So Venezia hires monsters to patrol the lagoon. Tormenters must abound there, but clearly there are kind people, too. People who befriend monsters.
“You called Princess Dolce ‘my lady,’ ” says Bianca. “She is now, isn’t she?”
Marin’s mouth hangs open. He looks from her to me and back again. “We will make formal introductions in Venezia, of course. But Dolce has already accepted my invitation to stay with us.” He looks at me and smiles.
Bianca bounces on her bottom. “I knew it.”
I did, too, of course. But what it all means is more than I can fathom.
Bianca presses against me. “Aunt Agnola is good. I love her, you know I do. But a mamma is different. You’ll be my mamma. Won’t you?”
I put my arm around her again. “I will be good to you, as good as my mamma was to me.” We nestle into one another, and the moment feels like a prayer. As though Mamma is listening, approving. And I wonder suddenly if the Lord gave me Bianca to make up for stealing Mamma.
Soon we step onto the pebbled shore around the lighthouse and climb up stairs onto a path. Marin leads the way. I mustn’t show my fear. I learned that over and over on my island.
Everyone we pass is our size. I stop and stare. This is an impossible world. Have the monsters formed a colony on Murano, like birds?
Marin makes inquiries in a candle shop, and soon we are at the door of a tailor. Marin explains he wants a fine dress for me. Something in silk, in a brilliant color.
“Come in, come in,” says the tailor. He leads us through a foyer and up the stairs, into his workroom. He bows to me. “Choose what you like. I can have anything ready within a fortnight. If you please, take a look at these fabrics.” He waves his hand toward rolls and rolls of silks, wools, linens, in every color.
“No,” says Marin, “you don’t understand. We need the dress now.”
“Now? I could perhaps have it ready in ten days at the soonest, but—”
“Now. Before the afternoon. We return to Venezia this eve, and she must be wearing it.”
The tailor shakes his head in dismay. “Impossible.”
“Surely you have dresses that you could adjust for my lady.” Marin hands the tailor a small purse.
The tailor takes the purse hesitantly. He weighs it in his palm. “Of course.”
“And we’ll need someone to arrange her hair.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll go buy jewelry.” Marin turns to me. “When you’re ready, we’ll have a little refreshment. Then leave for Venezia.” He heads toward the stairs.
I run after him and clutch his arm. “Please…”
“What?” He bends toward me. “Don’t be alarmed, Dolce.” His voice is so soft. “Fears plague you. I see that. But whatever wrongs were done you, they have ended. You are with us now.”
“Now?”
“Day by day, Dolce. That’s how life moves.” His eyes hold mine fast. “I’ll be back soon. What’s your pleasure? Pearls? Gold?”
“I…I don’t know.”
“Then I’ll choose just one necklace. In Venezia you can choose for yourself.”
My fingers uncurl slowly. Marin races down the steps.
“I’ll need you to take off that robe,” says the tailor.
“She has nothing on underneath,” says Bianca.
The tailor opens a drawer, takes out a white shift, and hands it to me. “Slip this on, Signorina.” He turns his back.
I put on the shift. “Ready,” I breathe.
“All right, then. I have two gowns that could do quite well, with a stitch here or there. Silk, of course, as the fine sire requested. One is purple, the other indigo. Do you have a preference?”
“Indigo,” says Bianca.
I touch her cheek. “Why?”
“I like the word.”
I look at the tailor and nod.
I stand in the light from the window while he pins the dress, then takes it off me and sews, then puts it on me and pins again. He’s precise. The silk is soft. I feel suspended, unable to guess at what might happen next.
Finally, the tailor steps away. “I believe that does it. Take a look.” He picks up a mirror from the table. The mirror reflects perfectly. It’s because of me that Murano has such mirrors.
I gaze at my image.
“You are indeed fair, dear Signorina,” says the tailor. “And indigo was a fine choice. It’s nearly as dark as your hair.”
Fair? I look hard. I am me, still and always. Clothing changes nothing. I look at the tailor’s face. He seems utterly sincere. I shake my head and look out the window. I feel a pang in my heart. “Bianca! Look!” I point. Venerio’s short boat passes along the canal. He rows. Francesco stands in the middle. Has Venerio found someone to replace me? Does anyone miss me? Maybe the boy Tommaso. But he’ll forget me soon.
