Masquerade (10 page)

Angelique was far more observant than normal that evening. It was often said that she would fail to notice if the entire lagoon ran dry. Tonight was different. She noticed even the smallest of details: the way Bastian always held his glass in his right hand and the number of seconds between sips.

All these observations were to serve one purpose. Angelique moved her hand to the side of her white silk gown covered with red rosettes and pushed through the opening in the side seam. She felt around the pocket concealed within the layers of material and sighed with relief when her fingers found the small vial.

With a shudder, Angelique recalled how she had risked her life to acquire the love potion. She did not want to think what might have happened to her in that sotoportego if Signora Quirini had not come along. She could not fail now.

From her observations, she decided that the best time to slip the love potion into Bastian’s drink was when his glass needed refilling. Standing at the balcony beside Bastian, she pretended to watch the opera when in fact she was really watching the contents of Bastian’s glass go down, sip by sip. The problem was, it was happening far too slowly.

A few minutes ago, Orelia had just excused herself to check on Aunt Portia and Angelique knew the best time to strike was when she was not around. The fewer potential witnesses, the better. She was yet to learn Orelia’s views on love potions, among many other things. She was quite certain that Orelia wouldn’t be as disapproving as Veronica, but Angelique suspected she wouldn’t fully approve, either.

She watched Bastian bring the glass to his lips, those smooth beautiful lips. She had never been this close to him before for so long and if she failed, she may never be this close to him again. Without a second thought, she grabbed the top of his glass, brought it to her own lips, tipped her head back and swallowed the entire contents. In her mind, she had pictured herself finishing the performance elegantly. Instead, she began to cough uncontrollably.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked, laying a hand on her shoulder.

‘Mi dispiace,’ she said in a choked voice. ‘I was just so thirsty.’

‘Um . . . that’s fine.’ His face was only inches from hers and Angelique could see the agitation in his features. In fact, he had seemed agitated all evening. Angelique wondered if that was the effect of the opera. It had certainly made her jump once or twice.

‘Here,’ said Angelique, regaining her poise. ‘Let me refill your glass for you.’

Before Bastian could respond, Angelique took the glass over to the small table and with her back turned, picked up the decanter of wine.

She tipped the decanter slowly, contemplating the ratio of wine to love potion. When the liquid came to halfway, she stopped. She didn’t want to over-fill the glass. It was important he drank the entire contents, she didn’t want him to fall
half
in love with her.

With her heart beating wildly, she took the small vial out of her pocket, removed the glass stopper and poured the contents into the glass. The two liquids blended together seamlessly, like magic.

Quickly, Angelique pushed the empty vial back into her pocket and then lifted the glass. Her satisfied smile reflected back at her in the shiny surface.

She took slow steps towards Bastian, hoping not to spill a drop
and
look sensual. The latter was less important since Bastian would soon be madly, wildly, and feverishly in love with her anyway. ‘Here you are,’ she said, sweetly.

Bastian took the glass from her but instead of offering his thanks, he cried, ‘Marco!’

Angelique’s brow furrowed. Bastian stepped past her and towards the back of the box. Angelique spun around and saw a man in a black dress-coat standing in the doorway. He had dark, penetrating eyes. ‘So, this is where you’re hiding all the beautiful women,’ he said, with a wink at Angelique.

She felt herself blush. Her shoulders relaxed and she even managed to smile at Marco, even though he had interrupted the most important moment in her life.

‘I thought you didn’t like the opera,’ said Bastian, elbowing his friend.

‘I don’t,’ said Marco. ‘Which is why I need this.’ And for the second time that evening, the glass was taken from Bastian’s hand.

Bastian made no move to reclaim the glass, but Angelique did. She lunged at Marco, knocking the glass from his hand moments before it touched his lips. The glass fell to the ground soundlessly, the contents soaking into the thick Persian rug.

Marco and Bastian stared at Angelique with their mouths agape. Even Veronica turned away from the opera.

‘Are you raving mad?’ demanded Marco, shaking his left leg, even though no more than a few drops had landed upon his stockings.

‘There . . . there . . . there was a fly in your drink!’ said Angelique.

