisis.

“These are testing times,” Allegreza begins. The other women murmur in agreement. “But the Segreta have been tested before. Aysim put her trust in us, and we have failed her. There is no avoiding that fact.” She pauses, and I can feel the attention of the women linger on me, even if their eyes do not. “Moreover,” continues Allegreza, “her secrets have gone to the grave with her. What worries me more is this: Why did she die when she did? Who else knew that she would be coming?”

I remember Allegreza’s words to me when I visited her at her house.
“A traitor in the Segreta.”
The others pick up on her meaning too. We each keep our gaze firmly fixed on our leader, not daring to look at each other in case our glances are misconstrued as accusation—or guilt. My cheeks burn nonetheless. Does anyone here believe that I’m the person giving away our secrets?

“I tell you now,” Allegreza continues. “Stay alert at all times. If you see or hear anything—anything!—that is suspicious, it is your duty to report it to me. Do you understand?”

There are murmurs of assent. Allegreza’s glance lands on me, and I nod quickly.

“Excellent. Now, go back to your homes. Remember all that I have told you.”

The other women begin to move away, but I’m frozen. Surely our meeting can’t be over already? Nothing has been said of my fiancé’s plight or his brother’s death. Not a word has been shared in sympathy and understanding for
Paulina. But it’s my loved one’s dilemma that troubles me most.

“Will you help Roberto?” The words spill from me before I can stop them.

The other women pause and share confused glances. Allegreza’s face hardens.

“What do you think we can do, Laura?” she asks.

“Either get him out of Venice or work the Segreta’s influence on the trial. He’s an innocent man—he does not deserve what is happening to him.”

Allegreza walks around the room, the floorboards creaking beneath her feet. Her shadow moves with her, stark black against the milky light of the moon.

“We must use our power carefully,” she says. “A knife overused quickly becomes blunt.”

This is too much for me to bear. Allegreza told me—promised me!—that in time the Segreta would turn to Roberto’s plight. Now she talks of caution! I can’t stop myself; I step towards her, my voice loud in the silence of the room. “You had that monster Vincenzo exiled, so why can’t you help Roberto?”

Allegreza pats the air as if to calm me. “Vincenzo was guilty of spying, an agent for the Duke of Milan. We had good reason to banish him.”

“And Roberto is innocent! Isn’t that a good enough reason to help?”

I wait for the murmurs of agreement, but silence stretches between Allegreza and myself. I look around me at the other women and see none of them moving to speak. When I try to make eye contact with young Sophia, my accomplice such a short while ago, she looks away.

Understanding dawns. “You don’t believe in his innocence, do you?” I begin to stalk from woman to woman, staring brazenly into their faces. “Do
you
?” I pause before Allegreza, my breathing labored.

She shakes her head. “Calm yourself, Laura. A woman has been wronged. We must remember that above all.”

“But not by my fiancé!”

Grazia moves to Allegreza’s side. “You are behaving inappropriately, Laura,” she says.

I step back, trying to calm my thumping heart.

Allegreza sighs. “We understand your pain, Laura,” she says. “Why don’t we put it to an anonymous vote? To help Roberto or to stay out of the case? We will help only with majority assent.”

I feel a flutter of hope. One of the women tears slips of paper from an old, dusty ledger, and we each cast our votes. People can vote yes or no to help Roberto in his plight. We deposit our pieces of paper facedown on the floor in front of us and one of the Segreta collects each of our slips. She goes to a corner of the room and begins counting them out into piles.

Suddenly, there is a clatter of footsteps on the wooden stairs. The Segreta scatter, slinking into the shadows or crouching behind sacks. I press myself into one of the dark corners.

A black-clad figure enters. “Paulina!” cries one of the women, rising to her feet and rushing out to meet her. But Paulina pushes past, glancing around the room. One by one, we step out of our hiding places. Paulina’s eyes come to rest on my face.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell my friend, holding out my arms to her.

