Heart of Glass Read online

  Faustina and I share a glance, and my servant smiles encouragingly. She lowers herself slowly onto the couch, and a male servant brings two steaming glasses of mint tea and a plate of marinated shrimps, setting them on the table before her. Faustina pops a curl of tender flesh into her mouth as the girl returns, a heavy bundle of fabric balanced between her outstretched arms. Reverently, she places her load onto a varnished oak table, and Gabriella comes to stand beside her.

  The dressmaker takes hold of a bolt of the pink silk and unfolds it. I can’t help but draw near. This is the fabric that I am to be married in. As she works the silk loose, Gabriella talks.

  “A low bodice, I think,” she says, “and tight sleeves in the Spanish mode. A cap of green netting and perhaps even a sable pelt. Gathering at the waist. Of course, silk thread for hand picking the seams.” She allows the thick fabric to fall back to the table in a waterfall of color.

  “I’d like a secret pocket in the lining of the skirt,” I tell her.

  Faustina coughs uncomfortably, and Gabriella cocks her head to one side. Perhaps she isn’t used to such requests.

  “A secret pocket,” I repeat. “I must insist.” This woman will make me a beautiful dress, of that I am sure. But I want a hand in it. This is the dress that will take me into my future.

  A smile spreads across the dressmaker’s face. “With our seams, you could hide a dagger and the hang of the skirts would give nothing away.”

  From the couch, Faustina sighs with relief.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Betrothed to the Doge’s first son,” Gabriella continues. “This will be the marriage of the year.”

  Coming from Gabriella da Mosto, creator of wedding dresses for generations of Venetian women, this is high praise.

  “I am blessed,” I say.

  “Wait here a moment.” The dressmaker retreats to the back of her quarters, and I take a seat beside Faustina, who’s making short work of the shrimps. I take a sip of mint tea. Doria and the male servant are bowed over the oak table, smoothing out the silk. I catch a whisper, and it sounds, though I can’t be sure, like “Doge’s funeral.”

  I feel my face stiffen, and as my eyes meet the girl’s, she blushes and looks away.

  Do even common servants know about the Doge’s falling sickness, the ailment that places his life and reputation in peril? And if they know, where have they heard it? Despite all my happiness, all my blessings, in that moment the past tugs at my stomach. His sickness was the secret I shared in order to be accepted into the Segreta. It was a mistake, a betrayal, but at the time it seemed the only coin I had to barter for their help. Our community of women trades on secrets, but if what I shared has become common knowledge … Well, the Doge has plenty of enemies looking for just such an excuse to topple him.

  Gabriella returns. “Your dress will be ready for a first fitting in three weeks. Until then.” She nods a goodbye.

  Faustina and I say our farewells and we descend the stairs, out into the fading afternoon sunshine. For a moment, I feel weary—my allegiance to the Segreta is weighing me down. But Faustina is impervious to my mood.

  “Jewelry next!” she announces. “To match the glass beads of your headdress.” She is already striding down the road, and I break into a modest trot. But as we turn a corner, we both stop short. A woman a little older than I am is walking towards us, wearing a black velvet dress with raised stripes of gold thread. But there is another stripe too—this one down her face—a streak of blood that runs from a deep cut on her forehead. She holds up a hand to try to hide it, but there is no disguising the swollen bruise that is forcing her left eye half shut.

  “Come here,” I tell the woman, going to take her by the arm. “What happened to you?” She tries to pull away from me; I can feel her body trembling. “You don’t need to fear us,” I tell her. “Please. Let me help.”

  “Who did this to you?” Faustina asks, bustling over. “The beast!”

  A few people look round at Faustina’s shrill cry, and the woman flinches.

  “It’s nothing to bother yourselves with,” she says, trying her best to turn her body from us. But I reach out a hand and gently bring her back round to face me. I take a handkerchief from the folds of my skirt and dab at the blood on her temple. She doesn’t pull away.

  I spot a teahouse with stools ranged beneath an awning. “Come,” I say gently, taking the woman by the arm. “Sit for a moment.”