Marco narrowed his eyes. ‘A fly?’

‘Yes,’ replied Angelique, lifting her chin. ‘A fly.’

Marco opened his mouth to respond, but Bastian laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’ll pour you another glass.’

‘No, I think I’ll be leaving.’ Marco turned and strode through the door. Bastian followed after him.

Angelique collapsed onto the settee, letting out a wail that rivalled the opera singers.

‘What was that really about?’ asked Veronica.

‘Never mind,’ muttered Angelique. Her eyes did not move off the dark patch on the rug. Later she might feel relieved that she had averted a disaster with her quick thinking, but now there was only room for anger as she watched every last drop of the love potion disappear into the rug.

Veronica moved across the room and sat herself down on the edge of the settee.

‘Are you feeling unwell?’ she asked, pressing her hand to Angelique’s forehead. ‘Perhaps we should go.’

Angelique smiled weakly. Veronica was always looking after her. It was the reason Angelique never really missed having a mother.

‘No, I’m fine. Go back and watch the opera,’ said Angelique. Then, without any trace of optimism, she added, ‘We have the box to ourselves now.’

Anna hated working in the kitchen. She wasn’t a kitchen maid; she was a lady’s maid. Her culinary mishaps were more deliberate than accidental but still she was called back when they needed extra hands in the kitchen. Not that Anna’s hands got to touch anything but vegetables. The moment Anna had walked into the kitchen, the cook had threatened that if Anna came anywhere near the stuffed duck, an annual gift from the Doge from the ducal reserves in the lagoon, she would have her hands cut off.

As it turned out, Signor Contarini was having guests for dinner while his daughters were at the opera. The kitchen staff had only been expecting a handful of guests, but at the last minute they had been informed of a number of additions to the guest list, hence the frenzy Anna walked into.

The monotony of dicing and chopping turned Anna’s thoughts back to Orelia. There was something about the girl that made Anna trust her. Perhaps that’s why she had almost revealed her secret to Orelia, the secret letters that were not her own.

She had found them two years ago, when she had just begun working at Ca’ Contarini. She had been warned on her arrival that only Maria was permitted to clean that particular bedroom and no one else was to ever enter. One day, Anna had mistaken that room for another. She had opened the door, entered the room and cleaned for hours, not realising her error.

She had been dusting the mirror, when she had accidentally discovered a secret niche behind it, revealed when the mirror swung out on a hinge. Inside the niche was a bundle of letters. Curiosity had gripped Anna and she withdrew them from their secret hiding spot.

At that very moment, Maria had stormed into the room. Anna had panicked and shoved the bundle of letters into her apron with her dusting cloth. As she had turned to face Maria, she quickly swung the mirror back to its normal position. Maria had been too furious at Anna to notice.

From that day, Anna had not entered that bedroom again – and Maria had never forgotten to lock the door again – until Orelia had arrived.

For all those years, Anna had thought the room was kept locked perhaps because something horrible had happened in there long ago. Signor Contarini’s wife had died over ten years ago and Anna thought the room and this tragic event were connected. Until her conversation with Orelia, it had not occurred to Anna that the bedroom had become a forbidden space not because of what but because of
who
. Did Orelia know who had once occupied that room? She had said she was looking for
something personal.
Was it out of curiosity, or something more?

Whatever Orelia’s reason was, Anna wanted to help her. The letters, found in a mysterious room in a hidden niche, had to be what Orelia was looking for.

It wasn’t until hours later after the dinner had been cleared away that Anna stumbled back upstairs. She was so tired, she had completely forgot all about the letters until she saw Maria at the top of the staircase, an unholy silhouette in the flickering light of the candles in the wall sconces.

‘Where have you been?’ asked Maria, her hands on her hips.

‘In the kitchen, Signora,’ answered Anna, keeping her eyes downcast.

‘I want you to fetch for me those letters you told Orelia about.’

‘What letters?’ said Anna, forgetting herself.

‘Don’t take me for a fool,’ snapped Maria. ‘I know you have some letters that don’t belong to you. Bring them to me or I will go up to your room and get them myself.’