“You!” Paulina lunges at me, her nails raking the air. She grabs my hand and drags me towards her. “Nicolo is dead. All because of you!”

Her face is close to mine, and I can feel the spittle on my cheeks. Her hand grips my hair.

“Stop!” I say. “Please!”

“It’s your fault! It should be Roberto’s blood staining the palace floor. Instead, instead …” A sob escapes her. “My love is dead! And with him, my future!”

With a sudden groan of defeat, she falls away from me.

“Roberto is innocent,” I say quietly.

She scoffs. “You simply have no idea, do you? What do you think he was doing when you were in the convent? Saying his own prayers? Don’t make me laugh! He knew his way around every whorehouse in Venice.”

“Hush now,” someone protests. But not because the words offend her—I can sense that she’s trying to protect me.

“What are you talking about?” I say.

“Your one true love!” says Paulina. “A man of spotless character. Oh, please! I’m only saying what we all know.”

Paulina’s face is red with fury, but even as her final words melt away, I can see the guilt there too. She knows she’s gone too far. All of the women’s eyes are on me, and I want nothing more than to disappear.

“I see,” I say stiffly. “Thank you for educating me.”

Grazia reaches out for Paulina, but she turns away, defeated and sobbing. “Leave me be!” She runs from the room.

“Shall I go after her?” asks Sophia.

Grazia shakes her head. “There’s nothing we can do for Paulina at the moment.”

Why did my friend say such horrible things? I suddenly feel very young again. Naive and innocent as the day I left the convent. Was she speaking merely out of anger and grief, or was she venting secrets that have been kept from me? I swallow back a rising panic. Roberto is no whoremonger. He isn’t capable of anything like that.

Allegreza watches from across the room. In her hands, she holds the scraps of paper from the vote.

“A decision has been made,” she announces. “The Segreta have spoken.”

“And?” I say.

Allegreza looks at me, but I cannot read her expression. Compassion, maybe, or pity. “I think it best for you not to know the result of the vote,” she says.

I’m flabbergasted. Not tell me? “But why?”

Allegreza nods. “You are too close to this, Laura. Too emotionally involved.”

“But I have to know,” I say. “Will you help him?”

Allegreza shakes her head. “The meeting is over.”

22

The noise greets us even before our coach arrives at the cathedral. It is the sound of mourning—wailing voices and low sobs. But nothing prepares me for the sight we come upon as we turn into St. Mark’s Square. Beside me, Emilia lets out a small cry of shock, and I feel my breath catch in my lungs. So many people!

Venice is mourning Nicolo’s death. Hundreds are crammed into the square and lining the surrounding streets. Rope barriers have been erected and soldiers stand before them to keep back the press of the crowds. Women dab their eyes with handkerchiefs and opportunistic stall sellers are offering black-stained flowers to throw upon the coffin when it passes. The scent of incense is heavy in the air, and a distant band of street musicians plays a lament. Agile young men climb the fountains and statues to get a better view of their dead prince when he arrives.

The funeral has been organized quickly. In this heat, no one wants to leave a body waiting for burial. Word traveled the streets, the canals and the narrow alleyways, sent out
from the Doge’s palace: the ceremony would take place on the second Sunday of the month, four days after Roberto bent to hear his brother’s last words. I haven’t seen my beloved since, and my messages have received no reply.

Now, even the Segreta are keeping secrets from me.

The coach draws to a halt, and I step out, helped by my father. The skin of his hands is papery and dry, and when I look up into his face I see nothing there but accusation.
You bring us to this
, his eyes tell me.
You and the man you insist on loving
. If I hadn’t been loyal to Roberto, defending him against Halim’s attacks, Nicolo would still be alive and my family would have been saved from scandal. Perhaps Paulina was right to attack me. But the moment I think this, my heart twists. How can loving Roberto be wrong? What could I have done differently?

