Venom (45 page)

Cass didn’t know what to say. Was Siena in love with Luca? The thought was almost too absurd to believe, but as Siena’s blush darkened to almost a plum color, Cass felt certain that it was true.

Cass knew she should be angry, should demand an explanation immediately. But for some reason, the only thought that came into her head was
How can God be so cruel to grow love in such hopeless places?

Cass glanced up at the Frari’s closed doors. She was surprised
Agnese hadn’t sent Narissa to find her. “It’s okay, Siena,” she said. She closed her eyes, and then opened them again.

Siena’s mouth fell open. She shook her head. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have—”

“Forget it.” Cass cut her off. She tucked Luca’s handkerchief into the bodice of her dress. “Listen, I need a favor.”

“Anything,” Siena said fervently, and Cass knew she meant it. Cass couldn’t believe she had been so wrong about everyone, about Mada’s simplicity, about Siena’s loyalty, about Luca’s predictability. He still had not returned from his errand; he was going to miss the whole ceremony. He must be meeting with the local town guard, or perhaps the rettori. Would they recognize Paolo from his description? Would they put Falco’s roommate in jail?

Cass couldn’t—wouldn’t—let that happen. Not when he had placed himself in danger to a deliver a message on her account.

She needed to warn Falco.

She sucked in a deep breath. She felt steadier on her feet. “There’s something I must do. You’ll have to make my excuses to Madalena and my aunt and Luca, in case they come looking for me.”

“What should I tell them?” Siena asked, her eyes widening.

“I don’t know,” Cass said. “Figure it out.”

Cass scanned the canal. The water was crowded with boats; a gondolier turned toward her the instant she reached out her hand.

Without a word, Siena curtsied and headed toward the church doors.

The gondolier took his time navigating the traffic in the crowded water. Slow-moving flat-bottomed peàtas, laden with burlap sacks of
fruits and vegetables, caused bottlenecks in the narrow canals. Cass tapped the heel of her chopine against the base of the boat repeatedly. She watched enviously as fishermen in small crafts easily made their way around the larger peàtas. The sun glinted off piles of shining fish that they would try to sell again the following day.

Cass poked her head out from behind the felze just long enough to ask the gondolier to hurry. On both sides of the canal, barefoot children ran past her boat, laughing, swatting with sticks at the air. Cass swore under her breath. At this rate, the exhibition would be over before she even got there. She asked the gondolier to pull over.

Cass had the payment ready before the boat even reached the canal edge. She dropped a few coins into the man’s palm and then leapt from the gondola. Her dress snagged on a crack in the wood. Cass gave it a sharp tug, leaving behind a scrap of pale yellow silk.

Pulling off her chopines, Cass hurried along the water’s edge. She edged past groups of peasants, glassblowers, and street performers juggling oranges. She could feel their stares burning into her back. She must look absolutely ridiculous, gasping for breath, pushing her way through the soggy streets in one of her best gowns. Cass didn’t care. Her heavy dress dragged along the ground, and pebbles and sticks poked through the thin bottom of her shoes, causing her to wince, but she didn’t stop moving until she made it to Don Loredan’s palazzo, where the art exhibit was being held.

She slowed down to catch her breath as she ascended the steps leading up to Palazzo Loredan’s piano nobile. As she passed into a spacious portego with a vaulted ceiling, she tried to smooth the wrinkles from her skirts, and quickly swiped at her hair to reorder the stray bits. A boy about her own age handed her a quill and asked her
to sign a guest book that sat on a marble pedestal. She hesitated a moment and then scribbled her name on the first blank line.

She scanned the crowded room for Falco but didn’t see him. Clusters of paintings adorned the vast walls. Artists lingered nearby their work, dressed in their best church clothes, eager to answer questions for potential patrons. Cass quickly passed by the usual cathedrals and portraits and landscapes. They were beautiful in their own way, but there was an idealism about them that didn’t resonate with her. The paintings had a false feeling, as if their artists had painted the world the way it should be instead of the way it really was.

Cass picked out Falco’s work easily. He had submitted the nude of Andriana with the title
Broken.
For a minute, Cass was transfixed: forgetting that she was supposed to be looking for Falco, she stood in front of his paintings, trying to absorb every tiny detail.

Falco’s second painting,
Unfinished,
was of a male body being prepared for burial. Beneath the wisps of white burial shrouds, the man’s muscles were clearly defined, the outline of bones apparent in his hands. His skin was speckled with age spots and bruises, the deep purple blemishes reminding Cass of the circles around Mariabella and Sophia’s necks.

On the next wall, a painting of a young bride wearing a jeweled tiara made Cass think of Madalena in her gorgeous blue dress. Why had Cass seen the diamonds as fire, as a bad omen? She hoped Madalena wouldn’t notice her absence among the large crowd of guests. She had promised to be there for her friend. Once she warned Falco that Luca was on the warpath, she would go immediately to the wedding feast at Palazzo Rambaldo.