  I lead the woman over to the wicker stools. She sits with a sigh, resting her head in her hands. Faustina calls for the tea and pours, holding out a glass to the woman. She takes it with shaking hands. We wait in silence for her to recover as she takes small sips. Eventually she offers us a watery smile.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  “I’m Laura. What’s your name?”

  “Teresa,” she whispers.

  “What happened to you?” I ask.

  She laughs bitterly. “My husband happened to me.” She starts to get to her feet, but her face turns suddenly white and she’s forced to sit back down.

  Faustina huffs. “Men!”

  “Go and buy some figs,” I tell her. Anything to get her out of earshot for the moment. “Something for our friend.”

  Faustina nods eagerly, glad of something to do. My nurse likes to feed people. I watch her go over to a nearby market stall.

  As soon as she’s gone, I lean forward and grasp the woman’s hands. “You shouldn’t have to suffer this way,” I say.

  She shrugs. “It’s the way things are.”

  I shake my head. “Only if we let it happen. I can help you.”

  She looks at me skeptically. “I don’t think you’re a match for Silvio.”

  Perhaps not on my own, I think. I squeeze her hand. “Meet me tonight in the disused wine cellar on the Ponte San Polo. It has a green door. A tarred barrel sits beside the doorway, and the name of the old merchant, Zenato, is painted on the door.”

  “What can you do?” the woman says, her eyes brimming.

  “Trust me,” I say. “Come, and you will find out.”

  She shakes her head. “My husband holds the strings of the family’s purse. I wouldn’t be able to pay the gondolier!”

  I reach into my purse and slide a coin into the woman’s palm. “Take this. Midnight, be at Zenato’s. Believe me—I really can help.” Has this woman heard of the Segreta? Does she guess what I mean?

  The woman nods once, and slips out of her seat just as Faustina returns with a twisted paper parcel brimming with fresh figs. One of the fruits has burst open and its seeds glow like tiny chips of gold.

  “You’ve forgotten your figs!” Faustina calls after the woman as she turns a shady corner. I watch the ebony hem of her skirts glide out of sight.

  “Where’s she going?” Faustina asks, shrugging with open palms. “Not back to that husband, I hope.”

  “She’ll be safe,” I tell the woman who knows me so well, but is blind to my deepest secrets. “Venice will look after her.”

  3

  A hired coach takes Faustina and me across the Rialto Bridge towards home. Pulling into the gated driveway, I remember when I returned here for the first time after my incarceration. Then, it looked old and tired. Father was penniless and my sister lay in a coffin. Now, Father is on Venice’s Grand Council, his greatest ambitions realized, and Beatrice is gone forever.

  I step out of the coach, Faustina sighing behind me as she lowers her tired old body. The della Scala home rises up before us. The cool of the hallway beckons. I walk across the marbled floor, once broken and chipped, now repaired. The walls glow with a fresh layer of whitewash, and the gilt frame of the hall mirror has been repainted.

  “I’m home!” I call out, and hear an answering voice. Too youthful to be my father’s, but equally recognizable, even after all these years.

  “We’re in the library!”

  I rush into the room at the far end of the hallway, the door half hidden beneath the stairs. Pushing it
open, I see a face that almost reflects mine, but not quite. The same chin, only stronger. Eyes the same color as mine, but the hair short, thick and pushed back from a widow’s peak.

  “Lysander!” I cry, and fall into my brother’s arms. He doesn’t wear the clothes of a Venetian gentleman. He sports more somber colors, having lived in Bologna for many years, training to be a physician. I heard through Beatrice’s letters that his apartments are near the Botanical Gardens, where the people of Bologna grow healing herbs, but this is the first time I’ve seen him since the day I entered the convent.

  “Let me look at you,” I say, pulling back. I hold him at arm’s length and turn him round on the spot. He laughs and indulges me. “You’ve put on weight,” I declare. I prod him in the stomach.

  “Hey, hey! Aren’t you supposed to tell me how much you love me and how you’ve missed me? Who cares about my popping waistcoat!”