Bianca leans out the window and follows my finger. “Dwarfs. I like them. Don’t you?”
“Dwarfs?”
“Haven’t you ever seen them before?”
I nod.
“They’re funny. They always make me laugh.”
The tailor comes to stand beside us. “Ah, those are the ones from Torcello. It’s fever-ridden, that place. No one else wants it, so we might as well leave it to the freaks. They come here now and then, for supplies. They appear to be demented, poor things. Simpletons at best.”
I clap my hand over my mouth to hold in the sick.
Bianca tilts her head from side to side. “Demented? But you’re wrong. They’re capable of lots of things. They make good servants.”
“I suppose that must be true. They say if you visit Torcello, they’ll run you off. The men are strong. But every now and then someone still tries to sneak over there to snatch one of the children to sell.”
I stagger to the nearby cutting table and press a hand on it for support. The room swirls.
“Are you all right?” the tailor asks.
I put both hands on the table. My chest heaves. “Do you…do you, Bianca, do you have dwarf servants?”
“No. Hardly anyone does, really. There aren’t enough of them. If you don’t like dwarfs, you better not show it. Papà says all people have dignity, no matter how ill-formed or unable.”
“Yes,” I say. “That’s true.” I cry into my hands.
The gondola slips through the water, and I’m listening to Bianca talk of Aunt Agnola’s dog Ribolin when the bell sounds. It’s distant but deep as it echoes across the lagoon. Bianca goes silent. We hold hands and peer through the fading light.
“Venezia,” says Marin in a hushed voice as we round an island. “This view never fails to steal my breath. She deserves her name as serenissima—the most serene.”
The city looms in silence, set against a pure blue, cloudless sky. Early moonlight shimmers off the water and the walls, white and pink and amber. It feels like a promise—like magic. Serenity pervades.
But as we approach and forms become distinct, that sense of calm evaporates. There are so many buildings, so close together, so many towers, that my skin goes gooseflesh at the thought of the vast numbers of people those buildings harbor. By day, this city must swarm like an anthill or a beehive. Narrow alleys run between buildings. I imagine them crowded, bustling. I grip Bianca’s hand tighter.
I see no trees. Are they hidden behind walls? People can’t live without trees and fields.
Antonin maneuvers the gondola through a small canal, where we glide under footbridges that connect to alleys on both sides and sometimes an open campo. I look around and try to memorize every detail. But it’s all so strange, so many stones and doors, so many roofs and chimneys. The canal feeds into a larger one, a gigantic one. I see no people out and about, but I hear music from open windows where lanterns glow—a stringed instrument, like Francesco plays, and something else, which I don’t recognize. I turn my head toward every noise. Laughter comes from behind us. Yowls and shrieks burst from a side alley. Are there wildcats here?
The gondo
la turns sharply and goes right under a building! It’s a private waterway, a private dock. We stop. This is it. This is Marin’s home, and I didn’t even look at it from the outside, I was so caught up in noises. My breath comes short.
We get out and climb stone steps set at intervals that are right for my legs. Footsteps clack above us. Two plump women holding candles, a skinny young man hardly older than me, and a tiny four-legged animal appear at the top of the steps. I will never get used to seeing people my size. Bianca throws her arms around the wide waist of the younger one, who must be Aunt Agnola. The woman hugs Bianca back and looks at me questioningly over her head. I hang back, two steps below the landing. Funny, now I’m far shorter than them.
Marin clears his throat. “We have a visitor. A guest. Signorina…” He looks down at me with startled eyes. I can’t think why.
“She’s not a guest.” Bianca takes my hand and pulls me up to the landing. “She’s Princess Dolce. And she’s family.”
The animal sniffs at my feet. I stay perfectly still.
“Let’s just call her Signorina Dolce among ourselves.” Marin rubs his palm across his mouth. “This is my sister, Signorina Agnola.”
I smile at Agnola.
She looks at me with the same startled eyes as Marin. She seems to hesitate. Then she comes forward a step and bends toward me, head lowered.
