by Fiona Paul
She turned her attention to the bookshelf and skimmed the other titles. It was empty except for a few books about alchemy. There was nothing that seemed to connect to the Order of the Eternal Rose, but she flipped quickly through each of them to be certain. As she went to replace the last book, a flicker of light startled her.
Leaning in, she realized there was an opening cut into the wall behind the shelves. Someone had tried to hide it, but the corners didn’t quite match up.
Cass pushed at the bookshelf. It didn’t budge. She inhaled deeply and leaned against the wood. As she exhaled, she shoved with her whole body. The set of shelves slid over, revealing a narrow doorway. Light danced against dark walls from within.
Holding her breath, she stepped into the secret room. The flash of light had come from a swirling bronze candelabra that stood against one wall. Four candles sat atop it, arranged in a Y shape. The center candle was unlit. Four canvases hung behind the candelabra, mounted in plain wooden frames. Four marble pedestals that looked as if they might have been relocated from the portego were spread across the room in a larger Y shape.
Despite the dancing flames, the room felt colder than the rest of Palazzo Viaro’s lower level. Cass didn’t know what someone was doing down here, but it wasn’t good. People didn’t just vacate their houses and leave candles burning. It was much too dangerous. Either the person who lived here was disturbed or the candles were part of a spell.
Or both.
Cass knew she should turn, go, flee, forget this place. But the paintings enticed her forward. Her heart rose up into her throat as she recognized the canvases from the art exhibition she had attended the day of Madalena’s wedding: Mariabella, Sophia, and a woman Cass thought of as R—each of them painted in a reclined position, reaching out to the artist, their dark hair falling seductively over their shoulders. Each with a tiny X carved across her heart. It wasn’t the fact that they were dead girls that caused Cass’s hands to shake so badly that she nearly dropped her lantern.
They were dead girls painted by Cristian de Lambert.
Luca’s half brother. The man who had tried to kill her . . . and promised to try again.
“When the body dies, slivers of its essence linger in the shadows of the living.”
—THE BOOK OF THE ETERNAL ROSE
seven
Cass’s breath went shallow. She had expected Belladonna or Piero, perhaps even Angelo de Gradi or one of Dubois’s men. But she had never expected to find evidence of Cristian de Lambert at Palazzo Viaro. He was supposed to be gone. Dubois had sent him away for good, at least that’s what Luca had assured her.
She needed to leave right this instant. But she also needed to know who was on the fourth canvas. Luca believed that Cristian had killed his little sister, Diana, when she was only six years old. Was it possible?
Cass glanced back at the narrow doorway before hesitantly creeping closer to the fourth picture. The light from the candelabra barely reached the edges of the canvas. It wasn’t a painting of Luca’s little sister.
It was a painting of Cass.
Cristian had painted her like the rest, hair loose, hand reaching out for him, but the work looked unfinished. Her dress and expression lacked detail and the colors were a little off—her hair too red, her lips not red enough. She reached out and touched the canvas. With one fingertip, she traced the tiny X carved over her heart.
She turned to the pedestals and went to the one in the center of the room. Atop a swatch of velvet sat a flat stone box carved to look like a miniature coffin. Cass lifted the lid. The box was full of keepsakes: a golden charm bracelet, a small glass bottle of rosewater, a lace handkerchief embroidered with the initials MC. It was a shrine to Mariabella. A macabre collection of mementos for a girl whose life Cristian had taken.
She moved to the next pedestal. Inside this coffin lay a ruffled chemise and a twist of golden brown hair. Was this from the murdered maid, Sophia?
Cass moved to the third shrine. A chill raced up her spine when she lifted the lid. This box contained what appeared to be a human skull.
Luca had seen the paintings at the exhibition and believed that R was Cristian’s mother, Rosa, a prostitute who had often come to call on his father at Palazzo da Peraga. Cass’s insides churned as she peeked into the box once more. This time, since she knew what to expect, the skull was a bit less frightening and a bit more intriguing. Could this really be the remains of Cristian’s own mother? Cass had known he was crazy, but this surpassed her wildest imagination.
