Heart of Glass (5 page)

“I don’t know,” I say, feeling momentarily embarrassed. Where
is
Roberto? I had thought he would be with the other dignitaries. “He may be on business,” I murmur. “We’ll see him eventually.” A flash of memory recalls the image of him throwing his shirt to the floor, his torso slick with sweat, and I ache to be beside him again.

A hand grasps mine, and I am torn back to the present. “Come and dance!” A stranger pulls me onto the polished wooden floor, and I feel the suede of my shoes slip across the wax. I swirl into the waiting arms of someone in a saffron doublet and can’t help laughing as we move easily into the stance of a Venetian
canario
, stamping our feet on the floor in unison. I move from one man to the other,
grasping arms and swinging bodies, chests pressed against each other. Candles burn on the walls and the flickering flames reflect in my partners’ eyes. The sound of lutes and singers carries over the warm air to us, and I close my eyes as I sway in the embrace of the music.

“Hello, Laura,” a woman’s mocking voice whispers.

My eyes snap open. Despite the heat of the room, a shiver passes through me.

“Carina?” I murmur.

“Are you all right?” my dance partner asks, frowning. We’ve come to a stop, nearly tripping the people behind us. “Would you like a tumbler of water?”

I am led to the side of the room, pushing past bodies. I look over my shoulder, to where the voice came from. “Carina?” I ask again, louder.

It can’t be her. She’s dead. The last time I saw her she was aboard a blazing ship that was sinking into the sea. She drowned, if she did not first burn to death.

I find my breath coming in shallow gasps and feel a sudden urge to be out of this room, away from the excited faces that surround me. As I find my way through the open patio doors, I lean heavily on the stone balcony and gaze up at the clear Venetian sky, glittering with stars. Their reflections bob in the water of the lagoon. Carina is down there, locked in the depths.

There can be no doubt.

6

Somewhere, a clock strikes, tearing me from my reverie and reminding me that I have a job to do. I glance over my shoulder at the room, women leaning against men and strangers kissing. It’s time to leave. I worry about Emilia, but then I spot her with Lysander, his arm snaked around her waist.

I check that no one is paying me any attention and head down a narrow flight of ivy-clad stairs. Even at this hour, the stale warmth of a spent day drifts up to greet me from the city’s canals. I walk quickly through the streets, keeping to the shadows and darting from one tiny alley to another covered walkway. It’s surprisingly easy to move unseen. Others are abroad, but they turn their faces away from me, hiding their own secrets. I spot the yellow scarf of a prostitute beneath an awning, and at another window two men are talking urgently to each other. As I pass, they slam the shutters on me.

Finally, I arrive at a concealed pier. If the Segreta had not told me how to find this place, I’d never have known
that boats docked here. The entrance is disguised by heavy leather curtains, stained with blood and grease. It looks like a butcher’s warehouse, a place to hang venison or pigs, and the slap of waves is concealed by the sound of singing that comes from a nearby bar. Someone has put a lot of thought and care into keeping this place hidden.

I slip between the leather curtains, carefully tucking my skirts around me, and walk down the pier. The skeleton of a boat sits across the canal, abandoned by the shipbuilders for the evening. There’s a sudden splash in the water, and when I turn I see that someone has pulled up beside the pier in a low boat. On the prow is the faded mark of the Segreta, a painted key. The woman stares up at me and we give each other a sharp nod. Not a word is said until I am in the boat, having climbed down the short flight of slippery steps. I sit on the bench opposite her, holding the side to steady myself against the sway of the current.

“You know where to go?” I whisper.

“I know.”

She adjusts the scarf across her face, and we begin to slice through the water. Her shoulders move strongly as she rows, and her feet are braced against the floor of the boat. I have no doubt that this woman can get me to my destination quicker than any paid gondolier.

I thought that I would resent leaving the ball, but I am glad to be out on the water, away from voices of the past. We cross the choppy lagoon in silence, cleaving into the darkness. After a short while, the glassworks of Murano stand in tall silhouettes across the island. Many of the rich men of Venice own studios here, or have shares in the factories. The island is another place of secrets—the artisans
who work here are forbidden to share the details of their craft. The windows are frosted and no one can see out—or in. Perfect for our purpose tonight. So why do I glance over my shoulder, my nerves throbbing?

I climb up some steps and the woman slips her oars into the boat as it moves silently beneath the boardwalk. “I’ll be back,” I whisper.

Turning my back on the small pier, I step into the nearest glassworks. This one is owned by Julius, the husband of Grazia, but he has no idea of my assignation. As planned, someone has left the door unlocked for me. My feet crunch loudly on grit as I walk past the workbenches. A fine layer of glass dust covers everything in sight, and I dare not touch a thing, for fear of leaving clues. On a pedestal in the middle of the room is an unfinished urn. Half of a galloping horse is sketched into the side of the glass; the front legs are still to be completed. Beside it are a small copper drill, a bottle of linseed oil and another bottle of emery. The oil glints in the moonlight.