I look where she looks. The animal, of course. “This has to be Ribolin,” I say with careful cheer. I dare to touch an ear. The dog pushes against my hand. I scratch him. He wriggles with pleasure. How funny. “Bianca has told me about him. What a delight.”
Agnola straightens and gives a laugh. “I’m so glad you like him. You’re a person of discernment. He’s a good doggy.” She turns to Marin. A look passes between them that I don’t understand. “Let me introduce the servants. You don’t have to be formal with them,” she says gently. “You don’t have to curtsy. A head bob will do.” She looks at me intently and bobs her head. “This is Lucia La Rotonda, our cook.”
The round, older woman bends toward me, and now I understand; this is what’s done. My neck goes prickly. I bob my head. Lucia La Rotonda straightens and looks at me expectantly. So I bob my head again.
Agnola smiles approval. “And this is Carlo, our kitchen boy and general handyman.”
The young man who has been standing awkwardly at the rear comes forward and bends low. I wait for him to straighten this time and then I bob my head. I look at Agnola. She gives an almost imperceptible nod.
“You must be hungry after all that travel. You’re later than you said you’d be, but we waited on the meal just for you.” Lucia La Rotonda waves a hand toward a table. It stands at the rear of the room, which turns out to be cavernous. The floor shines in the candlelight.
We sit at the table and it’s just like the table on San Francesco del Deserto, the brothers’ island; it’s made for people my size. So are the chairs. I look around. The lamp sconces are at the right height for me. The framed paintings are at the right height for me. My head is level with Marin’s and Agnola’s. We look into each other’s faces without looking down or up. I feel light-headed. Marin says a prayer, the same prayer the brothers said, the same prayer the people on Torcello say, a simple thanks. The familiarity of it anchors me: this is all as it should be; I could belong here.
But then I look down at what Lucia La Rotonda has just placed in front of me, a spoon and an oddly shaped object. I want to ask her what it is, but she’s already rushing away. I look at Marin; he’s rubbing his mouth with his palm again, worried about something. I look at Agnola.
She smiles just the slightest. Her eyes go to the odd thing and back to my face. “Forks have become the rage in Venezia. We are a stylish town. Visiting dignitaries laugh at us, but I have to admit, it’s better than scalding your fingers.” She picks up her own fork. “No one would think of eating pasta without one these days. Don’t you think forks are fun?”
Forks are not fun. They are less agile than fingers by far. But at least the food is good. And I’m hungry. I eat my fill and rip off a crust of bread to wipe my bowl, then stop and check first. The others are wiping their bowls. Thank heaven. I clean mine to a polish.
“And now,” says Marin as he rises from the table, “I trust my dear Agnola to settle you for the night.”
Agnola nods. “She’ll share my bed.”
“I want her,” says Bianca.
“Not tonight,” says Marin. “Dolce will sleep with Aunt Agnola.”
Bianca bites her bottom lip.
“I bid you good rest.” Marin comes around the table and kisses Bianca on the top of the head.
That’s it? No singing together, no stories like with Mamma?
Bianca goes through a door with Lucia La Rotonda.
I follow Agnola through another door, and spend the rest of the night trying to will myself to sleep, as the woman beside me snores softly. The little dog lies on her chest and gives off tiny squeaks as he twitches in his sleep. Beyond those noises, I hear nothing. It’s so dark in the room, I see no outlines.
This is the serenissima—the most serene. My eyes are dry; I blink and blink. I am not serene.
But when have I ever been?
Agnola always speaks in a quiet voice. I have been here a month and have never heard her raise it. Our eyes meet often throughout the day, as we find ourselves side by side in a task. But we have talked little.
This morning I open my eyes in our wide bed when she asks in her warm, gentle way, “Are you awake?”
“Yes.” I roll on my side without touching her.
Agnola is staring up at the ceiling through the gray air before dawn. As usual, Ribolin sleeps on her ample chest, which exaggerates the rise and fall of her breathing under the linen sheet. “It’s going to be a busy day, Dolce. Meeting these people…Let me prepare you.”
My cheeks heat up. “I am prepared for anything.”
She turns her head toward me. “Thank you for saying that. I know you guard your privacy. But without help, the rules of Venezia will elude you, and the nobility will trample you in the end.”
