Starling

by Fiona Paul

  “I do understand,” Luca said. “That’s the problem.” He squared his shoulders again and considered her disguise. “Am I correct in assuming you have a safe place to sleep tonight?” He had stripped his voice of emotion. She might as well have been a servant of his, a servant who had fallen out of favor.

  Cass assumed she could continue to stay at Palazzo Dolce. “Yes, but not—”

  Luca cut her off once more. “Then you should go there.”

  “But where will you go?”

  “Do not worry about me.” His voice wavered, but only for a brief moment. “I’m not as helpless—or naïve—as you seem to think.” And with that, he turned his back on her and walked quickly down the road along the canal.

  Cass stood alone, watching as he vanished into the darkness.

  “The dagger is a destroyer and a deterrent. Its power lies both in action and in restraint.”

  —THE BOOK OF THE ETERNAL ROSE

  thirteen

  The next day, Cass still felt miserable. She went through the motions of working with Flavia, discussing the meanings of some of Michel de Montaigne’s quotes. Then, Flavia read aloud to Cass from The Odyssey. She was at the part where Odysseus blinds the Cyclops, one of the scenes Cass had always found exciting, but today she couldn’t concentrate.

  “Am I not doing well?” Flavia asked. “You’re making a face as if you’ve bitten into a rotten fruit.”

  “I’m sorry, Flavia.” Cass stroked the petals of her lily necklace. “Your recitation is excellent. I’m just distracted.”

  “Thinking about your former betrothed?” Flavia asked.

  Cass was half tempted to remind Flavia of what was and was not appropriate conversation, but she knew the girl wasn’t being malicious. “Yes,” she admitted.

  “It’s not my business, of course,” Flavia said, resting the book on her lap, “but Capricia, if you’ve apologized and pled your case, then you’ve done everything you can. It’s up to him to decide if he can forgive you. I know it’s painful, but you’ve got to stop dwelling on it. You’re making me sad, and I’m never sad.”

  Flavia was right. Cass reached out impulsively and gave her a hug. “You’re so practical,” she said. “I’m glad I met you.”

  Flavia beamed. “I’m glad I met you too.”

  Cass took the book from her lap. “My turn to read.” She flipped to a passage about Odysseus’s wife, Penelope, and read about how she cleverly avoided marrying any of the 108 suitors who asked for her hand in Odysseus’s absence. What great, undying love, Cass thought.

  After Cass and Flavia completed their lesson, they joined the rest of the girls for dinner. Cass listened as Arabella chattered about the patron she had acquired at last night’s party, and Seraphina and Flavia discussed which women in attendance had worn the most beautiful dresses. As she ate her bread and soup, Cass struggled to focus on what the rest of the girls were saying. How was it even possible she had run across Falco and Luca at the same gathering? They were the sort of men whose paths never should have crossed. But there they were, and now one of them wanted nothing to do with her and the other refused to leave her alone. She rested her head in her hands.

  “Capricia?” Flavia’s chirpy voice made her look up. “Did you hear? Octavia’s assigned us wash duty for the rest of the afternoon.”

  Splendid. Perhaps some manual labor would help her take her mind off things. Cass needed to refocus on her larger goal. Find the book. Destroy the Order. What happened with Luca and Falco was less important.

  After finishing her soup, Cass followed Flavia from room to room, scrubbing down the linens, collars, and chemises that were soaking in pails. She had never washed anything before and fumbled at the simple tasks of rinsing and wringing out the linens. She tried to mimic Flavia’s nimble fingers, but her own hands could barely handle the hot water. How did the washwomen go from palazzo to palazzo day after day? Their hands must be made of leather.

  “I wonder why Octavia doesn’t have each girl do her own wash,” Cass mused.

  “Because some of them wouldn’t,” Flavia said. “They are so lazy.” She tossed her dark curls. “Not me, though. My mother taught me never to be idle. I’ve got a meeting with a client tonight, a glassblower from Murano. You can come if you like. I believe he has a pair of brothers.”

