by Karen Brooks
I watched as she refilled the glasses of her father and Jacopo and then, with much reluctance, Baroque’s. I could feel the strain between these two.
‘After we’ve eaten, we’ll get you to demonstrate to us what you can do.’ Giaconda signalled for me to stand. The men also rose. ‘Papa?’ she urged, her glass held aloft.
‘A toast,’ said Signor Maleovelli. ‘To our colleganza. To the power it brings us; to what it brings you.’ He raised his glass towards me. Giaconda did likewise. Her father watched her, a peculiar expression on his face. ‘To the future – to the Estrattore.’
As I lifted my glass and touched its edge against the others, enjoying the pure note that was released as they kissed, my confidence soared as, without lowering our voices or checking over our shoulders, we repeated his words, ‘To the Estrattore.’ Even the cherubs and aristocratic faces above and around us seemed to approve.
For the first time in years, I felt a peculiar sensation deep inside. Hope had once again taken up residence in my heart.
SITTING AT HER DRESSER, GIACONDA continued brushing her hair, flashing her father a smile as he closed the bedroom door. He stood behind her and studied her reflection in the mirror.
‘Did she settle?’ he asked finally.
Giaconda paused mid-stroke, a sash of sable hair catching the candlelight, revealing hints of carmine. ‘I believe so. I left Hafeza to tend her.’ She resumed her toilette while Ezzelino sat on the edge of her bed and propped his cane against the wall. There was something soporific about her action, the soft purr of the brush, the remote look in her eyes, never mind her loveliness. Unbound, Giaconda’s hair fell to well below her waist, and loose, it made her look softer, younger.
‘What a day,’ he sighed finally. ‘Who would have thought we would have the prize we’ve spent years searching for, not only ensconced in our casa, but bound to us in a colleganza?’
Giaconda put her brush down and considered her father’s words.
‘Jacopo says her mark is as good as a signature.’
‘Indeed. Anyhow, once she learns to write, we can have her re-sign the documents.’
‘She’s very smart, Papa. Her questions were not what I expected from someone so … illiterate.’
Ezzelino shuffled back onto the bed, moving the pillows until he was propped comfortably against the headboard. ‘Sì. Never underestimate an Estrattore – this one especially, with her fresh looks and innocent ways. Sixteen, she says. I would have thought older.’
‘Older?’
‘Sì. Estrattore do not age as we do and they live a great deal longer. There is a maturity about her lacking in humans her age.’
Giaconda nodded. ‘Those eyes.’ She repressed a shudder. ‘I have to steel myself to look at them. Pretend they don’t bother me. They really are like gazing into a mirror.’ She turned her head and looked into hers. ‘Only, I don’t just see this.’ She waved her hands at her counterpart.
‘What do you see?’
‘That which I would rather remained hidden,’ she said softly, staring at her father.
Ezzelino held her eyes for a moment and then looked away.
‘She will be a fast learner,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘Which will make our lives a great deal easier. All the same, we must not rush things: we must proceed carefully, take our time, or all our plans will have been for nothing.’
‘You do not have to convince me of that, Papa. Do you think she really accepts what we’re offering?’
He thought for a moment. ‘I think she realises she has no choice. She has no-one to turn to. No family, no friends. For now, we are her only option, her allies, and we have to make sure it remains that way until we’re ready for it to be any different.’
Placing her brush beside her other combs, Giaconda stood gracefully and took her father’s former position at the end of the bed. ‘I don’t think that will be too difficult. Not from what Salzi told us about the gossip in the marketplace. The city is abuzz with sightings of the Estrattore – the boy with the golden glasses!’
Ezzelino’s eyes narrowed. ‘That description will work very nicely in our favour. Very nicely. It also means the Cardinale and the Signori di Notte will be searching in the wrong places for the wrong person They will never think to look here. I would stake our lives on that.’
‘We may yet have to, Papa. I admit, I was worried when Baroque told us the Church has become involved.’
