Heart of Glass (32 page)

After I’ve left the room, Faustina begins to climb the stairs. “Would you like me to take the pins out of your hair?” she asks.

Something is troubling me, and it’s not just my father’s brash confidence in a Venetian victory. I shake my head, trying not to let my face betray the turmoil of my emotions. “No, thank you.”

When I hear Faustina’s door close on the upper level, I stand for a moment on the stairs, letting my thoughts lead me. Something about the gunpowder doesn’t add up. If it’s useless, and there was no reason for Silvio to make up such a lie to his wife, Massimo can’t possibly be so sure of himself. He must know the battle is far from won.

I head straight back out the front door. My suspicion is building like an unstoppable flood. It’s a conspiracy grander than anything the Segreta could achieve, but it’s possible.

For if the Segreta didn’t murder Silvio—and I’m sure they did not—then who did? Could it have been the man who knows that the barrels of gunpowder stored in the Arsenal are useless? Could he be Silvio’s murderer?

I know my mind is getting ahead of itself, that I’m seeing treason where perhaps there is none. But Aysim said that her brother had a fellow plotter in Venice. What if that person is the very man Venice expects will save them? Massimo was quick enough to depose the Doge when he had the chance. His loyalty is only to himself.

Enough gunpowder to sink ten fleets
.

Or not even enough for a fireworks party.

Could the Bear of Venice be about to turn his claws upon us?

It’s dark when I reach the palace, and all the way I’ve been turning over the possibilities. There’s a chance, of course, that Silvio was wrong about the powder, but if he wasn’t …

It’s easy enough to gain access to Roberto’s quarters. The guard at the gate can hardly suppress his grin. I find Roberto asleep in a chair. After so many days in captivity, he’s still exhausted. He smiles lazily as I wake him. “Am I dreaming?”

“I need to ask you something,” I say, perching on the edge of his chair. “Did Massimo accompany the delegation to Constantinople earlier this year?”

Roberto’s grin fades as he catches the seriousness of my
tone. He rubs his head. “Yes. He was there as an escort with a small detachment of men. They were rude and loud, and he was told not to attend the evening banquet.”

My simmering suspicions begin to boil over. “I think he’s a traitor.”

“Well, he all but usurped my father—”

“No,” I interrupt, “a traitor to Venice.”

“What do you mean?” asks Roberto. “He commands our fleet against the Ottomans.”

“If I’m right,” I say, “it’s our fleet he means to send beneath the waves.”

Roberto’s eyes widen. “How?”

I explain to him what I know about the gunpowder. “What if he’s sending the ships out unarmed? They’d be sitting ducks in the water.”

Roberto frowns. “Where did you come by this information?”

“You cannot ask me that, but I think my source is reliable.”

Roberto shakes his head, and strokes my cheek. “But I’ve seen the plans. Vincenzo has plenty of gunpowder of his own.”

“Vincenzo’s ships may not be enough to defeat Prince Halim. Think about it. If the Turks were to conquer us, they’d need a strong leader here. Massimo would be the obvious candidate. And what about the men who kidnapped you? They must have been soldiers too. Perhaps they were working for the Bear.”

I can tell that Roberto isn’t convinced. “You’re seeing conspiracy where it doesn’t exist,” he says. “This soldier
who was killed, he probably tried to swindle the wrong man in a game of dice.”

Something about his earnest eyes in the candlelight soothes me. He’s right. I’ve spent too long in the presence of the Segreta, seeing secrets knotting themselves together.

“Massimo may be ambitious, but he’s a soldier through and through,” Roberto says. “My father trusts his loyalty to Venice, if not to the Doge. Venice is Massimo’s city too. Do you think he would risk his men and his home to become an Ottoman puppet? I’m sure the gunpowder must have been replaced by now.”

I smile weakly. “You must think I’m stupid.”

“I think you’re beautiful,” he replies, leaning forward to kiss me. “I also think the servants will start talking if you stay much longer.”

I ease myself from his chair and wish him good night.