  Cass shook her head quickly. “I think I might just do a little reading,” she said. “Or perhaps help Octavia out around the house.”

  Flavia arched an eyebrow. “Are you certain? I hear the whole family is quite good with their mouths.”

  Cass cringed. She could teach Flavia an entire library full of classic literature, and the girl was still going to be prone to saying inappropriate things. “Maybe next time,” she said.

  “All right,” Flavia said. “But think about what I said. About not dwelling.”

  “I will.” Cass wondered when Flavia had become the teacher and she had become the student.

  After completing her chores, Cass retired to her quarters on the fourth floor of the house. As cramped as her little attic room was, she loved the view. Her window had no glass, so when she pinned open the shutters, she could easily look down on the narrow, twisting street below. She watched the people scampering past, bright streaks of color like paint on canvas. The sun had begun to set, warm rays peeking out from behind the buildings across the way.

  A gust of wind blew through her room, ruffling the skirts of a beige gown that Octavia had left on her dressing table. Cass lay on her bed, watching the old candelabra swing in the gentle breeze as she tried to make sense of things. Luca would come back to her. He had to. She didn’t want to fight the Order of the Eternal Rose without him, and if she didn’t fight the Order, well, what was left for her?

  Nothing.

  Was this how her parents had felt? Had they become obsessed with their quest to take down the Order, so that nothing else in the world would matter until they saw the shadowy organization torn to pieces? But things were different for them. They had each other. They had her.

  Cass had no one.

  She got up and carefully lit a candle, then slipped the page of equations she’d taken from Cristian’s morbid lair out from beneath her pillow, unfolding it with trembling hands. She read over the notations again. Most meant nothing to her, but she couldn’t deny the presence of her family name scrawled in the corner.

  A quiet knock sounded on her door, and Cass’s heart rose suddenly and painfully up into her throat. She slipped the page of equations back under her pillow. “Come in,” she said woodenly, expecting Octavia or one of the other girls.

  Falco slipped through the door, closing it softly behind him. Harsh words danced on the tip of Cass’s tongue. She had told him not to look for her, and he had sought her out the very next day.

  “Don’t be angry with me,” he said quickly, before she could even speak.

  “You never, ever listen, do you?”

  “Only to what I want to hear.” He flashed a lopsided grin. “You told me it was dangerous to be seen together, but we won’t be seen here.” Falco paused by her dressing table and fingered the luxurious fabric of the beige gown. “You’re not actually becoming a courtesan, are you? Not that there’s anything wrong with that, if it’s what you wish.”

  From this distance, Cass could see the tiny scar under his right eye. She could see a pair of freckles on the bridge of his nose that must’ve sprouted up in Florence. All that painting out in Belladonna’s lovely garden.

  “I’m just staying here temporarily,” Cass said. “I’m trying to locate the Book of the Eternal Rose. I heard Belladonna saying she believed that Angelo de Gradi stole it, but now he’s dead. I think perhaps Dubois or Cristian has the book because . . .” She trailed off at the look on Falco’s face. “What is it?” she asked.

  “You spend far too much time thinking about books and murderers. I have a better
plan.” He hopped up on the bed next to her and sat crossed-legged. “Do you wish to hear it?”

  “What?” she asked, her voice full of skepticism. If he had tracked her down to finish what they had started in the middle of Donna Domacetti’s portego, Cass was going to toss him straight out her window.

  Falco took both of her hands in his and looked at her very seriously. His fingers were warm. Cass felt heat bloom in her cheeks. “What?” she repeated, her voice falling away into a whisper.

  “Marry me, starling,” he said.

  She almost laughed. “Falco,” she said. “You can’t be serious. This is all just because you thought I was dead.”

  “So what if it is? Don’t you understand that seeing you last night changed everything for me?” he asked. “When I realized you were alive, it was like I had gotten a second chance at everything I wanted. I can be your second chance. Forget this obsession with the book and the Order. So what if they’re evil? They can’t touch us if they can’t find us. Run away with me. Tonight.”