‘It does not change the risk we’re taking, my dear, it just makes the stakes higher and the execution more exciting.’ Ezzelino looked invigorated. ‘No doubt, something will be said in the Great Council – you know how the nobiles gossip. I will make sure I attend every Sunday from now on.’
Quiet descended. The only sound that could be heard was the occasional creak as the old casa settled, or the splash of water against the render outside.
Giaconda studied her father. He sat so still, if it hadn’t been for the candlelight glimmering in his half-closed eyes, she would have thought him asleep. Such a proud face, a noble one. The years had been kind to him. While his hair was grey, it was also thick and shiny. He was relatively unlined for a man of his years, but that was because her father rarely let his emotions show. His face was like a Carnivale mask, forever frozen into a mien that was as cold as it was unreadable. Only she was allowed to see her father’s real feelings. They appeared so rarely that she often wondered if she’d imagined them.
Sometimes, when the ennui of her existence would overtake her, and she’d allow herself the futility of imagining a different life, she would travel in time and try to pluck images of her mother from her past. She knew she resembled her. Closely. The portrait that hung in Tarlo’s bedroom indicated how much – the same dark hair, green eyes and honey skin. Fragments of moments would sometimes pool together and cohere into a memory she could relive, times with both her mamma and papa. But they were fleeting, ephemeral, and it wearied her to gather them. And, as much as she wished them to be, they were not happy. Happiness did not belong in Giaconda’s past – or present. That was for her future. A future that Tarlo would now bring to fruition.
She became aware of her father’s regard and made her features neutral. Like him, she too wore a mask. It was one that she didn’t want to remove – especially in front of her father.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked her. It was a question he posed often. Giaconda was not allowed to have secrets.
She hesitated. ‘I was thinking about what Baroque will find when he gets to the Candlemakers Quartiere.’
‘Hopefully, this time, what we sent him to. I’ve given him three days, in which time he’s to remove all traces of himself from the Usurers Quartiere as well. His place is now with us, whether you like it or not.’
‘I don’t like it but, if he proves his use, I may yet become accustomed.’
Ezzelino simply grunted.
Giaconda smiled. ‘You know she’ll want to return there, to the Candlemakers Quartiere, at some stage.’
‘Assolutamente. As she should and, if she doesn’t, we’ll force her to go. It’s important that she understand where she now belongs.’
Giaconda smiled. ‘With us.’
‘Sì, amore mio, with us.’
Giaconda plucked at her nightdress. The ribbons on the sleeves and around the neckline tickled her flesh. ‘Salzi also told me that the ship from the other side of the Limen, from Farrowfare, entered port today.’
‘So I heard.’
‘What are their intentions, do you think?’
‘Treaties, safe passage through the seas. What else do our prospective allies – and enemies for that matter – seek? Only this time, the visitors from the Limen are serious. They’ve sent an Ambassador. Another among all the other foreign bastardi who occupy our casas.’ Ezzelino snorted.
‘This means that once he’s given permission to disembark and the treaties are signed, the Doge will want to make this alliance public, display his new friends. Could be months. There’ll no doubt be a ba
ll.’ Giaconda’s eyes sparkled. ‘I wonder … do you think …?’ she began.
Ezzelino patted the bed beside him. ‘I do. Providing it’s not too soon, it will be the perfect time to introduce a new courtesan to the city. Can she be ready by then?’
‘We’ll make her ready, Papa.’ She began to crawl up the bed, like a cat slinking along the fondamenta, her back arched, her arms outstretched. ‘Me, Jacopo … and even Baroque.’ She hissed the last name. ‘I don’t know why you trust him.’
‘I don’t. But he is exceedingly useful, and now that we have his journals, he’s our puppet, to pull the strings of as we wish.’
Giaconda threw back her head and laughed. ‘The expression on his face when we threatened to show them to the Kyprians!’
Ezzelino’s shoulders began to shake. ‘I enjoyed it most when we told him we knew Tarlo was a girl.’
‘I almost felt sorry for him. All his bargaining tools, broken.’
