Dark Shimmer (16 page)

M
arin folds a pair of breeches into his traveling bag and closes it.

I sit on the bed and watch him. “I don't want you to go.”

“I thought we had a truce.”

“A truce? Like in a war?”

“No, not a war. Just one of the many battles that happen in a marriage. You're not supposed to hinder me in whatever I do to build my library, Dolce. You know that.”

I nod, for it's true. “This is different, though, Marin. I feel strange. I need you by me now.”

“Winter is about to set in, Dolce. There are mountains to cross between here and Moscow. Many mountains. If I don't go now, I won't be able to travel till late spring.”

“If you do go now, you won't be able to return till late spring.”

“But I'll return with treasures.”

“Six weeks ago, you said you'd stay home a long time.”

“News came. Things changed.”

“No. You're leaving because you're fed up with arguing with Bianca all the time. You're throwing your hands up. Like you used to do with me.”

“That's not true. I've tried to tell you. Oh, Dolce, if you'd only let me explain.” Marin sits beside me and takes my hands. “They are selling off some of the books that belonged to the last Byzantine emperor. Amazing works, in Hebrew, Arabic, Greek, Latin, Egyptian.”

I shake my head. “Why would anyone sell them to strangers?”

“People want to make room for new possessions—printed books. Fools. These books are made by hand. Scholars from all over the world will rush to Moscow. But they won't brave a Russian winter. They'll wait till spring, and I'll already have bought the best works by then. See?”

“No.”

“Because you don't want to.”

“Because I'm afraid, Marin.”

“Afraid of what? I'm a cautious traveler. Agnola will be beside you. And you have Carlo and Antonin and Lucia La Rotonda. Life will go on just as if I were here.”

“It's not others I'm afraid of.”

“What do you mean?”

“My dreams plague me.”

“I've told you, Dolce, dreams are dreams.”

“They've been worse lately. Unspeakable.”

“Dreams aren't real no matter how vivid.”

“Tell me…”

“Tell you what?”

“Look at me. What do you see? Can you see the illness within me?” I extend my hands. “Can you see the tremors?” I pick at the back of one hand. “Do you see how my skin flakes?”

“It's your own doing, Dolce. The physician—”

“Don't mention him!”

Marin stands. He rubs the sides of his mouth. “You're taking Bianca to the convent at San Zaccaria this week. Teresa will help her. You like Teresa.”

I watch his lips move, trying to follow his words, concentrating my hardest. I hear nothing new. But there has to be something new in there. I search for the message.

“Go with Bianca.”

“Of course.”

“No, I mean stay there with her. She needs the seclusion, the sanctuary. She needs to think and reconnect with her faith. She needs the comfort of her aunt Teresa, who is completely absorbed in the work of the church.”

“Completely absorbed? Do you even listen when Teresa talks? She misses high society.”

“She only shows interest to be kind. Her work is the Lord's.”

“Do you think that's how nuns are? Franca told me nearly half of all noble girls are forced into convents now.”

“Nonsense.”

“There are thirty-one convents, Marin. They can't all be full of the faithful.”

“My sister is faithful. Bianca needs her help. But she needs you, too. You're her mother in every sense that matters. And you could use that opportunity yourself, Dolce.”

I draw back. “No I couldn't.”

“Listen to yourself. You talk about dreams plaguing you. You have hallucinations of talking mirrors.”

“They're not hallucinations.”

“Call them whatever you will, you're sick. You said it yourself. It's from those infernal mirrors you make.”

“Truce, Marin. Remember?”

Marin presses his fist against his mouth for a moment. “Go with Bianca. Give the sisters a chance to help you—especially my Teresa. Give the Lord a chance to help you.” He steps toward me.

I turn my head away.

“No kiss? We've never parted without a kiss.”

“This is a mistake, Marin.”

“Only if you make it one.”

“I won't be able to help it. Voices come….They terrify me. Do you know, the morning sun comes up the same color as the sky?”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“I can't distinguish blue from yellow. It just happened. Red and green are merging too. It makes it hard for me—colors play such a part in seeing beauty. Do you think it's retribution?”

“For what?”

“My bad thoughts. Do you think I should keep my color blindness secret?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Marin hesitates, then shakes his head in frustration. “Go to the convent.” He picks up his bag and walks out.

I don't listen at the top of the stairs. I don't rush to the front window to watch Antonin row him away to the mainland.

I walk slowly out of our room. I don't know why I glance at Mirror, but I do. And Mirror is uncovered. I didn't leave it like that. And Agnola loves her silver mirror. So it was Bianca who gazed at herself in my mirror. The feeling of being robbed makes me clench my teeth.