  The words were gorgeous, but maybe that was the problem. Cass couldn’t reach beyond them and grab hold of the emotion. They felt fragile, a cheap marble façade that would splinter into pieces under pressure. “I can’t just walk away. Belladonna is stealing blood from women. She’s murdering people.”

  “Even if she is, what if finding the book isn’t enough to stop her?”

  “Oh, you believe me now?” Cass said snippily.

  “I started to tell you at Palazzo Domacetti before you ran off. I had begun to suspect something wasn’t quite right back in Florence. I did a little spying in Piero’s quarters and found vials of what appeared to be blood.” Falco rubbed at the scar below his eye. “Before I could investigate further, I heard from Madalena about your plan to break into the Doge’s prison. I returned to Venice hoping to stop you. But I was too late.” He exhaled deeply. “As if any man could stop you once you set your mind to something.”

  “I have set my mind to destroying the Order,” Cass said firmly.

  Falco sighed again. He reached out to touch her lily necklace. “Is it Luca?” he asked. “Is this vengeance?”

  Defiantly, Cass tucked the pendant back into her chemise. “Luca is alive,” she said.

  “Ah.” Falco nodded knowingly. “So then you two are still planning to marry . . .”

  “It’s not that simple,” she said. “First we must stay alive long enough to clear our names.” Tears rose up from within her, suddenly, almost violently. Even if they were pardoned of their crimes, Luca still might never forgive her. Swallowing back a sob, she turned away from Falco, toward the window, toward the night. She did not want him to see her cry.

  Falco took hold of her shoulders and turned her toward him. “All I know is that you’re hurting, and he’s not here where he should be.” He cradled her chin in one hand and traced his fingers along the ridge of her jaw. Slowly, his touch went from comforting to caressing. Cass felt the change in his body, the slow, seductive way he wiped away each individual tear. And though it was wrong of her, so awfully, horribly wrong, she felt herself responding. Wanting. Welcoming his touch.

  He leaned in, his hair soft against the side of her face. His lips brushed first across her forehead, then across the bridge of her nose.

  She grabbed the fabric of his doublet and twisted it beneath her fingers. She was lonely. Luca had pushed her away. That dead look he had given her before he left—it was as if she’d become a stranger to him. She had hurt him one too many times.

  Something inside of her must have gone tense, because Falco stopped what he was doing long enough to murmur, “Don’t fight it, starling. We both want this.”

  But all she ever did with Falco was fight. About science or religion or vampires or right and wrong. They fought about Luca and Madalena and Belladonna. Had they ever once agreed on a single thing? They could barely speak without arguing. All they could do was fight.

  Or this.

  Falco’s lips were tracing their way down her cheekbone now, a slow, steady pressure that was weakening her resolve. With one hand, he loosened the laces of her bodice. His mouth trailed lower. His hand stroked her thigh and her hip through the fabric of her dress. Cass trembled. If she just relaxed, Falco could make the pain go away.

  Temporarily.

  She saw Luca’s eyes again. “Stop,” she said. She sat up suddenly, backing away from Falco on the bed as if he had attacked her. She couldn’t substitute Falco for Luca. She couldn’t substitute a series of reckless romantic moments for a life with someone honest and true. “This isn’t right.”

  “If you want it, it’s right.”

  “No,” Cass said. “That’s how you live. Not me. What I want now may not be what I want tomorrow, Falco. My actions have consequences. It would be easier if they didn’t, but they do, and that’s why everyone I love is gone.”

  “I’m not gone.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cass said. “You should go.”

  Falco slid off the bed. “You will always be a prisoner, won’t you? A slave to others’ perceptions. Locked away by your own sense of propriety.” He shook his head in disgust and headed toward the door, slamming it behind him.

  Cass’s tears faded with Falco’s footsteps. She rose from the bed, intending to draw her shutters closed against the dwindling twilight. Though it was still early, she suddenly craved sleep. She wished desperately that she were at the villa where she could sink into her own luxurious mattress. She longed to cuddle Slipper against her.