‘A broken horse is the only kind to ride.’ Ezzelino reached for his daughter’s hand and squeezed it tightly. ‘And now it’s up to you, bella, to use all your talents and tricks to change our little candlemaker’s apprentice, our Estrattore, Tarlo – ‘He turned her hand over and kissed the inside of her wrist.
‘Into what?’ asked Giaconda coquettishly.
Ezzelino made a noise of pure pleasure. The sound was dark. ‘Into a force to be reckoned with.’
Giaconda shared the laughter that followed. ‘Naturalmente.’
‘Now,’ said Ezzelino and pulled her closer. ‘Come and lie beside me. It’s getting cold in here and I have a desire to be warm.’
BACK IN HER ROOM, TALLOW CLIMBED out of bed and made her way to the window. Though she was exhausted from the events of the day, she couldn’t sleep. Her mind kept replaying everything that happened – all she’d seen, heard and to which she’d been asked to commit. She remembered the fleeting moment of pure panic when she’d made her mark on the piece of parchment beside Signor Maleovelli’s signature. The ink looked like a bloodstain as it was rapidly absorbed by the vellum. A fleeting twinge of doubt had almost made her pull back. No. She would forge ahead and take control of her destiny. But if she was so certain about that, why did she feel so … ambivalent?
She pushed her shoulder against the glass, forcing it to open. Resting her chin on her hand, she let the chilly air wash over her feverish thoughts.
She was to become a courtesan – Tarlo Maleovelli. She shook her head in disbelief. With not a soldi to her name, she had no-one to turn to, no-one to help her, except the Maleovellis and, in an ironic twist of fate, Baroque Scarpoli.
Glancing skywards, she tried to see the stars, but the casas were so close, the only light that reached her was muted. It turned the world into a pocket of shifting shadows.
She gave a deep sigh and noted that her breath frosted. Autumn was here and winter was just around the corner. There would be snow atop the Dolomites. For a moment, she closed her eyes and tried to recapture the view from her old rooftop, but it eluded her. Instead, images of Quinn’s twisted face as she raised a hand to strike interposed with that of Pillar. She tried to shut Quinn out and focus solely on Pillar, remember him as she’d last seen him on the bridge, before Dante … she bit her lip. It was no good. Instead, memories of the moment Pillar ordered her to leave the house flooded her mind. Unkempt, dirty and drunk.
Where was Pillar now? What was he doing? Was he safe?
It took her a moment to realise the wet sensation against her cheeks were tears. She brushed them away rudely. What was she crying about? She was better off now than she’d ever been. She was being offered protection. Anyone in her position would be grateful, should be grateful, and here she was weeping like a baby – and over what? Never again would she have to endure being beaten, hungry, rejected, or thrown out. A life where she had to pretend to be what she wasn’t.
But isn’t that what you’re going to be doing now?
She lowered her head onto the sill, the imprint of the ledge marking her cheek. At least she was choosing this time – she was in control, not at the whim of some prophecy in which Katina and the Bond Riders believed.
Katina … Tallow found her chest hurt when she thought of her friend. Friend? Could she really call Katina that any more? That was someone else who’d deserted her, left her to Quinn and Pillar – and look where that had led.
She stared outside, seeing nothing as her eyes became argent slits, allowing the rage deep inside her to erupt to the surface. She gripped the ledge with her hands, ignoring the pain that shot through her arms. Because of the Bond Riders, she could never go back to her old life. Not to Pillar, not to Dante, not even to the Macellerias – a family who, though scared of her, had offered her succour and companionship. They’d tried to understand.
No, Katina was no friend of hers, not anymore. Her fingers began to ache. She looked down in surprise. The wood around her hands smoked. She lifted them away in shock. Eight neat gouges appeared – her anger was inscribed upon the wood. Reaching out, she traced the outline of each one. Feelings of fury and despair washed over her. Oh yes, her wrath was profound.
She took a few deep breaths, allowed her rage to wash over her, and instead tried to focus on everything that had happened that day. Her awakening, her healing, her dress, Hafeza. Now she was a funny one. There was history there, Tallow knew. Then there was the bestowing of her new name. She actually liked it. And what about Baroque? She frowned. She never thought to see him again. What was he up to? What was he not telling the Maleovellis? She knew he was hiding something, something very important.
