Starling

by Fiona Paul

  “When we strike, it must be as rapid as the wind, as silent as stars.”

  —THE BOOK OF THE ETERNAL ROSE

  fourteen

  She hit the ground with a thud, landing on her left shoulder and hip. Above her, Piero thrust his head out the window and then quickly pulled it back inside. He was coming after her. Scrambling to her feet, Cass was relieved to find her legs steady and strong beneath her. The fall had scared her and she’d be bruised later, but thankfully she seemed to be uninjured.

  Where could she go? Panicked, she ran in the direction of the nearest canal, her soft slippers growing heavy and wet from the fetid water between the stones. Her bodice, partially unlaced, hung askew on her slender frame, and she’d already let her hair down in preparation for bed. She knew she looked like a madwoman.

  Cass cut through a narrow alley thick with the smell of sweat and alcohol, flying past prostitutes who loitered in doorways looking for men with money. She came out by the water, where two girls were dancing in windows to the music a young bard was strumming. The boy’s fingers fumbled slightly as he looked up at her in surprise. Cass realized she was still clutching Maximus’s dagger, her knuckles blanched white around the handle. She tucked the blade into the pocket of her dress.

  She ran for the first gondolier she saw but then realized she had no money for the fare. Desperate, she hopped into a different boat filled with young peasant boys that was just pulling away from the dock. The two in back looked curiously at her, one even reaching up to touch her loose hair, but they didn’t try to force her out of the gondola. Cass crossed her arms over her sagging bodice and tucked her chin low to her chest. She prayed the boys would take pity on her.

  The gondolier, a spindly dark-eyed man dressed in bright red and blue, frowned at her disheveled appearance but did not question her. He untied his boat from the mooring post and steered away from the dock. Looking back over her shoulder, Cass scanned the dimly lit waterfront for Piero. She didn’t see him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t lurking somewhere. Watching her.

  The boat turned into an adjoining canal. As they drifted along, the gondolier looked hard at Cass again. He was still frowning, his brow heavy, deep, crescent-moon creases on either side of his mouth.

  Cass had no idea where the gondola was headed, no idea where she would go once the boat reached its destination. She couldn’t go to Falco. Even if he would help her, Piero must have followed him to Palazzo Dolce, which meant Falco—and undoubtedly his current residence—was being watched by the Order of the Eternal Rose. Unless he’s a part of the Order. Cass refused to acknowledge the voice in her head.

  She couldn’t go to Luca, who had left her standing alone in the street. Even if she could find him, she couldn’t bring herself to beg for his aid. Not after she had hurt him so badly.

  She couldn’t circle back and return to Palazzo Dolce or Piero would find her.

  Feliciana might still be willing to help her, but there was no way Cass dared seek her out at Palazzo Dubois.

  For the first time in a long time, Cass felt utterly and completely alone.

  Panic danced around her, clawing with its shadowy fingers. She’d be lucky to survive the night. Piero would find her. The Order would find her. And when they did . . .

  Some blood works better than others.

  No. She reached her hand in her pocket and squeezed the dagger’s hilt. She was not—she would not be—helpless. She would die before she let Belladonna find her.

  Cass whispered to the boy who sat in front of her, “Thank you for allowing me passage. Can I ask where you are headed?”

  He smiled. “Cannaregio.”

  It was the far northeastern district of the Rialto. There was nothing there that she knew of, save for a few churches, but the trip would buy her some time to figure out where she was really going to go.

  The gondolier turned off into another side canal. She watched clusters of buildings float by, her mind reeling desperately. Perhaps she could tuck herself away in a moored fishing boat or under a bridge and sleep until morning.

  But then she thought of Piero creeping up on her with his rag soaked in chemicals . . .

  The canal hooked to the left, and Cass saw an arched marble doorway with Hebrew words engraved into the stone. Beyond it was the Ghetto, the walled area where the Jews lived. A steady stream of people, the men dressed in bright red caps, flowed forward toward the gates. Each night the Jews were locked inside, guarded until morning by Christian soldiers. Cass remembered how Feliciana had hidden there after escaping from Joseph Dubois’s estate. Perhaps Cass could do the same.

