Cross My Heart (4 page)

I hear my father’s heavy footfall and he pushes open the door, his faded cloak flapping. His eyes are bright, his stance no longer defeated but upright and purposeful.

“The time for crying is over, Laura. There’s life to live and business to attend to. You have responsibilities now—and a duty to ensure the dignity of our family.”

He offers me his hand. I take it and he leads me from the room. Faustina’s fingers clutch at mine as we pass, her eyes dimmed with sadness. Dread twists in my stomach. What is it she fears?

I look at my father’s profile as we go downstairs. He catches my eye as we reach the hall.

“Don’t look so worried. It’s good news. And besides, it will take your mind off our loss.”

He brings me to the courtyard, where we sit near the outstretched branch of the cypress tree. An arm’s length above us, it has hundreds of tiny glistening insects crawling in and out of its crevices.

“You know that Vincenzo was an excellent match for your sister,” says my father. “You know that they were to be wed in the spring?”

I did know that, of course, but I had heard almost nothing else of Beatrice’s betrothed. For a moment I see the Abbess’s face glowing in the light of the holy candle flame with which she burned sinful letters, eliminating the impure thoughts contained in dangerous ink. Maybe my sister’s thoughts about Vincenzo never reached me. Perhaps he’s handsome and smiling. Maybe there were burned letters that talked about Vincenzo’s love for her, and hers for him, and other things they might have whispered secretly to each other.

“He’ll be devastated,” I said.

“Upset, yes. But this is not an irretrievable situation.”

His words, so oddly businesslike, make me stiffen.

“How can it possibly be remedied?” I ask, staring at my father. “There can be no wedding without a bride.”

Dark lines thicken on his brow.

“Of course there will be a wedding,” he scoffs. “Why else do you think you’re here?”

I
might as well be La Muta again. I can say nothing.

“Cousins of the Doge will be there!” my father says. “No fewer than seven members of the Grand Council have already accepted invitations. There’s still a chance we may even be honored by the Doge himself because of Vincenzo’s connections. How can we possibly turn down such an opportunity?”

The evening is warm, and when I go up to my bedroom without dinner Faustina is there, opening my window. The flames of a citronella candle jerk inside a little colored pot beside my bed. It’s supposed to keep the insects away, but it’s not doing any good tonight. A mosquito drones and buzzes somewhere nearby.

With a sharp “Hah!” Faustina claps her palms together, declaring victory.

“I don’t have to do what Father asks, do I?” I say, slipping into bed. Faustina smooths out the cool sheet over my body, then sits beside me, stroking my forehead.

“Darling, we must do what we are told. It’s better for us in the long run. Men are the rulers of the world.”

It might be one more thing I need to add to my catechism. She’s right, I know.
Even in the convent
, I think.
Even in a world where no men set foot
. I remember how my father spoke to me in the courtyard, the way he beckoned me with that small flick of his fingers back into the parlor.

I touch Faustina’s rough hand. “What’s Vincenzo like?”

“Oh, my darling,” she says, “I really cannot tell you. I’ve seen so little of him. He rarely came here, and when he did, it was only to talk business with your father in his library.”

“Is he handsome?”

The bed ripples as Faustina shifts, turning towards the open window. “He’s a member of the Council,” she says. “Tall, with good bearing and a fine lineage.”

“But what if I don’t like him?”

When she faces me again, there are big tears quivering in her eyes. She brushes them away with her wrinkled hands.

“Shush, darling. It’s so much better for you to be married. At least you’ll be out here in the city, and not locked away where we can never see you! And old Faustina will always be here for you. I promise you that.” She smiles, though tears fall freely over her cheeks. “I’ll miss having you here, that’s all. But soon you’ll be a grand woman with a home of your own, children will arrive and your worries will be few.”

She begins to hum. I’ve known this tune for a long, long time. She sang it to Beatrice and me when we were tiny, and when we grew older we sang it to each other.
Stellina, stellina, bella stellina
. Beautiful little star. For a little while, those words sound like the beating of my own heart.

As night draws over the sky, I can’t sleep. Slipping on a robe, I go out into the garden. There I spend an hour gathering Beatrice’s favorite flowers by lantern-light. The smell of the lavender is strong enough to make me feel dizzy. I pick the blossoms of nutty gorse and pull the powdery wild roses away from the garden’s tangled bushes. I carry my hoard indoors and arrange the flowers around Beatrice’s body so that she’s nestled in a haze of fragrant greens and purples and blues and pinks.

I imagine what it will be like to meet Vincenzo and to talk to him. He might help me to stay close to her—to keep that memory alive.
He is a perfect match for me
, she said in one of her letters. In another she talked about how her marrying him would serve us all well. And I do remember her saying that he was kind and good. At least, I
think
I remember her telling me that.

I weave a crown of white blossoms into her golden hair. But the luminous petals make her look even emptier, and now that I’ve torn them from their natural places, they have started to die too. What did I think? That framing her face with flowers would bring her back to life? Her body is a broken instrument and it’s never going to sing again.