As I move across the square, the black taffeta of my skirts swishes noisily. I wear a single string of pearls at my throat, and my hair is framed by an embroidered cap. The sky is gray above us, and the tiny pieces of jet sewn across my bodice barely glimmer.

Lysander looks up at the dense clouds threatening rain and shudders. “The perfect day for a funeral,” he comments.

“Don’t,” Emilia reproves.

“Show some respect,” Father hisses from behind us.

“Yes, show some respect!” calls a stranger’s voice. I look over my shoulder and see a woman, her bosom spilling out of her corset, lunge towards me. Her eyes are wild, and I can smell the wine on her breath. “Look, everyone! It’s Laura della Scala—betrothed to a murderer.”

More noise erupts around us, angry shouts and curses. Lysander puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me
to him. “Ignore them,” he whispers into my hair. But I can feel the blood drain from my face as the awful truth hits me with the taunts and insults that ring in my ears. The people of Venice hate me! They are filled with hate, filled and overflowing.

“Shall I try to talk to them, to explain?” I twist my neck to look up into my brother’s face, but he’s too intent on scanning the crowd to respond. He pulls me along now, forcing me to walk faster than my petticoats allow. I almost trip, and it’s only Emilia’s hand on my elbow that saves me from falling into the waste that pours down the open sewers of the street.

Thud!
Something smashes into the side of my head. I stagger slightly as the sensation of warmth and moisture creeps down my cheek. I put a hand to my face. When I take it away to stare at my fingers, I frown with confusion, my thoughts struggling to keep up with what is happening. Someone has thrown a rotten fig at me, its golden seeds squelching out of the purple skin.

“You should be ashamed to be here!” shouts a man. He pulls back his head, purses his lips and then spits. Warm saliva hits my chest, and Emilia hurries to wipe it away with a handkerchief.

“Don’t,” I try to tell her, “don’t take it away.” But she can’t hear me for the clamor.

“Is that your daughter, old man?” someone else cries. I glance back at Father and see him turn away. He doesn’t try to defend me. I stumble onwards, looking neither right nor left.

“Your fiancé is a coward!” someone in the crowd shouts. “He deserves to die.”

“Murderer’s creature!”

“Harlot!”

“Roberto’s head should have rolled already,” a woman yells, her eyes narrowed. “Just because he’s the Doge’s son …” She stoops beneath the rope barrier and lunges towards us.

“Guards!” Father calls, his voice straining to be heard above the crowds. “Come and help!”

Men in cloaks carrying swords at their waists run over, and suddenly I am surrounded by a wall of broad shoulders. I am able to move quickly inside this cavern of safety, and our family is escorted the rest of the way to the Basilica, with its lead-covered domes and turrets. Lifting my skirts, I run up the steps. I can’t believe my arrival at Nicolo’s funeral is so undignified. Tears of shame swell in my eyes, and I wipe them away with a fist.

As we step inside, I’m grateful for the coolness that surrounds me. Lysander is looking at me hard.

“Why are they attacking
you
?” he asks, his voice somber. “You haven’t killed anybody.”

He suddenly sounds much older than the young man who sat at our table tipsily teasing his new wife, not so many days ago.

I look down at my stained skirts. “Neither has Roberto,” I say coldly. “It’s all such a mess.”

We turn to face the rows of official mourners. I gaze up at the cathedral’s high domed ceiling, which glistens with gold foil. We are surrounded by marble columns and bronze statues. Singers gaze down on us from the choir lofts, and the gilded mosaic ceiling makes my eyes dance. No wonder it’s known as the Church of Gold. It’s an exercise
in opulence: Venice at its best—and its worst. After all, we are here because of a good man’s death.

My family walks down the main nave towards a row of seats that have been saved for us. On either side, women are dressed in their finery and men sport silken cloaks, the colors denoting their status. No one looks at us—whether out of respect for Nicolo or distaste for my presence, I don’t know. I spot a space farther back in the church and duck into it, leading Emilia after me.