  Now she just had to remember the streets so she could find her way back to the gates. Luckily, the gondola turned only twice more before stopping. Cass alighted from the boat and quickly backtracked to the Ghetto entrance. She lost herself in the current of people, letting them carry her forward, through the gates, to safety.

  Once inside the Ghetto, the people quickly dispersed, men and women murmuring greetings to one another before vanishing into alleyways.

  Cass hung back, unsure of which way to go. The buildings here stood six or seven stories high, as the limited space within the walls meant the only way to expand was upward. The sun had fallen away completely, relinquishing the night to a sky dotted with stars and blurred with bits of haze. Doors closed softly against the dark. Candles moved throughout homes, illuminating dusty window glass and vague forms. She imagined children greeting their fathers after a long day of work. Cass had been born into privilege and these people had not, but they had family.

  In that way they would always be richer than she would.

  A shadow moved across the periphery of her vision. Cass whirled around, dropping into a crouch and drawing her dagger. A cat looked back at her, its round eyes shining like pieces of copper.

  “Hi.” Cass put away her dagger and bent down, one hand outstretched. Just the presence of another living thing on its own made her feel better. But the cat was wild, and it skidded out of her reach. It turned and scampered across the street, leaping gracefully up onto a windowsill.

  She watched it wriggle its way through a gap in the shutters, a profound sense of loss settling around her as its hooked tail disappeared into the darkness. She told herself that even if she was alone, she had nothing to fear. The Jewish people had never treated her poorly. They weren’t violent. They simply believed different things from the Christians.

  Cass followed the cat’s path across the street and then ducked into the first cramped alley, making her way along until she found a recessed doorway covered in dust. A sign hung above her head, its red-painted Hebrew letters a complete mystery to her.

  Leaning against the doorway, she curled her arms around her chest for warmth. Now that she was safe for the time being, she took a moment to catch her breath. The events of the night came crashing back. Piero must have followed Falco to Palazzo Dolce. Did that mean Luca was right? That Falco was working with Piero and Belladonna? The thought made Cass feel like she was covered in spiders.

  No, Falco would never be a member of the Order of the Eternal Rose. But Cass had thought the same thing about her parents. And she had been wrong. Even if what Luca said about them working to destroy the Order from within was correct, they had once been members in good standing.

  But Falco had just proposed to her. Why on earth would he do something like that if he was a member of the Order?

  Cass blinked hard, rubbing her temples with her fingertips. There were no easy answers. Her eyelids suddenly went heavy, and she lowered her body to the damp ground. She needed to rest. Perhaps things would be clearer in the morning.

  Her feet were clammy from her drenched shoes, and the wet stones soaked through the fabric of her skirts and bodice, but Cass barely felt any of it. She was emotionally drained from her fight with Falco and physically drained from her fight with Piero. Sleep came easily.
r />   ~

  The sun had lifted from the horizon, but it was still early when Cass awoke to a pair of round faces bending over her. As she sat up quickly, her fingers going to the hilt of her knife, she realized they were just children—a girl and a boy. The girl’s hair dangled low to her shoulders, and the boy had his hair tucked beneath a bright red cap. The girl said something in a language Cass didn’t understand, and both children giggled.

  She unfolded her body and sat up slowly, her muscles aching from sleeping on the ground. She rubbed her shoulder. The children watched her carefully, as if she were an unusual animal they had never before encountered.

  “Bongiorno,” Cass said hesitantly.

  The children giggled again. A woman’s face poked out of a high window in the next building. She shouted something and the girl’s eyes widened. She grabbed the boy’s hand and they both scampered off.

  Both Cass and the woman watched the children until they turned a corner out of sight. Then the woman looked at Cass. “You do not belong here,” she said. She ducked her head back inside the building and pulled the shutters closed with a vicious yank.