I kiss her chilly forehead. There’s a stack of wood by the sooty grate, and I build a fire. I stand beside the coffin, gazing at her waxy face.

“Beatrice, remember when I got stuck at the top of the cypress tree in the courtyard? I jumped and you caught
me. You rolled us over and you tickled me and we laughed so hard that tears fell from our eyes.” I hold her limp hand in my own and laugh at the memory of it, amazed that my body is still able to produce such a sound.

And that is when I see something strange. My disconcertment condenses into fright, like warm breath meeting the cold of a windowpane. There is a pale mark on her finger, in the place where her ring of sisterhood should be.

A coldness rushes through me. I look at my own ring of twisted gold and Beatrice’s handwriting seems to appear in front of my eyes:
I wear our ring of sisterhood. I’ll never take it off.…

Faustina pads across the hallway holding out a plate of peaches on a silver tray. She tells me I must eat and scolds me for being thin.

“Faustina. Where is Beatrice’s ring?”

She sets the tray down on a low table beside the door and moves closer to me. “What ring, love?”

“The ring she always wore. You know? Exactly the same as this one.” I hold my hand up in front of my face like a fan. “Did she have it on the day she died? Was she wearing it?”

“Darling, I can’t remember. There was so much happening, I—”

“Someone must have taken it,” I say.

Faustina takes my arm and leads me away from Beatrice. Her movements are slow and weary. “There’s nothing we can do about any of this now, little one. Please try not to get so upset. It’s not going to bring her back to us.”

But my head is thumping, and I feel something new inside me getting swollen and sore like a boil. Who took my sister’s ring?

Faustina picks up the tray of peaches and she ushers me back up the stairs. “Come, child. Eat. For me.”

The peach tastes bitter. I spit it out into my hand.

“S
tellina, stellina, bella stellina!”

Beatrice’s voice wafts into my bedroom. It brings our old song floating on the morning. I throw the covers off my bed and pad over to my door, along the corridor and up the stairs towards that hopeful and happy sound. For some reason she’s in the servants’ quarters, on the upper floors of the palazzo.

She’s come back to me. All is not lost!

The voice becomes clearer and clearer. My loneliness for her starts to peel away as my bare feet rush across the cold marble. The first of the upper chambers is locked. I slap my hand against the door with a growl, then run to the next room. The handle turns. I burst inside to find Faustina folding sheets. Her gentle old face is startled.

“Sweetheart!” she says. “What on earth are you doing?”

But I turn and rush from the room. I’ll find her. I know she’s here somewhere waiting for me. The song gets louder. I stumble as I race back to the landing and up the final set
of stairs—the highest in the palazzo. At the top is a small chamber that used to be my mother’s sewing room.

This is where the sound is coming from. I open the door.

It’s Bianca.

As she sings, she stitches the seam of a red velvet dress, expensive and luscious, embroidered on its breast with a lattice of jewels. It’s so rich and deep in color and its beads and stones are so dazzling that the sight of it shatters my desperate fantasy. Beatrice isn’t singing; Beatrice is dead.

I slide to the floor, panting for breath.

Bianca jumps up. “Signorina! I didn’t realize …” She rummages among the baskets of fabric and thread and pulls out a handkerchief, its borders embroidered with an orange-blossom pattern. She hands it to me and I press the pretty cloth to my damp face.

When my breathing has slowed I smile at her. “You have a beautiful voice,” I tell her. “How do you know that song?”

Her face softens. “Your sister taught it to me.”

I hear Faustina’s slow footfall on the stairs. Bianca takes my hand and pulls me upright as I steady myself against the collapse of my foolish hope.

Faustina rounds the doorway, her brow drawn in concern. But she smiles when she sees the red dress and hobbles forward to stroke its soft folds. “Bianca, this is wonderful—it’s almost ready!”

“Ready for what?” I ask.

Faustina’s eyes twinkle. “For you, my love. You’re to wear it tonight—when you meet Vincenzo.”

I haven’t been able to eat. I can’t relax. A party, Faustina tells me. A gathering of the nobles of Venice at the Doge’s palace. I’ve spent the morning drifting around the courtyard, imagining what this evening will be like and trying to comprehend that I am to go to a party, while my sister’s body lies still and cold.

Our midday meal is over. Faustina, Bianca and I cluster in my room. They wash and dress me, but it’s nothing like the cold baths at the convent. Everything feels heavy with expectation: the splashing of the water; the mixing of the oils; the drying of my body; the dabbing of the scents. The whispering of the rich, deep-red dress Bianca brings down from the sewing room. It swishes along the floor, rustling conspiratorially—ribbons, silk, velvet and satin. Bianca lowers it over my head. An intense silence settles. I should be dressed in black, as is custom for those in mourning. But black isn’t attractive, and I must be nothing less tonight. Faustina has told me that they have been instructed to create a masterpiece. She stands behind me, drawing tight the laces of the bodice while Bianca adjusts the neckline. Her face is solemn and focused on the challenge.