Marin fears this too. I have seen the way he frowns, then tries to smile when we talk of my being introduced into society. “Why would you care?”
Ribolin stretches, all four legs stiff, and grunts. Agnola gets out of bed and sets the dog in the basket on the floor beside the open window that faces the rear courtyard. Then, hand over hand on the rope, she lowers the basket down to the courtyard. She secures the end of the rope under a slab of marble and comes back to sit on the edge of our bed. “Dolce, listen well. There’s value in understanding what you mean to others. And I hate it that you don’t see it yourself. You deserve to.
“First, you comfort Bianca. You comfort Marin, too. He was bereft after five deaths in a row. Our parents, in a boating accident. Then our older sister, Moderata, in childbirth, like his wife, Veronica. Marin and Veronica’s son survived but one day.”
“How awful.”
She sighs. “And third, you remove my fear of being reduced to nothing. There you have it.” She rises and uses the chamber pot in the corner, while I look the other way.
“What do you mean, reduced to nothing?”
“It’s what would happen if Marin married anyone from the nobility. My life will be far better if he marries you.”
“Marries me?” I sit up in shock.
“Marin hasn’t let himself understand it yet. That’s how he is. But I can see what’s happening to him. And I’m glad he wants you. You don’t look down on me—the maiden aunt, spared life in a convent only because her brother had mercy and claimed her to look after his child.” She shakes her head. “Marin saved me because we’ve always been close. We see things the same way, even if I realize it before he does. He’s been glad to have me help with Bianca. But others don’t understand that.” Agnola opens the doors of the large wooden wardrobe, selects a dress, and spreads it over the top of the painted chest at the foot of the bed. She op
ens a drawer in the bottom of the wardrobe and takes out underclothes. She stops and smiles at me. “I like how you think, Dolce. Get out of bed. We can talk as we dress. I need to explain what the morning will be like.”
I’m not ready to dress. I run my hands down my torso and suddenly feel self-conscious. There was never a chance before that how I looked might matter to a man. But now…I allow all the vague hopes I had not let myself acknowledge to flood me. Marin is good. Marin is wonderful! Is it possible he’d marry me? He’d have to be mad.
High-pitched yips snap me back to the moment. They come from the courtyard. Agnola pulls up the rope and carefully wipes off Ribolin’s muddy paws with a towel. Then the pup goes flying around the room, jumping on and off every bit of furniture. I anticipate a headache and perch on the edge of the bed so that if it blinds me, I won’t fall. But it doesn’t come. And I realize I haven’t had a headache, or any sudden weakness, in days. My hands—I hold my palms before my face and spread the fingers—they’re steady. The pink is still there, but my hands don’t shake. I’m healthy. Oh, Lord, please keep me healthy. Please make me worthy of Marin.
Agnola talks as she arranges her hair. Her eyes follow herself in the silver mirror.
“You’re so rich,” I say. “Yet you look in a silver mirror instead of a glass one.”
Agnola gives a little laugh as she pats her hair into place. “Glass mirrors the size of this one cost as much as a room’s worth of furniture.”
I’m astonished. I’ve made mirrors larger than the silver one.
Lord, that means the glassblowers got rich while they paid us hardly anything. I have the terrible sensation that it’s easy to get cheated in the larger world.
I’m so lucky to have been found by this family and no other.
Agnola rouges her cheeks and lips. She darkens her brows with a pencil. I watch, fascinated, as she makes me repeat greetings after her, in exactly her way of speaking. We’ve been practicing for weeks. Agnola tells me to let her answer everyone’s questions. She tells me to pay attention, and if I have to speak, I must try to mimic the way the other women talk. Their speech is refined. Mine is not. But I’ll be all right, she says, because I’m a good mimic. She tells me I must allow the servants to serve me, not to help them as she and I do at home. I must laugh when she laughs, listen closely when she listens closely. I must smile at everyone, and she makes me practice that special smile: never big—not a grin, just a thin, small smile, as if I know something others don’t. She says they’ll be judging me. “You’ll do well.” She stands and puts her hands around my upper arms. “And if you don’t know what to say, just stay silent.”
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