  Scurrying down a block, Cass took refuge in another empty doorway. Two threadbare chemises and a plain woolen cloak flapped on a clothesline stretched between a pair of second-story windows. Looking both ways to make sure she was alone, she jumped and managed to grab hold of the cloak’s tail. She slipped it around her shoulders, feeling slightly guilty as she did so. A month ago, she’d wanted for nothing. Now she was stealing garments from the Jews. But at least she had a way to hide her face.

  She lifted the hood up over her head. Now what? For a moment, frustration overwhelmed Cass and she toyed with the idea of just giving up—running away. Running would require sneaking back to San Domenico and helping herself to—stealing, really—the crate of gold and jewels. With that, she could pay her way to escape across the sea to a place where the Order of the Eternal Rose would be just a distant memory. Forget Luca. Forget Falco. If she wanted, Cass could start over. She could become someone else.

  But she didn’t want to become someone else. She wanted to fight the Order. She wanted to understand her parents’ roles and honor their memory.

  Cass needed the Book of the Eternal Rose. It would show that the Order had stolen blood and allowed innocent girls to be executed as vampires. It would show that Dubois and Belladonna, among others, were striving for immortality. Engaging in conspiracy. Murder. Heresy. Proof of their actions would be enough to have both of them executed several times over.

  Unfortunately, Cass didn’t know who had the book. She had seen Angelo de Gradi in Florence. He could have stolen the book as Belladonna believed, but was he so loyal to Dubois that he would die to protect it? Cass also recalled seeing a flash of a figure who she thought was Cristian. At the time she had discounted it as her imagination, but Cristian had clearly possessed the book at some point and removed the page with Cass’s family name on it. Perhaps the entire book was hidden somewhere at Palazzo Viaro and she’d simply missed it during her initial break-in.

  However, both Cristian and Angelo had worked for Dubois. The more Cass considered things, the more it seemed likely Joseph Dubois had the book and was lying to Belladonna about it. But Palazzo Dubois was an enormous, well-guarded estate. Cass couldn’t just saunter in and begin searching. She needed a way to sneak into the palazzo. She needed an idea of where Joseph Dubois might keep the book. She needed to proceed calmly and carefully for once, instead of letting her emotions lead her wildly into trouble.

  There was only one person she knew who might be able to help her out with that: Feliciana. Apparently, Dubois favored her. Joseph, Cass thought scornfully. Clearly, Feliciana had gotten pretty comfortable with Dubois, and comfortable men told tales.

  But since Cass could not risk seeking out Feliciana, she was going to have to find a way to make Feliciana come to her. She had an idea, but she needed a little help to make it work. Hopping to her feet, she stretched her aching muscles once more and then headed toward the Ghetto gates.

  They were open and the guards were gone.

  The main street of the Ghetto was empty, save for a man who had come back from emptying his chamber pots in the canal. Keeping her hood low over her face, Cass hurried over to him. He was elderly, with a long black beard that tapered into a point and a heavy brow that sank forward, obscuring part of his eyes.

  “Excuse me,” she said timidly. “But do you have a bit of ink and parchment so that I might send a message?”

  The man frowned as if he didn’t understand her words.

  “Letter.” She pantomimed writing a message.

  He nodded in understanding and gestured for Cass to follow him. She did so, waiting patiently as he unlocked a gray stucco building with wisps of ivy crawling up the front of it. They ascended a set of narrow stairs to a cramped room that had only a table and two chairs inside of it. The man gestured for Cass to sit and brought her ink, a quill, and a sheet of parchment.

  “Grazie,” she said.

  The man bowed slightly and then disappeared into the next room. Cass heard him humming to himself and the occasional clanging of pots and pans as he puttered around. Hurriedly, she began scrawling a message to Feliciana.

  I need you to meet me . . .

  She paused. How long would it take her to find a messenger? How long would it take for the messenger to deliver the message and Feliciana to receive it? She decided to err on the side of too much time.

  at sunset . . .

  She stopped again. Feliciana was going to need someone to read the message for her. Cass needed to be very careful about what she wrote.

  . . . in the place where your sister and I found you. Please come. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t desperately need your help.