“Sleep well,” he says.

I do sleep well, for the first time in a long while. I don’t even hear the rain that must have poured throughout the night, for the garden’s washed bright green, and puddles stand in the lanes beside the house. The blue sky is trailed with wisps of cloud, and the air smells clean.

Soldiers are patrolling the city, Bianca tells me, just in case of a surprise attack, but by noon we receive word that all but a handful of ships from the Ottoman fleet have vanished from the horizon.

“The upstart has fled!” my father announces.

I think of Halim on board his ship, brooding on his foiled plans. I can’t help but smirk, imagining his fury.

Shortly after our conversation, we receive an invitation
to the palace. There’s to be a celebration in honor of the Doge and the power of Venice. My father can’t stop smiling as he hums a naval song.

“I’ve never seen him so happy,” mutters Faustina. “He actually kissed me on the cheek this morning.”

I grin, and dispatch a note to Roberto. It contains only three words, but what else matters?

46

That night, I’m back at the palace, wearing a dress that once belonged to Beatrice. It has a girdle of woven gold, with white silk tassels hanging from the waist. The skirt hangs around me in heavy black folds with gold thread running through the velvet. Gold satin slippers peek out from beneath the hem, while against the perfumed curls of my hair, I wear a light veil with crystals embroidered into the net. I feel my cheeks flush in the warmth. My arm is linked through Roberto’s, and he keeps me close by his side. He wears an ivory padded doublet, slashed in the shape of stars and crosses to reveal the taffeta lining. Over the top he wears a short, gold-embroidered cape. His beard is trimmed and his bruises have almost faded away. I have my fiancé back.

Father saunters alongside us, then hurries to slap a friend on the back.

“I told you, Luca. We sent those Turks running!”

Along with the other noble men and women, I stroll beneath the oil paintings that line the Doge’s palace and
step inside the ballroom. The first face I recognize is that of Aysim, who throws herself into my arms. She is resplendent in a dress of mulberry silk, with rows of glass buttons down the bodice. Her hair is plaited with flowers. This is a far cry from the frightened girl I first found cowering in a nun’s cell.

“Thank you, thank you!” she cries. Around us, people look startled. I hold a finger to my lips to hush her.

“Most people here don’t know how much I am responsible for the turn of events, and they must never know,” I tell her, glancing up at Roberto. “That’s how Venice works.”

Aysim frowns. “Will I ever understand your city?” she asks in French.

“If you stay here long enough.” The voice echoes with authority. Turning round, we see the Doge in his white peaked cap and ermine robes. He extends his gnarled hands, and we each place a palm in his. Roberto gives his father a small bow.

“You’ll have asylum in Venice as long as you need it,” he tells Aysim. “For life, if you wish. You’ve been through many trials.”

Aysim’s eyes brim with tears. “I will like that,” she manages in Italian, dipping in a curtsy.

“You’ll be treated like the princess you are as long as you stay,” he adds.

The Doge’s wife, Besina, arrives by his side. This is the first time I’ve seen her since Nicolo’s funeral. There’s some color in her cheeks and, although she’s lost weight, she’s still taking great care over her appearance; her hair is coiled neatly and her jewels are sparkling.

“We would be proud to have you continue to stay with us,” she says.

The Doge lets our hands fall and puts an arm around his wife’s shoulders. It’s the most informal thing I’ve ever seen him do. Roberto comes to stand on the other side of his mother.

“My son,” she whispers. Then she looks at me. “We owe you our deepest gratitude,” she says.

“You owe me nothing,” I tell her. “I only did what any woman would, for Venice and the man she loves.”

The Duchess nods. “If you’ll excuse us.” She strokes Roberto’s cheek; then she takes Aysim and leads her around the room, introducing her to the guests as men of state crowd around the Doge. It feels as if things are returning to their natural balance. Then, as Roberto talks to a group of men, and the Doge converses with his Councilors, the unwelcome face of Vincenzo appears.

“Laura,” he says, his stale breath washing over me. “May I speak to you in private?” His glance flickers towards Roberto, hostile.

