The Rossetti Letter (v5) (29 page)

Claire checked her watch. “It’s time to be getting back to the hotel, anyway.”

T
HEY ARRIVED AT
the Bell’acqua a few minutes before eleven. Claire went straight to the front desk. The key to their room was still nestled in its cubbyhole, and the clerk confirmed that Gwen had not returned yet. Claire was just about to ask Giancarlo if he wanted to sit down and wait for the girls to arrive when Stefania ran in the front door.

“Is she here?” she asked them, breathless and frantic.

“Gwen?” Claire asked as Giancarlo said, “Why isn’t she with you?”

They could see Stefania’s panic rising as her eyes darted between them. “She—she got lost on the way back from the movie.”

“How could she get lost when you were with her?” Giancarlo asked.

“I don’t know. I stopped for a moment to look in a shop window and then she was gone.”

Gone, as in vanished? Claire thought. As in kidnapped? She’s the daughter of a rich man, after all. What ever happened to that Red Brigade, anyway? “I thought you said Venice was safe at night,” Claire said to Giancarlo, unable to keep the accusatory tone completely out of her voice.

“It is,” he replied firmly. “Where were you when this happened?” he asked Stefania.

“Dorsoduro.”

“What were you doing there when the movie is playing in San Polo?”

Stefania didn’t answer, just looked frightened.

“Tell me the truth, Stefania, what were you doing tonight?” Giancarlo demanded.

“You can’t tell Mamma and Papa.” Her eyes were wide and pleading.

“I’m not going to tell anyone, just tell me what you were up to.”

“We were with some friends.”

“Marco?”

“Yes…and Nicolo.”

“Our cousin Nicolo?” Giancarlo looked confused.

“Yes.”

“Ah, of course,” he said, comprehending. “You all met on the beach yesterday. So where were you tonight?”

“At Nicolo’s friend’s house.”

“Was it a party?”

“No, just the four of us.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know! Nicolo said that she got upset and ran out of the house. He went after her, but he couldn’t find her.”

“What the hell did he do? I’m going to kill him.”

“He said he didn’t do anything wrong. You know Nicolo—he’s not such a bad guy.”

“It’s true, he’s not so bad,” Giancarlo said to reassure Claire. “Where were you and Marco while this was going on?”

“We were in another room,” Stefania said pointedly.

“Never mind, I don’t want to know. So where is this house, and where are Marco and Nicolo?”

“It’s near San Sebastiano, on Calle Balastro. Marco and Nicolo are out looking for her.”

“I’ll ask the clerk to call the police.” Giancarlo walked over to the front desk.

Stefania looked encouragingly at Claire. “I’m sure she’ll come back here to the hotel,” she said.

“You were a long way from here. I don’t think she’ll know how.”

Christ, Dorsodoro.
If Gwen went in the wrong direction, she’d end up at the boat harbor. She wondered if the docks in Venice were as seedy as they were everywhere else in the world. It was no place for a teenaged girl to be wandering around alone, especially at night. It had never occurred to Claire that there would ever be a time when Gwen would be on her own, and she thought of all the things she might have done to prepare her for it, but hadn’t. She hadn’t taught her how to call the Italian emergency number, hadn’t taught her the Italian word for police. If Gwen saw a sign with
carabinieri
on it, how much chance was there that she’d know what it meant? Claire hadn’t even thought to make sure that Gwen carried one of the hotel business cards so she’d have the name and number of the hotel with her at all times.

Gwen having been rather sweet all day just made Claire feel worse. Sure, she’d had an ulterior motive for being on her best behavior, but still, they’d had a really pleasant day together. Yes, she talked too much and she couldn’t sit still for more than five minutes, but Claire was getting used to having her around. Successfully switching the diaries had given them a shared sense of accomplishment (and a fit of the giggles, once Andrew Kent had left the reading room). Claire would be the first to admit that her behavior had been less chaperonelike than it should have been, but it was hard to regret it; she’d never had that much fun in a library before. Shopping and getting ready before going out for the evening had been fun, too; it made Claire remind herself to have a daughter one of these days.

If anything happened to Gwen, it would be entirely her fault, Claire thought. She should have seen through that little charade the girls had put on the previous evening, and she probably would have, if she hadn’t wanted to go out with Giancarlo. How would she find the words to tell Gwen’s parents? How would she live with herself?

At eleven thirty, she was sitting in the lobby while Stefania talked on her cell phone to Marco, who was searching near San Sebastiano. Two policemen stood at the desk, studying Gwen’s passport and filling out a form.
A missing person. She’s a missing person.
What had Nicolo done to upset Gwen? If Giancarlo didn’t kill his cousin, Claire thought, she might do it herself.