I study my image in Mirror. It is as though Marin stands at my shoulder and speaks. We are reflected in the mirror cheek to cheek. I focus on my reflection in the eyes of his reflection. His lips move. I try to hear them say I am beautiful, the fairest of them all.

That's what Mirror's voice always says; it mimics Marin's…because Marin knows the true me. Like Mamma did.

But it's silent now.

Well, Mirror's voice isn't real, Marin told me that. It's an illusion.

Marin has the real voice. Marin, the one who will be gone till spring. And when he finally returns, everything will have changed, bloomed, just enough to destroy me. I won't see beauty anymore, but he will. I'll hear his words; he'll say the fairest of them all is…Bianca.

I'm shaking.

Marin has left and no one here knows me. Not all of me.

Maybe even Marin doesn't know me. I can't tell him what I do with the mirrors, so he can't know me. He can't be proud of me. All he sees are my faults, which multiply every day. If he knew my dreams…the voices…And he wants me to give the Lord a chance? Doesn't he know I need it to go the other way around?

I put my hands on top of my head, and sink to my knees, and cry.

“What is it?” Bianca puts her arms around me and lowers her face to mine. “Tell me.”

“Some troubles are unspeakable,” I mutter.

“Not when you love someone. I love you.”

“I know you do.” I lean into her. If I let her know me truly, can she help me fend off the voices? She must. For both our sakes. I have to start at the beginning. “Mothers and daughters, we do things to stay together. Drastic things. We give up so much.”

“Like what? What are you talking about?”

“I knew a mother who had a healthy, beautiful daughter. But the daughter didn't look like anyone else who lived near their home. Not even like her mother. She looked like people far away. Everyone around her considered her ugly. They gave up babies that looked like her.” I sit back on my heels and face Bianca fully. I've wanted to tell her, but it never seemed like the right time. Relief loosens my tongue. “This mother, though, she loved her daughter fiercely; she wouldn't give her up. So the daughter grew up thinking she was hideous.” I put my hands on Bianca's cheeks.

She gives a small smile and takes my hands in hers. “Why didn't the mother tell her about the others far away?”

“What?”

“The ones like her. Then the girl wouldn't have suffered.”

“Of course she would have suffered, Bianca. Everyone said she was a monster.”

“But she would have known she wasn't.”

That is too simple—it's wrong, but I can't grasp how.

“You know what I think, Mamma?” Bianca says. “I think that mother was afraid her daughter would leave her. That's why she didn't tell her the truth. That mother wanted to stay with people like herself. She could have taken her daughter to the other people and the mother would have been the monster then, not the daughter. That's real love.”

“Don't say that!”

“Why else would she have done it? She treated her daughter like her belonging…like a slave.”

“Hush!” I pull my hands away and stand.

“What?” Bianca stands too. “Do you know this mother?”

“Leave me be, Bianca.”

“But you were crying.”

“I have a headache.”

“Let me help.”

“No one can help! Leave me!”

Bianca steps back, then goes into her room.

Agnola is bound to have been woken by all that, and I can't face her right now. I have to think. In peace. I hurry down the stairs. My white shift clouds out around me as I rush. At least I can still tell white.

I go into the storeroom, straight to my nest of cushions. Solitude.

What!

A candle sits in the sconce. Pietro's eyes meet mine. Agnola doesn't see me. I leave immediately.

I stand outside the storeroom in shock. Their naked bodies. Who would have known?

Thank heaven they're on the cushions. So long as they stay in the nest, there's no danger they'll touch any quicksilver residue from my last mirror. It disappears fast anyway. They're safe.

Safe. What I wouldn't give to feel safe.

I lean against the stone wall. Nothing is as it seems. Agnola and Pietro, that's good. It's Bianca's words that come back now and torment me. Her logic has to be flawed. But Bianca is so sensible.

Mamma didn't love me.

I can't breathe.

No! Bianca can't steal Mamma from me. She's about to steal my future—my place in Marin's eyes as the most beautiful—I won't let her steal my past, too.

And maybe I won't let her steal my future.

Energy surges through me. I lick my teeth. Clean them.

Marin is gone till spring.

Pietro is obligated to me now. That's the price of indiscretions.

And I am to go to the convent with Bianca.

Those three things must fit together to form a solution. If I just think hard enough, they will.

I
put my hand on Bianca's shoulder and shake her.

She comes awake with a start. “What is it, Mamma?”

“Quiet. We mustn't wake the sisters. I have an idea. Come with me.”

She sits up and pushes the bedcovers aside. “Where?”

“Outside.”

“Outside? Outside the convent?”

“Why not?”

“It's the middle of the night.”

“If it were daytime, they'd stop us.”

“We can leave any time we want, Mamma. We're not prisoners.”

“Yes, but we can leave only to go back home. I don't want to go back home. I want to walk in the alleys.”