A sudden noise from a corner of the studio makes me scramble back behind a store cupboard, but then I hear the flap of wings and spot a pigeon resting in the eaves.

My thudding heart slows.
Calm down
, I tell myself. I’ve run secret errands before; I can do this. I find a low wooden stool and gather up my skirts to sit and wait. I rest my elbows on my knees and perch my chin on my fists, watching the doorway leading to the pier. When our contact arrives, I’ll see her in an instant. My body shivers with anticipation. I feel honored that the Segreta have chosen me for this task, but now I’m impatient to find out what the latest secret is. Who will this person be?

There is no way of telling the time here, but I know it’s been hours.

My back aches and my legs have turned numb. I get to my feet and stretch my arms over my head, bringing the blood back into my limbs. Grazia didn’t tell me how long I’d have to wait, but this feels too long.

After at least another half hour has passed, I begin to walk back towards my waiting boat. But as I pass beneath the roof of the studio, I hear another noise—no bird this time, of that I am sure. It’s the ragged intake of a human breath.

“Who’s there?” I call out. I try to keep the nerves out of my voice, but I can hear how startled I sound. There’s another muffled noise—something scraping across the floor—and then a darting shadow. A woman! Her silhouette races ahead of me, and, lifting my skirts, I break out into a run. The shadow swirls round and hands slam into my chest so hard that I stagger and lose my footing, falling to the ground. I leap up immediately, but the woman is already running away from me. Not towards the pier, but towards a hidden door that I now spot behind shelves stacked with plates and vases. There’s the sound of a key turning, and the woman is gone.

“Come back!” I cry. “I’m here to help!”

I follow her out of the doorway, into an open courtyard at the rear of the glass factory. Her footsteps echo on the cobblestones as she races away beneath an arch set in a low wall. I run after her, my skirts gathered in my fists. It’s so dark I can hardly see what lies before me and can only
hope that there are no loose cobblestones waiting to twist an ankle.

As I emerge from the arch, I see dozens of shelves stacked with crates and glass products. From between two of the shelves a pair of bright eyes watches. “I’m a friend,” I say, stepping towards her. She jerks away, and at once the shelf begins to lean towards me. I leap backwards as the whole tower topples with an almighty crash inches from my feet. The sound of breaking glass fills my ears.

Breathing fast with panic, I pick my way around the debris, looking for the girl, wary of any further dangers. She’s nowhere to be found, and after a few more minutes I have to admit defeat.

The woman has escaped.

Pushing hair out of my face, I stumble past the glass factory and to the pier. I’ve failed. Whatever Allegreza sent me here to discover, it remains a secret.

I dust down my skirts, and as I climb into the boat, the woman raises her eyebrows.

“You were a long time,” she says. “What was that noise?”

I shake my head and settle on the bench. “Let’s go,” I tell her.

7

When I return to the ball, things are very different. The glamor of a few hours ago has burned itself out. Now, empty food platters are cast aside, flagons drained of wine. The few dancers that are left lean into each other heavily, heads resting on shoulders, eyelids drooping. I wander out to the white marble balcony with its fluted columns. Beyond the balustrade, the landscape of Venice stretches across an imaginary canvas. An orange tree in flower sends out its scent from a pot beside a bench, on which my brother sits with his wife.

“Laura,” he says, smiling lazily. Emilia leans into his side, a hand resting beneath her chin as she sleeps. Her curls have loosened, and the ribbons in her hair are strewn around her neck.

“She looks worn out,” I say.

“Roberto was here earlier, looking for you,” Lysander says, stroking a hand across his wife’s cheek. She moves slightly in her sleep and then resettles. “Where have you been?”

I shrug and gaze out over Venice. Dawn mist curls off the canals. “I needed some fresh air,” I say. “The streets are always interesting at this time.”

“I bet they are,” Lysander says, “but I’m not sure they’re the right place for an unaccompanied young lady.”

“Shush,” I tell him. “You never used to care when we played hide-and-seek in the mariners’ quarter as children.”

He grins, a little sadly, and I know he too is remembering Beatrice. She used to act the damsel in distress and Lysander and I the brave soldiers come to rescue her.

“Listen,” says my brother, interrupting my thoughts. “Roberto had to leave.” His brow creases in a frown. “He seemed a little … worse for wear?”

“You mean drunk?”

“Your words, Laura. Not mine.”

I laugh. “Well, it’s not like Roberto to go finding himself at the bottom of a glass. But with all of the wine on offer here tonight, I’m not surprised that people are woozy.”

“He was woozy, all right,” Lysander comments. He glances down at Emilia and kisses the top of her head. “Come, my darling. It is time to get you home.”

Emilia lets out a low murmur and smiles at some hidden detail of her dream.

“Come on.” Lysander slips an arm around her waist, another beneath her thighs and in a single movement lifts her. I watch as the gray silk of her gown’s hem whispers against the stone tiles.