Giancarlo knelt down in front of her. He spoke gently. “We’re going to find Gwen, I promise. The police are looking for her, and Marco and Nicolo are going back over the route they took from Campo Barnaba this evening.”

“They were at Campo Barnaba?”

“They met Stefania and Gwen there, and then they walked to Nicolo’s friend’s house.”

Claire stood up. “I’m going over there.”

“You don’t want to wait here?”

“Campo Barnaba is one of the only places in Venice that might seem familiar to her. I think that’s where she is.”

The driver of the small motorboat turned off the engine after they entered the Rio Barnaba, and let the boat sidle quietly up to the
campo
steps. The square was bright under a waxing moon. The white facade of the Church Sant Barnaba, which took up most of the east side of the square, glowed with a ghostly luminescence. The moonlight made everything pale, silvery, and sharp; even her footsteps on the pavement sounded abrupt, urgent.

Giancarlo waited in the boat as Claire scanned the empty
campo.
The shops were all closed, and the umbrellaed tables of the Caffé Alfredo had been taken in for the night. What if Gwen weren’t here? Campo Barnaba was Claire’s only hunch. Claire felt fairly certain that Gwen would remember their conversation about it. Of course, she would have to have found it first…

“Claire?” Gwen’s quavering voice came from somewhere within the arched doorway of the church.

Oh thank god.
Relief flooded over her. “Gwen!” Claire rushed across the square. Gwen sat in the darkness, hunched against the cold stone wall. She looked up at Claire with a tear-and mascara-stained face. “Are you all right?” Claire asked as she knelt down next to her.

Gwen nodded slowly, sniffed, and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “I got lost.”

“I know. You did right to stay here, though. It would have been harder to find you if you’d kept walking around.”

“I was hoping you’d remember.”

“I remembered. I’m just so glad you’re all right. We were all really worried.” Claire looked over to the motorboat. “Come on, why don’t we go back to the hotel.”

Gwen peered across the
campo.
“Is that Giancarlo in the boat?”

“Yes.”

Her chin quivered and she made a little gasping sound. “I’m too embarrassed,” she said as the tears started to flow once more.

“Gwen, what happened? Did Nicolo do something to upset you?”

“No, it’s not his fault.”

“Then why did you—”

“I just decided I wanted to go, that’s all.” Gwen began to cry in earnest. “I thought I would go back”—sob—“to the hotel”—gasp—“but then I got loooost…” The last word merged into a long wail, in which her eyes scrunched up and her mouth stretched into an open grimace, much like a disturbing Carnival mask Claire had seen.

She took a pack of tissues from her purse and gave one to Gwen. “I still don’t understand why you left.”

Incomprehensibly, Gwen began crying even harder: her chest heaved with violent sobs, interspersed with a strange sort of hiccuping. She wiped her nose with the tissue and turned to Claire, her lips trembling. “He doesn’t love meeeee…,” she cried.

“Nicolo? But you’ve just met him.”

“Not Nicolo. Tyyy-lerrrr.” The scrunchy Carnival-mask face appeared again, along with a copious flow of tears.

“Tyler? Isn’t he your boyfriend at home?”

“He’s not my boyfriend. He made out with me and then he dumped me and he won’t even talk to me and now he’s going out with Tiffany Havermeyerrrrr…” She paused just long enough for a few gasping breaths. “Tiffany’s really pretty and blond and skinny and everybody at school knows that he kissed me and then dumped me and then he started going out with her. But I just can’t believe he likes her better than he likes meeeee,” she sobbed.

“I’m sure that’s only because he doesn’t know you very well.”

“He likes Tiffany ’cause she’s older and she’ll do more stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“You know, sex stuff.” Gwen took a few ragged breaths and the tears seemed to subside a bit.

“You mean he dumped you because you wouldn’t—”

“He said I was too young and not experienced enough. I thought that maybe if I got more experience…”

“That’s why you wanted to go out with Nicolo?”

“Not the only reason. I like Nicolo…but then we started kissing, and I started thinking about Tyler, and about how he was probably kissing Tiffany…like, they’re probably making out all the time.”

“You can’t know that for sure.”

“But that’s what it seems like.”

“Yes, I know what you mean,” Claire admitted. How many times had she had to blot out a vision of Michael and Laura?

“And then I just started crying,” Gwen said. “And I was embarrassed and I didn’t want Nicolo to see me crying, so I left. And then I got looost…”

And we’re back to where we started.
Claire took a few more tissues from the pack. “Any guy who dumps you because you don’t want to ‘do stuff’ is just an asshole.”