“We have nothing to say to each other,” I tell him.

“Now, now,” Vincenzo replies. “Can’t we both be happy?”

I’m actually grateful when Massimo comes to our side. The Bear is wearing a puffed-up velvet jacket. He motions to a passing servant, who holds out glasses of wine on a tray. Massimo hands one to me. “Could you excuse us?” he says to Vincenzo.

The old man looks disappointed, but he bows. “Of course.”

When he’s gone, Massimo smiles. “You looked like you needed rescuing.”

I take a few polite sips of wine. We make small talk about the good fortune of the city, and he even says how foolish he felt on learning of Halim’s deception. But his cold eyes watch me carefully, searching for my reaction to his words. I cast my eyes around for Roberto, and can’t see him anywhere. I can hear my father laughing from across the room—deep, drunken guffaws.

“Tell me, Laura,” says Massimo suddenly, “what do you think of these women called the Segreta?”

The air suddenly feels hotter, and I quickly swallow a mouthful of wine. Does he know? Could he?

“I’m sure their malign influence has been blown out of proportion,” I say.

“They tell me you were close to Allegreza.”

I hold his gaze. “I was,” I say, “which is why I have such doubts about the power or even existence of any secret society. I feel she would not have kept it from me. At any rate, it sounds rather far-fetched.”

Massimo raises his own goblet, grinning. “Quite right!” he says. “Here’s to the future—whatever it may hold.” We clink glasses, and I take another sip.

Roberto arrives at last and holds out a hand. “May I have this dance?” he asks.

Placing my wine on a passing tray, I turn to Massimo. “It was a pleasure speaking with you.”

“Perhaps we shall do so again,” he replies.

When we’ve walked away to where others are dancing, Roberto asks, “What was that all about?”

“I still don’t trust that man,” I say.

We link the crooks of our arms and circle one another. “Can’t you forget about it?” says Roberto. “Tonight’s supposed to be a celebration. Just enjoy yourself.”

The steps of the dance are simple, but as we turn on the spot, I feel a little dizzy and stumble. Roberto catches me. “Are you all right?”

“I think so,” I say. There’s a dull pain building across the front of my head. “Too much wine, maybe.”

“Perhaps I should take you home?”

I hold a hand to my brow as Roberto steers me through the crowds. From the edge of my blurred vision, I see him gesturing to someone; then suddenly my old nurse is beside me, holding me up.

“Child, what’s happened to you?” Faustina asks. I find I can’t answer; my lips won’t work.

She and Roberto help me into a coach stationed beneath an archway, safely away from prying eyes.

“I’ll be fine in a moment,” I say, but I can hear my own voice slurring.

Roberto presses a hand against my shoulder, forcing me to sink back on the cushioned seats of the coach. The look of concern on his face frightens me. “You need rest. Driver, take her home.”

I don’t have the energy to protest. It has been such an anxious few days. Perhaps all I need is sleep.

When I wake, the tang of salty air stirs in my nostrils. I sit up, my body lurching to one side. The pain in my head is still there, worse than before. Cautiously, I squint out from behind my eyelashes and see the darting points of waves. Where am I?

I snap my eyes open, dim sunlight making them water. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, and I gaze down at my black velvet skirt. Wasn’t I wearing this in the ballroom? Where am I now? How long have I been sleeping in my gown?

“I don’t understand,” I mumble, glancing around me.

We’re in a white-painted rowing boat. Faustina huddles in the prow, weeping softly, while two men stand, each maneuvering an oar through the water. “I tried to stop them,” she says, seeming to plead for my forgiveness.

Beyond Faustina’s shoulders, Venice recedes out of sight. The pointed tower of St. Mark’s has grown so small that I can barely see the gilded angel that sits on top of the belfry. The boat swings on the choppy waves beyond our city’s harbor, and nausea squirms in my stomach.

I hear a cruel laugh behind me. I twist round on the bench I’m slumped on and see Faruk watching me.