Replacing the lid, she turned toward the fourth pedestal, a combination of fear and rage welling up inside her. What was going to be inside her own shrine?
With a quick tug, she used both hands to remove the lid. Inside the box was a brown leather book. Her old journal. Cristian had stolen it after she collapsed at Madalena’s wedding. He had taunted her with it before he tried to kill her. Cass was desperate to steal it back, but if she did, then Cristian would know she had been there. Her fingers closed around the soft leather. She held the book against her chest, but something felt off. It felt . . . light. Her face crumpled as she flipped it open. The book was empty. All of the pages had been torn out.
The journal smelled faintly of ash. Had Cristian burned all of her thoughts? How much had he read? Cass blushed as she set the hollow book back into the stone box. There was no need for her to take an empty journal with her.
Her fingers grazed something else as she went to replace the lid, a piece of paper folded into a rectangle tucked against the far side of the box. Perhaps one of her journal pages had survived.
Cass unfolded the faded parchment and wondered if Cristian had put it in her box by mistake. It wasn’t part of her journal. It was filled with strange chemical and mathematical symbols. And then she recognized the writing. She had seen the same tight slanted scrawl in Piero’s journals while she was in Florence. She was holding a page from the Book of the Eternal Rose. And that meant the book had to be in Venice.
A door slammed and a sharp breeze blew suddenly through the room. Cass dropped the stone lid back onto the box and turned quickly from the shrine.
She paused at the doorway to the secret chamber, her ear pressed to the wall, listening for footsteps. Nothing. She crept through the opening, but couldn’t bring herself to pull the bookshelf back into place. It would make too much noise. She peeked out into the dim hallway, and her heart went still in her chest. A blond man was hanging his cloak on a hook just inside the front door.
Cristian.
His hair was shorter than Cass remembered, but it was him.
She stood statue-still, her breath locked inside her chest, waiting, praying he wouldn’t come toward her. He hummed softly. Cass heard him striking tinder and lighting a lantern. Footsteps. The creak of a board. She chanced one more glimpse around the corner. Cristian was heading up the stairs.
Panic clawed at her heart. Would he see her footprints on the portego’s dusty floor? Could he sense her? Could he hear the blood roaring through her veins?
She had to get out of there. She crept quickly from Cristian’s quarters into the dusty kitchen. No longer concerned about leaving footprints, she flung herself out the back door.
Dark clouds swirled in the sky, and a rogue drop of rain splattered against her left cheek. It wasn’t until Cass hit the cobblestoned street that she realized she had not only the paring knife, but also the palazzo key and the page of equations in her pocket. The key would be useless—Cristian would change the padlock on the door as soon as he realized she’d been there—but the page of equations had to mean something.
She and Luca could study it later.
Flipping the hood up on her cloak, Cass hurried toward the Conjurer’s Bridge. She didn’t hear the footsteps until they were almost upon her. Looking up at the last second, she collided with a lithe figure dressed all in black.
The woman peered
out crossly from beneath her black veil, and then her expression melted into one of surprise.
Cass felt her own jaw start to drop. Still in shock from nearly running into Cristian, she had to bite back a scream. It was Feliciana.
“A storm may be the veil with which heaven covers its eyes from a rising evil.”
—THE BOOK OF THE ETERNAL ROSE
eight
Ca-Casssandra?” Feliciana faltered, stepping back as if she’d seen a ghost. Over the past few weeks, she’d mostly recovered from her stint in the nunnery and her ensuing homelessness. She had gained back some weight, and bits of her blonde hair protruded from the sides of her veil.
Cass had been preparing to wrap her former handmaid in an embrace, but pulled up short at the frightened look on Feliciana’s face. “It’s me,” she whispered. “I’m all right.”
