Heart of Glass (22 page)

She places her knife back in the hidden pocket of her skirt and turns away from me, striding from the room. After catching my breath, I follow. I wouldn’t put a final trick past Carina. But the corridor is empty, and daylight glows from the far end. I walk out into an empty street.

I go straight home, walking rather than hailing a coach, with my hood pulled up. I need time to think. When I arrive back at the house, Father is in his study, and I can hear raised voices through the studded door. I can only
catch the odd phrase, but enough to tell me the men inside are arguing about the Doge. Is this the faction of which he spoke? Members of the Grand Council, planning to usurp him? I creep closer and rest my ear against the leather-paneled door.

“… his infirmity …,” a voice says.

Another joins in—Father’s. “… need a strong leader, one who isn’t compromised by personal problems …”

There’s no place for loyalty in the circles among which my father moves.

I check my head in the hall mirror. By rearranging my hair a little, those missing locks are hardly noticeable.

The voices are getting louder. “But who can possibly take over?” says one man. Other voices clamor to be heard, and now I can’t make out anything other than a general sense of anger filling the room. I step away. Is this what Venice has become? Full of hatred, deceit and politics. Or perhaps it has always been like that, and the shroud is only now being torn away from my eyes.

It doesn’t have to be like this, I tell myself, remembering Emilia’s offer. I could leave. Perhaps if the ruling class left, Venice could become a better place again.

I start to ascend to my room, when the door is flung open and men stride out into the hallway. As I pause on the stairs, one of them throws me a surprised look and I bend my head deferentially. The others are grim faced and leave without casting me a glance. My father emerges last.

“Happy now?” he says, glaring at me. “You still want to marry that fiend?”

Then he walks back into his study and slams the door shut behind him.

“You’re back,” says a voice.

Lysander appears at the door to his chamber. He comes to take my arm and leads me farther up the stairs towards my own room.

“You must have been at the trial, I think.” He casts a wry glance at my outfit, and I remember for the first time how I must look.

“I had to go,” I say.

“Then you know about the Doge?”

I shake my head. “I couldn’t stay,” I tell him. “I couldn’t watch them take Roberto away.”

Lysander’s face is grim. “Forget that man,” he says. “His life is over, and it’s all he deserves.”

Each word cuts me. “How do you know that?” I say.

“The Doge had a fit after you left, Laura. He and the Duchess came onto the stage to speak with the Council. She tried to conceal it, leading him away, but everyone could see how he wasn’t in control of his own body. It was awful.” Lysander gathers himself. “It’s clear that something is seriously wrong. The Doge’s days are numbered, one way or another. Venice will be in turmoil.”

I realize I no longer care.

30

I climb out of my simple clothes and pack them away, back in Bianca’s chest. Brushing a hand over the rough linen, I think, for the hundredth time since my visit to the convent, of the simple girl who lived in seclusion. Were things better then? My days were long and empty, yes, but the slow burn of that existence hardly compares to the pain of this. I knew nothing of love and its joys, but nothing of its disappointments either.

I close the chest and rest my forehead against its lid. I consider saying a prayer for Roberto, but then my body sags with exhaustion. They would be empty words sent up to a God I no longer know.

I hear voices in the courtyard. More visitors? I rush over to a window and lean out, momentarily forgetting that I am wearing nothing more than my linen undergarments. Raising a hand to shield my eyes from the sun, I spot a group of six soldiers in Turkish uniform waiting at the front gates and a carriage behind them. A moment later Faustina bustles in.

“That brute is here!” she says. “Hide the jewelry!”

Bianca enters next, equally flustered. “There’s a visitor for you,” she says. “I told him your father and brother are out in the city, but he insisted. He waits for you in the library.”

Why has he come? What could he possibly want now, after the last time he showed me from his quarters with so little ceremony?

“Don’t go to him!” says Faustina. “He can’t be trusted.”

“I’ll be down in a moment,” I tell Bianca. I fetch out the first dress I find—my lemon silk. My hands twist around behind me, struggling to tighten the strings of my bodice and fumbling with the tiny satin-covered buttons of the dress.

“What are you thinking?” asks Faustina. “People will talk!”

“Then perhaps you should practice silence,” I tell her.

I hastily plump out my skirts and brush the hair off my face, while loosening my curls. Taking a few deep breaths to compose myself, I descend the stairs. The double doors to the library are open a crack, and I see Halim gazing at the books on the shelves.

As I step inside the room, he trains his eyes on me. I close the doors on Faustina.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. I don’t have the energy for polite conversation.

“I’m sorry for your deep suffering,” he says.

I will not break down now. Not in front of him.

He reaches out and takes my hand, raising it to his face. The gesture so takes me by surprise, I don’t stop him. His
lips brush against my fingertips and I feel goose bumps tighten. “I never wished to cause you harm.”

Now I pull my hand away from his as the tears well in my eyes. Before I can brush them away, Halim offers a handkerchief to me. I hesitate—this man has sealed Roberto’s death—before taking it.

“I know what you must be thinking,” he says. His face creases in pain. “But I’ve acted the only way I can.”

“Roberto wouldn’t murder an innocent woman. He simply
couldn’t
. Venice is a brutal city, but he is the gentlest soul I’ve ever met.”