“He is?” Gwen sniffed and wiped her eyes.

“Duh! You shouldn’t have anything to do with him.”

“But I’m in love with him.” Gwen hiccupped and a small, high-pitched sob escaped her. “Why am I in love with an asshole?”

“Millions of women have asked themselves that very same question. I’m afraid there isn’t a good answer for it.”

“But I can’t stand it if he’ll never be in love with me, too.”

“Oh, Gwen,” Claire sighed. “I know it hurts. One of the most difficult things to learn is that you can be very much in love with someone and he might not love you back.”

Gwen rubbed the last of the tears away. “Has that happened to you?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do?”

“Left New York, changed schools, shut myself away, and buried myself in my work. But I’m not saying that was the right thing to do.”

“So what’s the right thing?”

“Maybe everyone has to figure that out for themselves. But right now I would say it’s to…live life. Meet more people. Believe that there’ll be someone else, because…because there just has to be.”

“But what if there isn’t?”

“I promise you there will be.” Claire caught Gwen’s eye, held her gaze. “I promise.” She waited a moment, until Gwen nodded, almost imperceptibly. “You ready to go back?” Claire glanced over at Giancarlo and the waiting motorboat. “Come on, let’s go for a ride. It’s not a gondola, but it is a boat.”

3 March 1618

T
HE
R
IO DI
Santa Ternita, where La Celestia had asked Alessandra to meet her, was a tiny canal near the Arsenale. Alessandra huddled inside the
felze
and tucked her hands inside her cape, her cheeks stinging with the cold, as Nico steered the gondola through the maze of dark, narrow waterways that were common in this part of the city. Light from the newly risen, waxing moon slanted across inky black water and sparkled off the gondola’s silver
ferro
as the bow slowly turned. Alessandra raised her head and sniffed; the bitter smoke from the Arsenale’s furnaces was always present here.

Her nerves felt raw, stretched to the breaking point. She hadn’t slept and her day had been riddled with anxiety. Although she had successfully delivered the code book to La Celestia the night before, Antonio’s arrival had unnerved her.

What if the viscount revealed his suspicions about her to the ambassador? She wanted to believe that Antonio would be discreet, but even his silence might not keep her safe. It was quite possible for Bedmar to realize on his own that more than the wine had been at work on him. Would he check to see if the book was missing? She worried that she had left something in his rooms out of place, and went over her actions in her mind. Had she closed the top of the chest, and locked it again? Had she returned the key to its proper drawer? Had she left the candle on the mantel, where she’d found it? Even though she had distinct memories of all these tasks, her fear rose to torment her, causing her to believe that she had overlooked some crucial detail. And tonight she had to retrieve the book from La Celestia and put it back. The thought of going through it all again filled her with dread; but if she did not, Bedmar would discover the robbery and her fate would be sealed. No, her only hope was to follow through with the entire scheme.

They turned into the Rio di Santa Ternita. The buildings seemed to close in on them as they penetrated farther into the canal, and the stark shadows grew deeper. Soon Alessandra saw La Celestia’s gondola up ahead, moored to a post on the right. Nico let their boat drift to a stop directly behind it. The lantern at the front of the courtesan’s gondola threw a circle of dull yellow light over the prow, but the craft appeared empty; Moukib was not at his post on the stern. Nico offered his hand to help Alessandra onto the
fondamenta,
and from there she stepped down into the bow of La Celestia’s boat.

She drew back the curtains covering the
felze
. When she saw La Celestia, she smiled in spite of herself, overcome with admiration, amusement, even a little envy. Worry had kept Alessandra from sleeping so much as a wink, and here was La Celestia peacefully napping. Nestled in the shadows where the moonlight did not reach, the slumbering courtesan lay back against a group of plump velvet pillows, one arm elegantly arrayed across the cushions, as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

Alessandra stooped to enter, then reached out and gently shook her arm. “La Celestia?”

The courtesan fell backward, parting the curtains on the other side of the
felze
and landing on her back on the floor of the boat, her face turned up to the sky. Alessandra screamed. Moonlight streamed down upon La Celestia’s pale skin and the wide, bloody gash at the base of her throat, so deep it had nearly severed her head from her body.

Alessandra scrambled outside, panicked and afraid. Her scream had brought Nico running, and he stood on the
fondamenta
looking with horror at the sight of La Celestia’s mutilated body. Drained of its life fluid, her skin was so pallid it appeared as cold and inert as marble. Nico held out his hand to Alessandra. “We must leave here at once,” he insisted.