  Feliciana had fled Joseph Dubois’s estate after his favorite maid turned up dead, and Siena and Cass had found her crouched at the back of the Mercato di Rialto a few weeks ago. No one else knew where they had found her, so it would be a safe place for the two girls to meet. After folding the parchment and sealing it with a bit of warm red wax, Cass thanked the man once more.

  She left the house and headed again toward the Ghetto’s exit. Slipping her hood up and tightening her cloak around her, she passed through the arched opening. She had no idea how to get back to the San Marco district she was more familiar with, and wasn’t sure where else she might find a messenger, so she followed the smaller canals until they widened into a larger canal. Gondolas and sandolos floated along beside her. Cass kept her head tucked low until she heard a friendly shout from the water.

  “Signorina.” A pair of tan boys were using long poles to steer a flat-bottomed barge laden with vegetables. The one in back called out to her. “Where do you walk alone?”

  Cass risked a half smile. “I’m looking for a messenger. Are you heading to the Mercato di Rialto?”

  “But of course.”

  The boy in back vaulted over sacks of potatoes to speak with the boy in the front, who rolled his eyes but steered the boat toward the edge of the canal.

  “Do you wish to come aboard?” the first boy asked.

  Cass glanced quickly back and forth between the boys. There was no malevolence in their eyes, no spark of recognition. The one was smiling and the other was looking down at his hands—perhaps bored, perhaps a bit embarrassed for his friend.

  “If you don’t mind. There should be no shortage of messengers at the market.”

  “Is it a message for your signore?” the first boy asked with a wink.

  “Just a friend,” Cass said. She prayed it was the truth, that Feliciana thought of her as such, that she would come to Cass’s aid.

  The boys helped Cass onto the barge and she took a seat on a rough burlap sack, her eyes immediately beginning to water from the scent of onions. The boy in back chatted with her, asking her name and what famil
y she worked for. Cass fabricated short answers, glad at least that a night of sleeping outside had made her appear more like a servant.

  It took her only a few moments to locate a messenger once she reached the market, but how was she going to pay? She had only two objects of worth in her possession—her lily pendant and Maximus’s dagger. As foolish as it was to keep the necklace and sacrifice her only source of protection, Cass could not bring herself to relinquish the pendant Luca had given her. To lose it would be like losing him, forever. Reluctantly, she drew the blade from her pocket and turned it over in her hands. She was desperate, and Maximus had said he could easily replace the weapon. Cass could only pray the dagger would be accepted as payment.

  The boy’s eyes went wide at the sight of the jeweled blade, but he frowned when Cass told him where Feliciana was staying. “It’s only a few blocks from here,” he said suspiciously. “Why do you not deliver this message yourself?”

  People swarmed around them on both sides. The sun had risen and the day was bright and cool. It felt like all of Venice had flocked to the market.

  Cass thought quickly. “The signore turned me out for stealing,” she said. “I’m no longer welcome there. Please,” she added. “This dagger is worth a hundred messages, but it is all I have for payment.”

  “As you wish, signorina.” The boy took the dagger with a dubious look and tucked the letter into his leather sack. He bowed slightly.

  Cass let the crowd swallow her up. The messenger had given her a good idea. She had several hours until sunset, and there was no point in spending the whole day at the market, especially when she couldn’t buy anything to eat. Although she could not safely deliver her message to Palazzo Dubois, she could watch the building from a distance. If she was right, and Dubois had the Book of the Eternal Rose, then the more information she had about the comings and goings of the Palazzo Dubois staff, the better.

  She found her way quickly along the Grand Canal, cringing at the squelching sounds made by her soggy shoes. Dubois’s home was a mix of white marble pillars and smooth gray stucco, with rows and rows of arched windows and a balcony that led out from the piano nobile. The sun was at its highest point shining down on the red clay roof tiles and the private dock out front. A banner flapped in the breeze—the Dubois crest. The word victory was emblazoned in French across the griffin’s sword. Not if I have anything to do with it, Cass vowed. Staying on the far side of the Grand Canal, she retreated to the campo of a small church a block away from the water where she could see Palazzo Dubois but its inhabitants could not see her.