“Walk in the alleys? Mamma, what a delightful idea! I've always wanted to walk in the alleys!”

“We won't be able to see the hustle and bustle of daytime, but we can at least see our city from somewhere other than a window or a gondola.”

“I'll be dressed in a moment.”

“Do you need to dress?”

“Of course, Mamma.”

“I'm going in my shift.”

“Don't be silly.” Bianca struggles into her clothes. I sense her dark form more than see it. My hand reaches for her instinctively.

“What? Are you afraid? Don't be afraid, Mamma. This is a good idea. It's our city, too. It's our right. Put on your dress.”

“No.”

“I'll help you.”

“No.”

“It's cold out.”

“You can walk with your arm around me, Bianca. Your cloak can spread across us both.”

“You're being irrational.”

“Don't call me that.”

“Then behave. If someone stops us and you're in your shift, word will spread. You've been inside the convent, you've listened to the sisters at mealtimes. They are as much a part of the rumors as anyone. Aunt Teresa won't be able to protect us from gossip.”

“If someone stops us, we'll be the target of gossip no matter what. Besides, this way we can say that I went out wandering in my shift and you came looking for me. Perhaps I was even walking in my sleep. People do that, you know, especially when they've run a high fever. You can say I was feverish before I went to bed. You woke and I was gone. It's no fault of yours.”

“You sound like you've planned this.”

“No, ideas are forming only as I talk, but they make sense, Bianca. This way, your reputation will be protected.”

“I'm not sure I care about my reputation, Mamma.”

“Your papà does.”

“I'd feel like you were…less vulnerable if you had your dress on.”

“Think about your father.”

“I'm thinking about you, Mamma. The shutters are all closed. If we were to shout for help, no one would hear us.”

“We won't shout for help because we won't need it. We're women, not men with a purse to steal. No one would gain anything from bothering us.”

“Men can molest, though, Mamma.”

“Do it my way, Bianca. Do it the way that will keep your reputation safe. For Papà's sake.”

“In so many ways Papà is right. But in so many other ways, his mind is closed.”

“You love him, Bianca. You agreed to come here, to spend time with the sisters, to pass your day in prayer and contemplation, all for his sake. So, please, for his sake, let's play this game.”

She's silent. Then, “You have to put on shoes, though. Do that for me, Mamma. I need you to be safe.”

“All right. But if I do that for you, you have to hold my hand.”

“Why?”

“I want the comfort of your hand.”

“Agreed.” I hear her hands fall to her sides. “I suppose we needn't comb our hair.” She gives a small laugh.

We go out, opening and closing doors as stealthily as thieves. The air is frigid. I shiver. Bianca was right; I'm grateful for these shoes. Poor, lost Bianca. Being right won't save her. Being right never saves anyone.

The night is clear, at least. Moonbeams illuminate the alley. Bianca's free hand touches the walls as we go. She peeks through iron gates. She whistles to a lone cat. I was right to ask her to hold my hand; being outside like this, just the two of us, sets me ajitter. I can hardly remember the girl who wandered Torcello on her own.

“Look, Mamma. Look at all the door knockers. When I traveled with Papà, when I was little, he'd lift me up so I could bang the door knocker wherever we stayed. He always said Venezia has the best door knockers of anywhere. But I never got to see them before now.” She shakes her head and her hair brushes my cheek.

We walk straight as far as we can. When we come to a bridge, I halt. “They say it's easy to get lost. Let's go back and walk the alley all the way to the other end.”

So we do. The other end comes out on the wide
fondamenta
that looks out over the deep basin of San Marco. Across the water is the island of San Giorgio Maggiore. I point. “A monastery in front of us, a convent behind us. As though the hands of the Lord gather us from both sides.”

“It's more like they press upon us,” says Bianca. “There has to be room for movement, for change. You agree with me, Mamma. I know you do. You just don't want to fight with Papà over one more thing.”

“One more thing?”

“I know when you fight. I don't know what about. But I know every time. It shows.”

I huddle against Bianca inside the cloak. Some things show, but not everything, thank the Lord.

“You're cold,” she says. “Do you want to go back?”

“No. I want to keep moving.”

So we walk in the other direction, cross a bridge, and take the first alley inland. My shoe slips in something squishy. The air is so cold, though, that smells are faint. I want to be looking around, like Bianca, and see everything; this is my chance, too. But I'm cold. And in the moment I feel ancient, like my blood hardly stirs.

“Your teeth are chattering. Let's go back.” Bianca steers us.

We follow the alley back to the
fondamenta
along the wide-open water, cross the bridge, and arrive at the alley that leads to the convent. “Let's sit on the
fondamenta,
” I say.

“Sit? You mean on the ground? It's filthy. And cold.”

“You never used to be so fussy, Bianca. You were rough-and-tumble as a girl.”