  Of course, my dearest brother is as slender as he ever was. He strokes the back of his hand down my cheek.

  “You’ve grown into a beautiful woman,” he says. “Beatrice would have been proud of you.”

  I feel my eyes burn; tears are brimming, ready to fall. I dash a hand across my face. Lysander peers at me, then smiles.

  “As soft as ever. Come here.”

  How far he is from the truth. If he only knew. He draws me to him, and it’s only then—glancing over his shoulder—that I see we are not alone.

  “Who’s this?” I ask, pushing myself out of my brother’s arms. A woman stands behind him. She has long auburn locks that cascade over one shoulder and a smattering of freckles against milky skin. When she smiles at me, her teeth are as white as snow and her lips blush red. As she raises a hand in greeting, there’s the sparkle of gold on her finger.

  “This is my wife, Emilia,” Lysander tells me, turning to hold out an arm. Still smiling, the woman comes up to Lysander and slips her arm through the one he offers her. Cream organza froths at her neckline.

  “I had no idea!” I cry, holding out a hand. I smile at her, and, after a moment’s hesitation, she takes it.

  “Love moves swiftly,” she says, and laughs, the sound rolling like a bubbling stream.

  A figure appears in the open doorway. “More swiftly than wisdom, it seems.”

  My father steps into the library, past the sweeping shelves of expensive books that just a year ago stood empty. Has he ever read any of them? A beam of light falls across his face, sending slanting shadows into the creases of his eyes and the curl of his lip. He looks as if carved from stone. “In my day, all brides came with a dowry,” he says pointedly, staring at Lysander’s wife so hard that her cheeks flush. He doesn’t even use her name.

  “Father,” Lysander says stiffly. “Emilia and I aren’t concerned by such things. We love each other.”

  Father lets out a hiss of disgust. “The sentiments of a young man. I hope age will bring you a better head for the business of marriage.”

  I roll my eyes and Lysander shrugs. “It makes no difference now. It’s not a contract I intend to alter.” He gently pats Emilia’s hand, which still rests on his arm. I notice that her fingers are trembling.

  The elder statesman of our family stalks around the room. The floorboards creak beneath his weight. “Do you know what it’s been like for me? Do you?” He swivels round to stare at Lysander.

  “Oh, Father, don’t make such a fuss,” I say. “Our family is fine. We’re in a much better situation than this time last year.”

  “You have no idea,” he says, shifting his gaze to me. “Not a clue! The pressure I am under. Florentine ambassadors to curry favor with, delicate negotiations about the Ottoman routes. People talk of pirates! One wrong word, one misjudged conversation, and my status could be at risk. The Doge insists on diplomacy when all the Council knows that we need to come down hard. The man’s a fool!”

  “That’s treason, Father,” I say, winking at Lysander.

  My father pales, then sees my hint of a smile. He glowers. “I mean … we are at a delicate stage. I don’t need an impoverished son to add to my troubles!”

  The air throbs with tension. Then Lysander’s nostrils flare, and I realize he is stifling a yawn.

  “How tiresome for you,” my brother says, waving a hand lazily as though swatting away imaginary wasps.

  Father’s eyes widen in outrage. “You’ll learn,” he spits. He’s already striding from the room, the tails of his coat flying. “A physician’s wages are nothing, and a penniless son should respect his father. He clearly doesn’t respect himself, marrying … that!”

  The door slams shut behind him. I want to apologize to Emilia, but Lysander is already by her side, kissing her brow.

  “Take no notice,” I hear him whisper.

  Emilia catches my eye and forces a smile. I walk over and take her arm, leading her to gaze out of the library windows at the panorama of Venice, lit by the moon that hangs, almost full, in the summer sky.

  “I will show you my home,” I say, “where Lysander and I grew up with Beatrice.”

  “I’d like that,” my new sister-in-law tells me. She squeezes my hand as Lysander comes to stand behind us.

  “He’s gotten worse,” he grumbles.