There was also the colleganza. Unable to read, she’d listened as Jacopo, in his high, fluting tones, had read the document aloud. Jacopo reminded her of a grub, the kind you find in a nice-looking piece of fruit, but only after you’ve already bitten into it. The way he watched her, as if he thought he couldn’t be seen, how he trembled as he held her hand over the paper as she scratched her mark. It hadn’t been fear that made him shake either. Tallow had stepped away from him eagerly, almost knocking over a candle in the process.
Briefly she wondered what it was the Maleovellis would ask her to distil into the candles. In exchange, she’d be educated and trained. It seemed fair to her – so long as they didn’t ask her to kill anyone. Katina had made it very clear that was something Estrattores were forbidden from doing.
Could she trust anything Katina had said to her? Or was she like everyone else in her life so far, prone to letting her down, misleading, rejecting her, being so afraid they either beat her to within an inch of her life or failed to defend her from harm despite promises to the contrary?
In fact, the only people who had shown her any kindness, any form of understanding or respect, offered any hope, were the Maleovellis. She sighed. Unbelievable.
What about Dante? What about his family?
A great void opened inside Tallow, an emptiness that she now knew she’d been trying to fill with all the different things she’d seen and experienced in the last few hours. She’d been using them to avoid facing that which now tore at her heart, ate at her soul. Tears coursed down her cheeks.
‘Dante,’ she whispered into the night. ‘Amore mio, forgive me.’ His face floated before her, the tousled black hair and sparkling coal-dark eyes. A sob broke the quiet of the night. ‘How can I do this without you?’
From anger to anguish, the emotions roiled within her. She began to quiver. If she didn’t work out how to control herself, how to moderate and live with the pain of Dante’s absence, the guilt of his death, she’d be no good to anyone, and she knew that he would not want that. Of all people, he would understand the choices she’d been given and what she now had to do. Out of everything her life had been so far, out of Dante’s death, good must come. If not, she couldn’t bear it.
But how? If she fell apart every time thoughts of Dante intruded, how could she manage?
In the corner of her eye, the little harlequin twinkled. She moved a
way from the window and picked it up, bringing it back and holding it up to the moonlight, an offering like they used to make to the gods of old. She recalled how the figurine had made her feel the last time she held it. Then, it struck her. She knew what to do.
Before she changed her mind, she poured as much of her love and feelings of loss for Dante into the ornament as she could. She extracted from deep within herself and distilled everything: regret for a future that would never be, remorse that their friendship, no, their love, had been no more than a harbinger of death, into the glass. Purging the pain, the blossoming of desire, the longing, the many memories that together shone like a ripe sun, she placed them one by one into the harlequin. The colours glowed, the intensity making her blink and half-close her eyes. She didn’t stop; she kept going until she was a gasping, hollow puddle against the sill.
When she’d finished, she staggered to the bureau and placed the harlequin, the vessel for all her feelings for Dante, on top. As she regained her breath and equilibrium, the colours ceased swirling. Reaching inside herself, she tentatively felt for Dante’s presence. He was there, but it wasn’t painful. The emotions that had made her chest feel as if it were going to explode were now like words she would recite but not feel. Her love had been placed inside the harlequin where it would remain forever, like a Bond inside a pledge stone, hidden in plain sight.
Stroking the diminutive dancer, she knew that while her insides no longer burned with loss, what she’d done didn’t change her love. No, she might become a courtesan, but she would never give her heart to another.
In some respects, that was why being a courtesan was an appealing idea. Tallow was no innocent. Not only had she witnessed the passion between a man and a woman during hurried trysts at Carnivale time, but as an Estrattore she’d also felt the range of emotions they experienced. From utter lust to indifference and even hurt, she’d touched them all. Courtesans, unlike many women and even men, were able to control with who and when they shared these things. So far, she’d had no influence over her life; her new one would allow her that at least.