“That's because Papà used to take me places as if I were his son. But once you came to us, he stopped that. For seven years you've been my companion, not him. I'm not rough anymore.”

“You talk about not liking rules, Bianca. Break your own rule. Sit on the ground.”

“Why do you want to sit?”

“When I was a girl, I sat on a
fondamenta
all the time. I swung my legs and looked out over the lagoon.”

“Aha! So you lived on the lagoon side. I wager it was on an island where we first met. Tell me more. You never tell me anything about your childhood.”

“Sit with me.”

We sit on the edge of the
fondamenta.
But the water is so high we can't hang our legs over. We have to fold them underneath ourselves.

“Have you ever heard of foot-fishing?”

Bianca shakes her head. “What is it?”

And so I describe that day with Giordano, long ago. How he stomped through the silt. How I gathered the crabs that appeared in his footprints and felt so proud of myself.

“Was Giordano your father?”

“I have no idea who my father was, but I pray to the good Lord it wasn't Giordano. In some ways he was friendly to me, and that was almost the cruelest thing.”

“Cruel?”

“Did I say that? I didn't mean to voice that thought. I get confused.”

“You told me you were a princess. Do you remember that?”

“I was a princess. I was, indeed. I lived on an island with my mother. Just the two of us. So that made her queen and me princess.”

“A pretend princess.”

“It was real to me. We'd cross the bridge in the morning and be surrounded by everyone else and suddenly we'd just be us again—Mamma and ugly me. But when we went home at night, I was a fair princess. The fairest of them all.”

“You could never have been ugly, Mamma. You're beautiful.”

“You don't understand beauty, Bianca. You're the one who is truly beautiful. I love you so much. Do you know you're the delight of your father's eye?”

“He used to say that when I was little. Did he tell you?”

“No. Thank you for telling me now. I don't know if I could have gone through with this otherwise.”

“Through with what?”

“Here.” I reach inside my shift and pull out the small pouch that hangs around my neck. My hands tremble as I try to open it.

“Let me help you.” Bianca works at the little strings that hold the pouch closed. “What is this?”

“Something for you. Shake it into your hand.”

Bianca shakes the pouch. A small tin mirror slides out into her palm. And a pill. “A tin mirror? Sometimes…I don't know. What is this pill, Mamma?”

“Chew it.”

“Why?”

“I'll explain. Chew it.”

She puts the pill in her mouth and chews. “It's bitter.”

“Chew and swallow.”

She swallows. “All right,” she says with a hint of a slur already. “Explain.”

“You'll sleep now. You'll sleep long enough to travel away.”

“Travel?” She leans against me heavily.

“Look in the mirror. Can you see anything?”

“It's dark, Mamma. And who can see in tin?”

“The heavens conspired against us, Bianca. They made you steal my future, but then you stole my mamma. You stole everything.”

“What are you saying? Are you crying? Your voice…” She slumps and her head lies in my lap. Her hand that holds the mirror hangs over the edge of the
fondamenta.
“I don't understand. Wha…” The mirror falls into the water.

I listen for the sound of the oar.

He's coming.

I don't hear it. I could still call for help.

He's coming, he's coming.

The voices are wrong. I could reverse everything before it happens.

Wait. Don't you dare move. He's coming.

And I hear it. Just in time.

See? Like Bianca said, she is the delight of Marin's eye. The timing is perfect, everything as we said it would be.

I nod.

Pietro throws me a rope. He takes off his gloves and sets them on the gunwale and brings his hands to his face, breathing on them.

He reaches for Bianca.

“Move aside,” I say. “If you drag her, you might hurt her. I'll roll her. You can't lift her.”

With one roll, Bianca falls into the boat. It rocks so hard, water splashes her head to toe. I hand Pietro her cloak. He spreads it over her.

“Make sure you do it on the mainland. Promise me. I don't want to take the chance of her body washing ashore somewhere. That would be too hard on Marin.”

“Of course.”

“And don't forget what I asked for.”

“Innards,” he says.

I can't see his face, but I hear his disgust. “Liver and lungs.”

“Yes.”

Remind him.

“Do as we agreed.”

Be fierce!

“Don't even think of backing out of our deal. My word against yours; I'll ruin you. And I'll ruin Agnola. It doesn't matter that I love her, I'll still ruin her.”

“I know.”

“Go the fastest way.”

He rows off into the night.

Liver and lungs can fix anything.

I squat and wrap my arms around my knees. I'm so cold. So very cold. My tears stick like ice on my cheeks.

I listen hard.

Silence.

I'm alone. Me here. Totally alone.

Everything is wrong. I've made the worst mistake ever. Unforgivable. Mamma would be appalled. Marin…Good Lord! I curl into myself and moan.
Lord, Lord, Lord.