I could say more. I could tell him that I cried daily when Roberto was away in Constantinople, and of the longing in his eyes when he returned. Those lips, when I kissed them, were not lying to me. I would stake my life on it.

Halim’s look is one of heartfelt pity. He’s stood up for what he believes to be true. What is the truth—his version or mine? Is it possible that we’re both in the right? I saw the strength of his feeling when he learned of his sister’s death. We’re each fighting for what we believe in.

I’m unable to break his gaze, and now I see there’s something else there whom I barely dare acknowledge. I feel the heat emanating from his body and realize that we haven’t pulled apart since he wiped away my tears. With a sudden, awkward movement, I go to sit down and indicate another chair at a fair distance from me. “Please, take a seat.”

Halim shakes his head and casts a despairing glance around him. “This place—this city—you deserve better.”

“It is my home.”

“Then I hope you can find happiness again—somehow.”

“Happiness?”

He must see the wretched look of shock on my face. “Your soul is too good to be trapped in grief.”

As he hurries to the door, I follow. I don’t want us to part like this. Our differences are great, but we share something greater I don’t yet wish to relinquish. He turns in the doorway, and we collide.

“Oh,” I murmur.

His hand is on the small of my back.

“You mustn’t …,” I begin to say.

“Mustn’t what?” Halim asks. His breath smells like cinnamon.

Our faces are so close, our bodies too. His eyes are all I see.

“Mustn’t grieve too much for your sister.”

There’s a sudden movement and the door is pushed open wider. Emilia stands there, staring at the two of us, her mouth hanging open. “I’m sorry. I …”

Halim draws away, but slowly—as though we have nothing for which to apologize. As for myself, I can feel my cheeks flaming.

“I should go,” he says, looking past Emilia and into the hallway for his servants. He walks past her without a backwards glance. I retreat into the room and curse silently as I hear Emilia follow me.

“What just happened?” she asks.

I shake my head. “I need to rest,” I murmur.

It’s the grief
, I think, sinking onto a couch.
That’s all. I need to rest
.

31

Even in my wretchedness, sleep took me, and now a bleak new morning has arrived.

I force myself to get up and go through the motions of preparing for the day. Bianca fills my copper bath and I am grateful for the clouds of steam that hide me from the world.

Outside, everything is christened by morning dew. Emilia is waiting for me by the gates; she has promised to come with me for support today. The two of us greet each other silently and move over to a canal, where we summon a gondolier.

“Take us to St. Mark’s,” Emilia says in a soft voice.

I can’t speak. I’m going to watch my beloved die. To watch him die.

The gondolier must see the look on my face, as he doesn’t try to engage me in conversation. Instead, he whistles softly, a plaintive tune that fits my mood well. Mist seeps off the canals, and the houses of Venice look more beautiful than
ever in the morning light. For once the streets are clean and empty of people. They’ll all be gathering in the square.

Emilia’s fingers rest beside mine on the velvet cushion. I suddenly feel the need to explain yesterday’s encounter, when she interrupted me with Halim. If I cannot clear my conscience to Roberto, I must to someone, before he is gone.

I clear my throat. “What you saw yesterday—” I begin.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” she interrupts. “I realize I should never have asked. It’s none of my business.”

“It’s no one’s business because nothing happened,” I say. I can hear how high and tight my voice is and I force myself to calm down.
Think of Roberto. Always Roberto
. But that’s the wrong thing to tell myself—my throat constricts and I don’t know how I’ll get the next words out. “I would never betray …” I can’t finish.

Emilia pulls my hand into her lap. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to tell me. I understand.”

My shoulders shake with suppressed sobs. The gondolier’s whistling has stopped. Please, God, let today be over.

We reach the canal that runs parallel with the square, cluttered with other boats. As we climb out of the gondola, supported by the pilot’s hand, a column of smoke streaks the sky.

“What’s that?” I ask.

He shakes his head and tuts. “Did you not hear? Arson! During the night someone set fire to part of the palace. Rebels, they say. The Doge is losing his hold, that’s for sure. Did you see his performance on the stage yesterday? Kicking and jerking like an invalid.” He nods at the thick black clouds that drift above our city. “No one has faith in
him anymore.” Then he climbs back into his gondola and pushes off, the stern of his boat parting the water.

Emilia and I share a glance.

“What is happening to this city?” she murmurs. “Lysander always had such good things to say about his home. And now …” She doesn’t need to say anything else; I feel certain we’re both thinking the same thing.

We make our way towards the square. As we approach, we see youths scrambling up statues and sitting in rows along high stone walls, craning to see the stage. Food-sellers with trays are weaving among the spectators.

“Imagine!” a woman walking beside me says. “Executed before all of Venice.” She holds a linen handkerchief to her mouth. Emilia shakes her head at me, warning me not to take any notice.

As we draw nearer the stage, jostled by other people, I spot the wooden planks covered with straw to soak up the blood. My empty stomach squirms. Roberto’s life will draw to an end up there. The heart I’ve loved will beat no more. I rest against a pillar, feeling faint, struggling to compose myself.

I’ve heard tales of previous executions in Venice. The man who was suspended in an iron cage, surviving on bread and wine, until he was brought down and hung. A criminal whose body was stripped and dragged through the streets behind a cart. How one man was cut into four pieces and his head stuck on a lance-point for all to see.