Cass paused, frustrated, and looked again for Falco. But the
whole room was crawling with artists in black pants and leather vests. Her feet throbbed. In fact, her body ached from head to toe. She felt as though she had aged a hundred years in the past two weeks. For a moment, she wished she could just go back to the way things were—her quiet life on San Domenico.

But she couldn’t go back.

Cass pushed past a group of chattering women and stifled a gasp.

She was staring straight at Mariabella.

The painting from the young courtesan’s room hung on the wall of Signor Loredan’s portego. Cass blinked hard, expecting the canvas to morph and change as she inched forward. No, it was the exact same canvas, there was no doubt. Who besides Mariabella’s roommate would have had access to her home after she died? Cass supposed that if she and Falco could break in, so could anyone else.

She whirled around, her eyes grazing each of the nearby patrons, looking for a killer. But no one was paying her any attention. She might as well have been invisible.

Cass turned back to the picture. In the light, she noticed fine details she hadn’t seen the night she and Falco discovered it: the heart-shaped birthmark on Mariabella’s temple, a slight unevenness to the girl’s crimson smile.

There were two other paintings hanging beside it, both obviously by the same artist. One of the subjects was dressed in an elegant gown; the other wore a plain black and gold servant’s uniform. Like Mariabella, both women were painted in a reclined position, their hands reaching out toward the artist as if to offer themselves to him. Thick hair hung back from their shoulders, exposing their swanlike necks. Was one of these women Sophia? Cass stared at the canvas of the girl in the servant’s uniform. She definitely resembled the girl
who had floated up in the canal, but was she the missing maid? Cass chewed on her bottom lip. The girl wore black and gold—the livery colors of Palazzo Dubois. Still, Cass had never met Sophia. She couldn’t be sure.

Unless…

Cass bent close to the small placard that described the artwork. The series was called
The Fallen Ones.
As Cass read the titles, she had to reach out for the wall beneath the canvases to steady herself. Two of the paintings were named simply
M
and
S.
Mariabella. Sophia.

It had to be. Cass felt a momentary flicker of relief that Feliciana’s svelte form wasn’t represented here.

Two men had shouldered up next to Cass, and were examining
The Fallen Ones
with her. “Do you suppose they’re all sisters?” The taller of the two men stroked his brown beard while waiting for his companion to reply.

“Probably just women he’s bedding,” the shorter man said with a laugh.

The third painting was named
R
. Who was she? An earlier victim? Or an innocent girl who didn’t even know she was marked to die? Cass cleared her throat. “
Scusi,
” she said, wondering if the two men could hear her heart thrumming in her chest. “Do you know who painted these?”

The taller man bent close to the canvas. “All I can make out is a squiggle. Looks like an L.”

“Whatever it is, it’s slanting unusually far to the left,” the man next to him said. “Maybe the painter is left-handed?”

Cass wondered how many left-handed artists there were in
Venice. Hundreds, at least. Her skin tingled at the idea that the murderer had stood in this very spot earlier in the day. Falco might even have seen him as he arranged his exhibit.

Someone tapped Cass on the shoulder. Her heart leapt into her throat. She spun around, both exhilarated and terrified at the thought of seeing Falco again. But it wasn’t Falco who stood behind her.

It was Luca.

F
or a second, Cass couldn’t speak. Luca was the last person she expected to see. He always spoke of art as if it were a pointless endeavor. Had he followed her there from the Frari? Did he know about Falco? “What—what are you doing here?” she stammered finally.

“I might ask you the same question,” Luca said. His eyes flicked beyond her, to the trio of
The
Fallen Ones,
and for a moment his expression was shot through with…what? Pain? Guilt?

“I wasn’t feeling well,” Cass said, lifting her chin defiantly. If Luca was going to keep secrets, so would she. “I had to get away from Mada’s wedding for a bit.”

“Interesting choice of safe haven,” Luca replied, keeping his gaze locked on the canvases.

“Do you know the artist?” Cass asked, skipping past all the questions she had already asked herself.

“Do
you
know the artist?” Luca countered. He leaned in close to the nearest canvas—the one called
R.
His whole face contorted for a moment. Cass had the strangest thought that he was going to cry.

She shook her head. She could feel her hair starting to pull loose beneath the white lace in which Siena had wrapped it. Cass could tell he was waiting for her to say more, to explain what she was doing at an art exhibition on the most important day of her best friend’s life. Cass looked around once more for Falco; this time she was relieved when she didn’t see him. She didn’t want him to see her with Luca. The last thing she wanted was to cause him any more pain.

“We should go,” Luca said, arranging his face back into a neutral expression. “We have obligations. The wedding party must be heading toward Palazzo Rambaldo by now. If we hurry, we might catch the end of it.”