“Wait,” she replied, remembering the book. She had to step over La Celestia’s body to duck back under the
felze
. As she turned over the cushions, she realized with revulsion that they were soaked with the courtesan’s blood. Her stomach heaved. She covered her mouth with her hand, quickly jerking it away again. Her palm was wet, her hands and her dress smeared with blood. It occurred to her that if the book were similarly soiled, it would do no good to return it. She kept looking, regardless, afraid to depart without it. Within a few minutes, she had searched the entire cabin. The book was not there.

A bone-deep fear settled into her. What on the surface appeared to be a random crime was not, Alessandra was certain; La Celestia had been murdered for the code book. Had someone wanted it badly enough to kill for it, or had Bedmar discovered the theft? If the marquis knew that Alessandra had stolen the book, why hadn’t he come after her first? It was probably just a matter of time before he did, Alessandra realized. And not much time, at that.

“Who killed her?” Nico asked when he saw Alessandra emerge from the
felze
.

“The marquis, I believe, or one of his men. Unless someone paid off Moukib quite handsomely.”

“Her gondolier? It wasn’t him.” Nico nodded at the entrance to a narrow alley leading off the
fondamenta
and Alessandra saw what she’d missed earlier. Moukib lay on the ground, his knees curled into his chest, a pool of blood forming a wide circle around him.

“He’s dead,” Nico said. “We must away. And you must take steps to protect yourself.”

Calm yourself, Alessandra thought as Nico rowed the gondola into the Rio di San Martino, on their way to the
bocca di leone
.

It had been Nico’s idea that she write a letter detailing what she knew of the Spanish ambassador’s crimes and deliver it to the Great Council. She hadn’t been able to think of anything better, although she wasn’t exactly sure how it would help her. “It will save you from the noose,” Nico had said; but would it save her from the marquis? If he could kill La Celestia, surely he could kill her, too. Nico had offered to deliver the letter himself, but Alessandra had insisted that it was her responsibility, even though the sinister maw that waited for her in the courtyard of the Doge’s Palace filled her with foreboding.

Her hand went to the letter tucked inside the small pouch tied at her waist. Soon, the marquis would know who had exposed him, and her life would be in even greater danger. But her own safety was not her only concern. What of Antonio? His association with the ambassador and the duke of Ossuna implied that he was also a part of their plot, and yet she would not want him to be implicated. She hoped that the viscount was already gone from Venice, but even distance might not be enough to protect him. Venetian justice had a wide reach, and was rightly feared. Naples was well within the jurisdiction of the council’s assassins.

But how could she do other than what she had set out to do tonight? If only to avenge La Celestia’s murder, she would have taken this risk, but La Celestia had assured her that the Republic was in peril. It was Alessandra’s civic duty to place the letter in the lion’s mouth. If she failed, many more lives could be lost.

They turned into a waterway that circled west, toward the Piazzetta dei Leoncini. A single gondola with a red lantern at its bow glided slowly toward them. One of its occupants, an elegant courtesan with a feathered headdress, wet her rouged mouth with her tongue and held out her hand in silent invitation. After turning into a wide, bright canal, they were swallowed by the shadow of a bridge and disgorged again, and all at once there was music and light and laughter, a riot of color and costume, as the crowds along Calle Canonica pressed into the Piazza. Nico halted the gondola and exchanged a wordless look with Alessandra before she stepped onto the
fondamenta
and rushed away.

The Piazza was bright with torchlight, alive with music and festivity. Alessandra pressed through the crowds, a somber figure among the revelers. She summoned her courage and moved toward the Porta della Carta, the high archway that led to the palace courtyard, then abruptly stopped, startled by something that had caught at the edge of her vision.

Between the two great marble columns at the entrance to the Piazza San Marco, a dead man hung limply against a background of starless sky. His limbs were broken, his face bloodied, his bruised flesh barely covered by dirty, tattered rags. Not one of the many costumed revelers below took notice of him.

Stirred by a gust of wind, the hanged man turned slowly on the cord that had snapped his neck. Light from a bonfire below animated his blank, staring eyes; flickering shadows played across his mouth and turned his death’s grimace into a grin. Alessandra stood transfixed, as it appeared that the hanged man was still alive. She imagined that he spoke to her:
It could be you at the end of this rope, if you do not deliver that letter…but here is the fate of the one you love if you do.

I am damned with the Devil’s own choice, Alessandra thought, shaking her head to rid herself of the illusion. Her step was slow as she walked toward the Porta della Carta, and slipped through the archway into the shadowed, silent courtyard.