Anna sighed. There was no way to deny that she had the letters without the risk of having her room searched. She was very insistent about her privacy, and now it was being used against her. She had no choice than to hand over the letters or else have her sister discovered.

‘I’ll get them,’ she said.

Anna now hurried up the stairs to the fifth storey of the palazzo, knowing that if she took too long Maria would come looking for her. She opened the door just enough for her to slip into the shadowy room.

Emilia was asleep in the bed, facing the wall. Anna tiptoed past to avoid waking her. She had been avoiding spending much time with her sister, whether she was awake or asleep. The false promise still hung between them like a poisonous cloud that would engulf them both should they come too close together.

In her defence, Anna had been considering ways to produce enough money required to pay for a doctor’s services, but all the things she considered got her nowhere, like the dead-ended calli where light did not reach.

She could not ask Signor Contarini for the money, even as kind as he was. That would involve revealing that she had been hiding her sister upstairs. His kindness would not stretch that far. There was the possibility of getting the money from a Jewish moneylender, but she was yet to explore this option. Tomorrow, when she was supposed to be visiting the market, she would try to find a moment to slip away to the Gheto Novo, she silently promised.

Anna knelt before a wooden chest sitting beneath the window. It contained Anna’s clothing and a few personal belongings. She slid her hand down the side of the chest, burrowing through the layers of material until her fingers found a small bundle. She pulled her hand out and placed the bundle of letters in her lap. They were tied together with a red ribbon.

She had always felt slightly guilty about having the letters in her possession. She hadn’t meant to take them and had the room not been locked she might have returned them. But there was something not right about it all the same. Perhaps that’s why the idea of giving them to Orelia had felt right. But there was nothing that felt right about giving them to Maria. If only Maria hadn’t walked in when she did.

Quickly untying the ribbon, Anna flicked through the letters of varying size and length. She stopped to trace her fingers over the swirls of ink. Even though she could not read a single word, she had always felt
something
when looking at the aged pieces of paper, as if they held someone’s soul. It was like a song; you didn’t need to understand the words for it to touch you.

She had never really felt the need to know what was written in these letters until now. Was it secrets of the state? Confessions of a guilty conscience? Declarations of love? And who did they belong to?

Any chance of finding the answers to these questions would disappear the moment she handed the letters over to Maria.

Emilia whimpered in her sleep. The unexpected noise made Anna’s heart stop and when it regained beating, it was wild and rapid.

What was she doing risking everything to satisfy her curiosity? Once again, she was proving that her heart was darker than the night.

Anna drew the ribbon back around the pile when she remembered the one letter that had always intrigued her the most. She let the ribbon fall loose, then frantically fumbled through the pile until she came to the very last letter. There was something so intense about the way the ink had been impressed onto the paper, as if someone had imprinted his or her love on it.

From somewhere deep within Anna, there came the strongest conviction that she had to keep this letter, not for herself, but for Orelia. She would not give it to her yet for fear of being discovered by Maria, but in time she would.

Feeling considerably calmer, Anna took the paper and slid it back into the chest, burying it right at the very bottom. Maria would never know it was missing.

Anna stood up abruptly and hurried out of the room, forgetting all about the ribbon that lay beside the chest. The staircase was dark and although she was used to scaling it at night, near to the bottom her foot missed the step below. She stumbled forward, dropped the stack of letters and watched them spill onto the floor below.

Cursing softly, Anna dropped to her knees and began to gather the letters, some having landed more than an arms-length away. She had collected almost half of them, when she felt someone standing over her.

‘So this is why you are taking so long,’ said Maria, when Anna looked up.

Maria did not bend down to help and for that, Anna was glad. She didn’t want Maria to see the smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

When Anna finally stood, she handed Maria the bundle.

‘Do not speak another word of these letters you so foolishly mentioned to Orelia,’ said Maria. ‘If she asks about them, and she probably will, you are to say that you were mistaken, or else you will find yourself without work.’

Anna nodded, fighting back tears. She had wanted so badly to help Orelia, to do something right, but now that was impossible. The risk was too great.

‘One day, you will learn,’ said Maria in a steady, controlled voice, ‘that everything I do is to protect the people I care about.’