Secrets of the Eternal Rose 02: Belladonna

by Fiona Paul

  Madalena’s eyes widened. She had never met Falco. Probably she hadn’t expected him to be so handsome. “We should go back, Cass,” Mada insisted, tugging at Cass’s gown with the hand that wasn’t still planted safely on the bricks of the palazzo. “It’s dangerous to be here.”

  Falco’s eyes flicked to Mada, then back to Cass. “We meet again,” he murmured in a low voice. Then, turning back to the crowd, he raised his voice a little and said, “Why are you ladies bearing witness to this? The Church, executing the infirm.” His words were laden with sarcasm. “I suppose it is an excellent way of preventing an outbreak.”

  “They’re not ill,” Mada said. “They’re vampires.”

  “There are no such things as vampires,” Falco snapped. “The priests would have you fear invisible attacks by monsters, all the better to keep you from fearing what is really threatening Florence—the tyranny of religion.”

  Feliciana stood behind Madalena, watching the exchange with interest. Or was she just using it as an excuse to stare at Falco? Cass couldn’t be sure. It was petty, but she felt a surge of relief that Falco hadn’t so much as glanced at Feliciana. He was too busy glowering at Madalena. Cass gave Mada’s arm a squeeze.

  “Falco has some strong opinions about the church,” she said soothingly.

  Mada shook off Cass’s hand. “I’ve seen vampires,” Mada insisted. “Prowling the streets of Venice.”

  Falco curled his lip into a sneer. “Sure you have. Perhaps a bat that flew a little too low? A leper who dared to sneak out of the compound in search of an extra crust of bread?”

  “You’re wrong,” Mada said. “The Church says you’re wrong.”

  “The Church is wrong.”

  Mada gasped. “What sort of man are you?”

  “Perhaps you should be up there with them, hmm?” Falco said. “You’ve seen vampires. How do you know you’re not afflicted?”

  At this, Feliciana raised a hand to her mouth.

  Madalena’s eyes flashed. “How dare you speak to me like that? My father could run you out of the city if he chose.” She sucked in a deep breath and turned to Cass. “Luca rots in prison an innocent man while this peasant gallivants around Florence spewing blasphemy.”

  “Mada, please!” Cass spoke up. Madalena simply glared at her, then spun around and headed for the safety of her aunt’s palazzo.

  “You shouldn’t have said those things to her,” Cass said to Falco. “It was cruel.”

  “Current circumstances have me far outclassed,” Falco snapped, gesturing to the women on the platform. “I’ve seen enough, and I can’t believe you haven’t as well. I wish you’d never called me over.” He turned to leave.

  Cass didn’t have time to explain. Her frustration building, she broke away from Falco and Feliciana and pushed her way into the throng. The noise of the crowd swelled to a crescendo as the priest stood in the center of the platform, quoting from a leather-bound Bible. Hortensa stood motionless. The other women cowered before the priest, one crying profusely, the other dry-eyed but sagging against the man who held her silver bindings.

  The priest was still quoting Scripture, his booming voice building in intensity to match the roar of the crowd. The piazza was full now, and Cass could see that even the shops and the surrounding alleys were packed with onlookers. The sun cut like a knife. Sweat beaded up on her brow. Cass fumbled in her pocket for a fan or a handkerchief, but she had nothing.

  Desperately, she fought to get close to the platform. But she found herself blocked and jostled from all sides. Across the piazza, a man with shoulder-length blond hair caught Cass’s eye. Cristian. She fought a wave of panic. Focus, she told herself as the man melted into the crowd. It wasn’t Cristian. It never was. She turned back to the platform. “Hortensa!” she cried out.

  Just as Cass called her name, the priest seized Hortensa by her bound hands and thrust her face down into the tarnished basin. Cass gasped. Hortensa’s legs kicked out from her wide skirts. The basin water bubbled and splashed as if the priest were calling out a demon. The mob roared its approval.

  “Stop!” Cass screamed. “I must speak with her.” But her words were swallowed up by the cheering and chanting of the crowd.

  The priest lifted Hortensa’s head above the water. “Have you consorted with the undead?” he asked.