  She couldn’t even believe what had happened. Falco proposing. Trying to seduce her. She had done the right thing—she knew it. But then why did she feel so hollow?

  And then heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs and stopped just outside her door. Cass sighed. Falco was coming back to plead his case. For a second she debated feigning sleep, but she knew that wouldn’t be enough to dissuade him. Hurriedly, she tightened the laces on her bodice. The door swung inward, but it wasn’t Falco.

  It was Piero. He charged at her, a balled-up handkerchief clutched in his hand. A strange chemical scent filled the air, and Cass’s head went momentarily cloudy. Piero must have dipped the handkerchief in some sort of drug, something that made her legs wobble and her muscles go slack. She pushed him away with both hands, clawing for Maximus’s dagger, which was tucked under the edge of the bed. Still unsteady on her feet, she slashed the air and Piero jumped back. The two of them danced around the room.

  “Help,” Cass screamed. “Someone help me.” But she knew Flavia was gone for the evening and doubted that any of the girls on the lower floors could hear her.

  Piero approached again, staying just out of reach of the dagger’s deadly blade. “I must say, that haircut quite suits you.”

  “Stay away from me, you bastard,” Cass hissed. “I will cut you if I have to.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Piero said. “You’re too scared to use that dagger.” He smirked. “Too weak.”

  Cass lunged for him, her head filled with blood and death. She wanted to end him, to slice that smirk right off his face. Piero caught her right wrist before the dagger could find its target. He twisted her arm behind her.

  “Drop it,” he said.

  “Die,” Cass responded through gritted teeth. She stomped down on Piero’s foot. He cried out and loosened his grip. Pulling free, Cass grabbed the nearest thing—the metal bucket from the washing table—and flung it at Piero’s head.

  Water drenched him. The empty bucket clanged against the stone floor, leaving behind a puddle. Piero snatched the bucket and threw it back at Cass. She reached up to block it from hitting her face, but the sharp impact jolted her and she stumbled, flailing her arms and ending up on the bed.

  Piero pounced, dripping wet. His handkerchief was damp, but still thick with chemicals. Cass lashed out with her dagger. The blade found the thin fabric of his s
hirt, but missed the flesh beneath. Piero dropped his rag long enough to pin her hand against the bed. Before he could strip her of her weapon, she kicked at his midsection with both feet. She exhaled hard with relief as they connected and sent him reeling toward the far side of the room.

  Jumping up from the bed, Cass realized she was still trapped. Piero lay between her and the door. She needed to incapacitate him, just for a second so she could get past. She advanced slowly, her dagger poised. But where to strike? Muscle. Bone. A pool of blood. Cass saw the future. But as Piero struggled to his feet, the candelabra groaned above their heads. He stood almost directly beneath it. Lunging toward the wall, Cass sliced through the fraying rope that was holding up the tarnished fixture. It crashed to the floor, landing hard across Piero’s chest.

  He roared in pain as he tried to crawl out from beneath the candelabra, but he was tangled in the chains. Cass considered the doorway beyond his struggling figure for a single moment but then turned toward the open window and leapt up onto the sill. The cobblestones below wavered in front of her eyes. Earlier she had thought of the passersby as splotches of paint moving along the gray walkway. If she fell, she would be nothing but a smear of blood.

  Desperately, she grabbed on to the trellis of ivy that grew along the wall. She remembered how Madalena’s husband, Marco, had once climbed an ivy trellis to enter Mada’s bedroom. Cass prayed that these wooden slats were equally strong.

  Her legs flailed as she worked her way down the trellis, her feet struggling to find footholds amidst the tangle of vines and wood. She had made it about halfway to the ground when the trellis started to pull away from the side of Palazzo Dolce. Cass whimpered.

  Don’t look down.

  She looked down. Her feet dangled only about ten feet from the ground, but the deserted street seemed a hundred miles away. The trellis splintered with a vicious crack, and Cass began to fall.