“But how?” Feliciana lifted her mourning veil and flipped it back over her hat. She peered closely, lifting a hand toward Cass’s face but stopping just short of touching her skin. For a moment, hope danced in her bright blue eyes. “Is my sister also . . .” She trailed off at the look on Cass’s face. “I see,” she murmured, her eyes going dead. “So only you . . .”
“And Luca,” Cass said, wondering how Feliciana knew to return to Venice in the first place. But now wasn’t the time to prod her.Feliciana was clearly distraught over the news.
Feliciana crumpled slightly, her shoulders hunching forward as she lowered her veil back over her face.
Cass reached out for Feliciana’s hand. “Feliciana, please,” she begged. “I’m as heartbroken as you are, but Siena died a hero.”
Feliciana’s gaze seared into Cass from beneath her gauzy black veil. Her cheekbones looked sharp enough to slice right through the fabric. “She never should have been with you. How could you, Cass?” Her voice went hoarse. “Were you really so naïve as to think everything would turn out fine?”
“I didn’t force her,” Cass protested. “She wanted to go.”
“She wanted to go because she was obligated to you. She loved you like a sister. She would have done anything for you.”
Cass knew that was partially true, but she also knew Siena’s love for Luca had played a role in her decision to risk her life that night. However, those feelings were private, and Cass would not expose them in some feeble attempt to defend herself. She would not speak ill of her beloved handmaid after her death.
Feliciana raised her voice slightly. “Did you use her affection toward you to coerce her into being your accomplice? Did you sacrifice my sister for a man you might not even love?”
Cass glanced around before answering. The street was empty, the ominous sky likely keeping people inside. A drop of rain hit her cheek. “No,” she said. “It was not like that at all.” The barely formed scab over the wound that was Siena’s death started to fall away. Cass raised a hand to her chest. Had she thoughtlessly used Siena to get what she wanted?
No, absolutely not. Siena knew the mission would be dangerous, and she had wanted to come from the very beginning. All Cass had done was treat her like an adult and let her make her own decision.
“Yes, well, how it was or wasn’t is no longer of consequence,” Feliciana said. “My sister is dead.” Her eyes flicked up at Palazzo Viaro and then back at Cass.
Cass followed her gaze. “Where are you headed?” she asked, feeling another raindrop tap against her skin. “We should seek shelter before the storm hits.” Also, Cass didn’t know how long it would take Cristian to discover that someone had been inside his morbid shrine. She didn’t want to be loitering outside Palazzo Viaro when he did.
“I was running some errands,” Feliciana said. “What about you? Looking for more trouble?”
“I was at the market earlier,” Cass said. “Listening to gossip about vampires and trying to decide if Luca and I should stay here in Venice or return to Florence.”
Feliciana’s eyes again went hard behind her veil. “It’s so fortunate that both you and your betrothed made it out alive. He is still your betrothed, I assume?”
“Of course.” Cass lowered her gaze to the ground. She saw things through Feliciana’s eyes. Cass had made enemies of the Order. She’d broken Luca out of prison and had seemingly not suffered at all. But Siena had done nothing to anger Joseph Dubois or anyone else. She had simply played the faithful handmaid to her mistress and died for it. “I’ll understand if you hate me,” she whispered.
“I don’t hate you,” Feliciana said, her expression softening slightly. “Perhaps if I could hear the whole story, from you, my heart might begin to heal. Come with me?”
Cass wasn’t sure the whole story would do anything but upset Feliciana further, but she followed her to a dingy restaurant a few blocks beyond the Conjurer’s Bridge.
The place was mostly empty, the handful of other patrons barely registering the presence of two cloaked serving girls. They paid for a platter of bread and cheese and two goblets of ale. Cass sat silently, wishing she could think of something pleasant to say. Finally she asked, “What made you come home?” It seemed impossible that news of Siena’s death would have traveled to Florence so quickly.
Feliciana let out a huge sigh, and her voice became heavy. “I knew it was hopeless, but when I got my fool sister’s message about your plan, I prayed there was some way I could make it back here in time to stop her.”