  “No. No, please.” She was begging for the first time. Water dripped from her tangled hair. She coughed, a deep, wracking sound. She reached out toward someone in the crowd.

  Cass followed Hortensa’s gaze. She couldn’t believe it. There, directly in front of the platform, was Don Zanotta. He not only wasn’t speaking out to save his wife, but seemed to be finding satisfaction in seeing her tortured.

  “Then why do you bear the mark?” the priest demanded.

  Hortensa stumbled, almost collapsing to her knees. “I don’t know,” she said, almost unable to choke out the words.

  “Expose the monsters who did this to you and God may take mercy on your soul,” the priest intoned.

  “No one did—” Hortensa’s protestation was cut off as her head went into the basin again. Cass watched in horror as the donna struggled a second time. A bell tolled repeatedly from the nearby Campanile. It filled Cass with terror, as though the bell were calling them all to their judgment. The priest pulled the donna’s head above the water once more, this time holding her by her hair.

  “Last chance to confess and save your soul,” he thundered.

  The crowd jeered. A rock flew through the air, colliding with Hortensa’s chest. She gasped and doubled over. Onlookers clapped and stomped their feet.

  Hortensa didn’t beg again. She didn’t even speak. Her head disappeared beneath the surface of the water for the third time. Limbs flailed. The crowd cheered. And then, Hortensa’s body went limp.

  “Stories exist of those who were determined dead, buried, and subsequently resurrected.”

  —THE BOOK OF THE ETERNAL ROSE

  sixteen

  The body was lifted roughly from the tin basin, carried to the edge of the platform, and dropped unceremoniously onto the hard wood. Around Cass, the crowd shouted and stomped their feet. A shrill voice pierced the dull roar: “Serves you right, vampire.”

  Cass was carried forward by the mob, close enough that she could see the sweat on the faces of the other accused women. They were now on their knees begging for mercy. Their pleas were weak through their sobs, like lambs bleating before the slaughter.

  Cass stared at Hortensa, at the heap of soggy satin and tangled blonde hair that had only a minute ago been a woman. She knew there was nothing she could have done, but a sense of loss still gripped her. Hortensa was gone—murdered while her husband stood by and watched—and with her went one of Cass’s chances at clearing Luca’s name.

  She couldn’t bear to see any more. She turned away as the priest grabbed the second woman by the silver-laced straps that bound her wrists behind her back. Cass forced her way through the mob, swimming against the current of people still pushing toward the platform, ignoring the explosions of jeers and taunts.

  Feliciana stood at the edge of the piazza.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, seizing Cass by the shoulders. “I thought you were going to get trampled.”

  Cass didn’t know if she was all right. She had never seen anyone executed before, and she couldn’t get the image of Hortensa out of her mind, how inhuman the woman looked with her pale limbs splaying out underneath the bunched fabric of her dress. Like a broken doll, cast aside.

  “Come on.” Cass realized she was shaking. She looked around, but didn’t see Falco anywhere. He had left her. A fist clenched and unclenched in her stomach. Clearly, she had disappointed him. He didn’t know she sought only a chance to ask Hortensa why she had lied about Luca. When Cass had pushed her way toward the platform, he must have thought she wanted to watch the executions, that she believed in vampires.

  She wasn’t sure what she believed anymore. She didn’t want to thi
nk she had unwittingly followed Hortensa into a party full of vampires, escaping just barely with her life. But the alternative—to believe as Falco did—meant accepting that the Church was executing people for no reason. Cass didn’t want to believe that either.

  She retreated into the palazzo with Feliciana, covering her ears with her hands to block out the jeering of the crowd and the shrieks of terror from the women on trial. Some trial. If you confessed, you were executed. If you maintained your innocence, you were executed.

  Inside, Madalena sat primly on a divan in the portego, sipping from a small gold-rimmed cup. “Herbal tea,” she said. “You should ask for a cup. It soothes the nerves.”

  Cass had problems that were going to require more than herbal tea to fix. “I hope it soothes your temper, as well,” she told Madalena. “You didn’t need to get so angry.”

  “Me? What about him? What about you?” Mada replaced her teacup in her saucer. “What can you possibly see in that peasant?”

  “Probably what all women see in him,” Feliciana blurted out.