  “Don’t worry about Father,” I say. “Nothing makes him happier than a dose of unhappiness, and since his success at the Grand Council, he is struggling for things to complain about.”

  But Lysander refuses to laugh. “It looked as though the Grand Council have been busy, judging from the harbor,” he says. “Security was tighter than I’ve ever seen it. We had to empty our trunks to be searched.”

  Emilia laughs anxiously. “The guards nearly dropped my dress for the embassy ball into the water!”

  “Oh, I’m glad you’ll be there,” I say. “It will be an important night for Venice.”

  Faustina has stepped into the room with a plate of olives and bread. “You can thank the Doge for the searches,” she comments, setting the tray down on a small table. She looks over both of her shoulders, as though checking for strangers, and brings her face close to ours. “Spies! He’s worried about spies.”

  Emilia’s face pales and she casts my brother a glance as if to say, What type of place have you brought me to?

  Later, we dine with Father. Success has done little to curb his drinking, and we watch in uncomfortable silence as he pours himself yet another glass of wine. A servant brings in the hazelnut pudding, but I’m fearful of being late for my appointment.

  “I’m going to retire now,” I announce. I push my chair back and its feet screech awkwardly against the floor.

  “Already?” Father asks, his words slurred. But his eyelids are drooping, and I can tell that within the hour he will be in a deep sleep and past caring.

  “I need my bed,” I lie. “It’s been a long day.”

  Emilia gives me a sympathetic look, and Lysander kisses my hand. Father reaches for the wine, and I leave the room.

  While the city falls asleep, I have business to attend to.

  4

  I step out into the cool of the night, grasping my mask. From a nearby clock tower I can see that midnight will soon be upon us—I must make haste. I run lightly down the drive and out into the streets of Venice, following their twists and turns, glancing about for a coach to hire. I move as quietly as one of many secrets that travel through this city. The Segreta trade in the stories that no one wants to share; that’s what gives the women of Venice their power. Soon, I will be with my masked friends. I hope Teresa will join us too—I know the women of the Segreta will do everything they can to help her.

  The coach pulls up outside Zenato the wine merchant’s. I go to the doorway and give my secret knock—not on the door itself, but on the frame, where the wool gives a duller sound, softened so that passing strangers or sleeping neighbors won’t hear. The door opens silently, its hinges oiled, and there’s the glint of eyes behind a mask. I slip inside and run down the stone stairs to the basement. Candles flicker
like the dancing eyes of the devil. The women have gathered in a pool of light.

  It’s still a thrill to be welcomed by the Segreta. At first they terrified me, but I was a different girl then—caught between submitting to a marriage with cruel Vincenzo and trusting that these women could set me free. I chose the Segreta. I made the right choice. Within hours, they had exposed Vincenzo’s corruption, and the betrothal was broken.

  “Welcome,” says a voice from behind her mask. I recognize her at once—from the mask’s feline design and the husky tones. It’s Grazia de Ferrara. The simple silver ring on her middle finger might look like a cheap market trinket, but for those of us initiated into the Segreta, it is the sign that someone is in the upper echelons of Venice’s most exclusive club. Simple, demure—but a sign of great power. One day I hope to wear one like it, but for now I’m still in the lower ranks of this secret society. Beside Grazia is the woman who leads us, with gray-streaked hair and sharp eyes of bright green: Allegreza di Rocco. Allegreza clutches a mask, its eyeholes framed by jewels and lace, its edges sparkling with gold feathers. Allegreza’s ring has a small ruby embedded in it, made for her by one of the best jewelers in the city. If the master craftsman only knew what Allegreza had commissioned from him!

  “I hope you are well,” I say to Grazia.

  She takes the mask from her face, and her eyes, as so often, are watchful and sad. Grazia, Allegreza and I are bonded by a secret not known even to the rest of the Segreta: Grazia’s daughter Carina was killed in Venice’s waters. Turned to spite through twisted love, it was she who killed Beatrice. When I revealed what I knew, she tried to kill me and, in the process, died herself. The image of her writhing in pain in the flames of a burning boat and the sound of her shrieks will never leave me.