“Siena wrote to you?” Cass was surprised. Not because Siena had written to her sister, but because she hadn’t told Cass about it.
“Yes. Signora Cavazza read the letter to me and then helped arrange passage immediately. She wanted to return home with me, but there was speculation that she’s with child, so her father and Marco insisted she not travel.”
“Mada is pregnant? That’s wonderful,” Cass said. The news should have made her feel something more—would have, in another life. In her former life. But the way things were now, she simply felt numb. “So did you return to Venice all alone, then?”
Feliciana’s eyes narrowed, and the corners of her mouth twitched as she nibbled at another bite of cheese. “Your friend Falco accompanied me, actually. He didn’t tell you? Surely the two of you have been in contact since you’re so close.”
“I’ve been in hiding, actually.” Cass tried to keep her voice level. So Falco had returned to Venice as well. Had he come to save Cass from herself because he heard of her plan to break Luca out of prison? Did he think she was dead?
“I see. I assumed he was coming back here for you, but he did mention a project he was working on—something special he desired to paint for Belladonna that he didn’t want to do from memory.”
Cass couldn’t help but be disappointed. So he had returned to Venice to curry favor with his patroness. She didn’t know why she was surprised. Cass had explicitly informed Falco that Belladonna was the leader of the Florentine chapter of the Order of the Eternal Rose, and was most likely involved in all manner of sinister things, and he had only responded as if Cass were insane. And then he had started talking about how many commissions Belladonna had gotten him, how she was changing his life for the better.
Cass hadn’t gotten a chance to tell Falco she had watched his exquisitely life-changing patroness bathing in human blood, but she had no doubt he would just brush away what she’d seen in the church as a hallucination or a dream. He refused to believe anything that he couldn’t prove. He took nothing on faith, not even Cass.
“Do you know if Signorina Briani is also in Venice?” Cass asked, thinking of the execution notice. She took another drink of her ale.
Feliciana shrugged. “It was just Falco and me in our carriage.”
Cass wasn’t convinced. Either Belladonna was gathering her blood in Venice or Joseph Dubois’s physician, Angelo de Gradi, had returned and immediately put her technique into practice. And the upstairs rooms at Palazzo Viaro did remind Cass of the room at Palazzo del
la Notte where she had seen Hortensa Zanotta undressing for a strange man the night before she was executed.
“So, please, Cass,” Feliciana said. “Tell me what happened. I need to hear it in your words, how my sister died.”
Cass placed her hands in her lap, again wishing she had a rosary to clutch. She didn’t want to relive a moment of that day, but she owed it to Feliciana. “Siena approached someone who worked at the Palazzo Ducale, a friend of yours, a boy who drew her a map,” she started. “We knew exactly where to go so as not to be discovered.” Cass explained how she and Siena had hidden in the wine room until it was late enough that they could sneak about the palazzo’s hallways undetected.
“And then?” Feliciana leaned forward across the table.
Before Cass could answer, the door to the tavern swung open and a trio of men entered, dressed in dark clothing, with heavy wooden clubs hanging from their belts. Each had a crest on his left sleeve—a griffin holding a flaming sword.
Cass swallowed hard. She swilled down the rest of her goblet of ale. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I need to go.”
“Go? But we just got here,” Feliciana protested. “Besides, what about the storm?”
“Look at their sleeves. Those men work for Dubois,” Cass hissed. “I cannot let them recognize me.”
Grabbing one last bit of cheese for the road, she hurried out of the tavern, with Feliciana right at her heels. Clouds of mist hung in the air, and thunder growled. Canals and cobblestones stretched out around her, but the gathering twilight had shrouded the Rialto in an unfamiliar cloak. Cass wasn’t certain of which way to go.
“This way.” Feliciana disappeared into an alley, tugging Cass behind her at the pace of a galloping horse. She turned once, and then again, navigating the lanes as if she could see in the dark.