  Cass twisted around to give Feliciana a severe glare. Feliciana dropped her eyes, dipped somewhat ironically into a curtsy, and retreated.

  Cass inhaled and turned back to Madalena. “He isn’t usually like that,” she insisted. “He was very upset.”

  Mada sniffed. “He said terrible things.”

  “It’s true he does have some… disagreements with the Church,” Cass admitted. That was putting it mildly. She wondered what Mada would say if she knew that Cass had witnessed Falco’s gruesome nighttime activities back in Venice: the stealing and selling of corpses. “But he hardly ever loses his temper. Perhaps he’s having difficulties here in Florence.”

  “Perhaps I shall make difficulties for him here in Florence,” Mada said defiantly.

  Cass sighed. Madalena had been kind enough to invite her along to Florence, and Cass was squabbling with her already.

  “You’re right.” Cass sat down next to Mada and reached for her hands. “He was completely inappropriate. He was wrong.” She believed the first part. Falco had been inappropriate.

  “Can I get some more tea, please?” Madalena called out to no one in particular. She fussed with her top skirt. She was obviously still in a terrible mood.

  “Falco did offer to wrangle us an invitation to tea with his patroness,” Cass said hopefully. “Signorina Briani? Apparently she’s very well connected.”

  Madalena’s expression softened slightly. “Your Falco works for Belladonna?”

  Cass furrowed her brow. “Belladonna?”

  “If it’s the same woman, her name is Bella Briani, but everyone calls her Belladonna because she is so exquisitely gorgeous. She’s a legend, even in Venice. I’m surprised you never heard the name.”

  The butler hurried into the room with a second teacup and a painted ceramic pot. He refilled Madalena’s cup and left the steaming pot between them.

  Cass twisted the fluted edge of her cup so that her lips avoided a crack in the rim. “Just one more piece of news that never made it to San Domenico.”

  Madalena’s eyes brightened. “Apparently, when Belladonna was younger, about our age, she took a fall from a horse and hit her head. Everyone thought she was dead, even the physicians. They put her body in a coffin and entombed her in a cemetery out in the country.”

  Cass stared at Mada fiercely. “If this is another one of your vampire stories…”

  “Just listen, Cass.”

  Cass sipped her tea and fell silent. She’d had enough of monsters and vampires for the day, but at least Mada seemed to be cheering up.

  “So there is Belladonna in a deep sleep in her coffin.” Madalena paused for emphasis. “And then comes the cemetery caretaker, who just happened to remember that the girl was buried with a collection of jeweled rings.”

  Feliciana had told Cass a similar tale when she was younger: of a beautiful young woman, prematurely buried. At the time, Cass had believed her, but later she had thought Feliciana was just trying to scare her.

  “So the caretaker breaks into the tomb with a machete…” Madalena made a slashing gesture with her arm. “He had to cut right through her finger to get at the ring. And what do you suppose happened?”

  “What?” Cass asked, even though she knew what was coming.

  “The girl woke up. Quite suddenly, too, if the stories are true.” Mada smiled. “Can you imagine? The caretaker thought she was a vengeful spirit. He ran off, leaving the tomb door open behind him. No one ever saw him again.”

  “And Belladonna?” Cass asked.

  “Rumor has it that the experience preserved her somehow. She’s perfect in every way except for the loss of her finger.”

  “That’s quite a story.” Cass ran her fingers beneath the collar of her dress. The lace was beginning to itch.

  “It’s real,” Mada insisted. Her face darkened again. “It’s as real as the vampires haunting this city.”

  Cass looked away. Before meeting Falco, she had simply believed what others around her believed: vampires were real. The Church had the best interests of the people in mind. Murderers were executed or imprisoned. Innocent people were not.

  Now all of those beliefs were being called into question. But she didn’t want to admit this to Madalena. Mada wouldn’t understand. Cass took another sip of her tea and set down the cup and saucer.

  “So,” she said, trying to keep her voice light, “should I tell the peasant that you aren’t interested in having tea with this famous Belladonna? I could always go alone.” She knew this wouldn’t sit well. Madalena never missed a social function.

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Madalena said, her voice sharp. “Your aunt entrusted me to look after you here in Florence and I intend to do so. You can tell your peasant friend whatever you like. I’ll simply request an invitation to meet with Belladonna through Father.”

  Hooves rattled on cobblestones, and Cass rose to look out the front window. The Alioni carriage slowed to a stop. Signor Rambaldo stepped down from the compartment as though he had heard Madalena’s request and come immediately to appease her. Marco was right at his heels.

  Madalena barely let the men get inside before she began cajoling her father about sending a message on their behalf.

  Signor Rambaldo rubbed his graying beard. “Signorina Bella Briani, you say?”

  “You’ve heard of her, Signore.” Marco sat down on the divan next to Mada, tossed his hat onto the table, and called out for some tea. “She’s supposed to be the most beautiful woman in all of Florence. Except for you two ladies, of course.” He winked at Mada.

  “I’ll see what I can do, love.” Signor Rambaldo bent to kiss Madalena on the forehead. The butler appeared with additional teacups.

  Mada’s dark eyes sparkled as she refilled her own cup of tea. “He’ll set it up,” she whispered to Cass proudly. “I know he will.”

  * * *

  As usual, when it came to his only child, Signor Rambaldo did not disappoint. The girls received an invitation to an afternoon tea with Signorina Bella Briani the very next day. Cass was secretly relieved that she didn’t have to ask Falco for a favor. The thought of being in his debt made her nervous.

  She fidgeted as the Alioni’s carriage bounced and jolted through the streets of Florence. She sat on one of the compartment’s padded benches with Siena while Madalena and Eva occupied the other. The carriage cut through the vast Piazza della Signoria, the center of Florentine politics. Cass recognized several famous sculptures from her studies decorating the square’s periphery, including Michelangelo’s David and Cellini’s Perseus. She couldn’t get over how clean Florence was. No piles of trash and rotting food like on the Rialto.

  Siena peeked over Cass’s shoulder out the window and giggled at the sight of a crowd of peasant women using the gigantic Fountain of Neptune as a washbasin. The carriage continued, passing several churches and smaller piazzas on its way out of the city center. The compartment jostled slightl
y as the horse reached the end of the stone cobbles and transferred onto a soft dirt road.

  Madalena wrinkled her nose as the buildings gave way to greenery. “Why do you suppose Belladonna lives all the way out here?”

  Patches of forest had cropped up on both sides of the road, absorbing some of the sound from the wobbling wheels and pounding hooves. Still, there were plenty of villas dotting the landscape. “It’s hardly remote, Mada.” Cass pointed out the window at the houses that were visible through the breaks in the trees. “Perhaps she doesn’t want to live in the center of town, where she can watch executions from her bedroom. Or perhaps she likes trees.”

  The howl of a dog sounded, off in the distance, followed by a chorus of yips and barks. Mada made a face again. “Perhaps she likes wild animals.”

  The carriage passed a small church, with twin bell towers framing a central dome of gold leaf and red clay shingles. It was more of a chapel, probably built for only the wealthy who lived out here past the edge of the city. Most of Florence probably attended Mass at the Duomo.

  The horse slowed.

  Cass hung her head out the window. “Santo cielo,” she murmured as Villa Briani came into view. She heard Siena gasp behind her.

  The stone walls rose three stories in the air, the flat roof adorned with a gold-trimmed parapet. Watchtowers complete with battlements extended above the roof on two opposing corners. Wisps of ivy crawled across the entire front of the villa and framed the large arched windows.

  The lawn leading up to the villa was expansive, with neatly clipped hedges framing both sides of a path of marble stepping-stones. Beyond the hedges, flowers bloomed in large terra-cotta pots, and a pair of starlings did battle in a marble birdbath. Sapling trees bowed in the gentle breeze.

  This wasn’t a villa. It was a castle. Falco had mentioned that his patroness was wealthy, but this estate made Madalena’s family palazzo on the Grand Canal look like a shack. Cass was surprised Falco hadn’t gone on about his glamorous new place of work. Then again, he never seemed that taken with the trappings of nobility. She remembered how he had made himself at home in her aunt’s villa, strumming away on Agnese’s priceless harp as if it were a carved lute he’d bartered for at the market.