Heart of Glass

by Sasha Gould

  Thud! Something smashes into the side of my head. I stagger slightly as the sensation of warmth and moisture creeps down my cheek. I put a hand to my face. When I take it away to stare at my fingers, I frown with confusion, my thoughts struggling to keep up with what is happening. Someone has thrown a rotten fig at me, its golden seeds squelching out of the purple skin.

  “You should be ashamed to be here!” shouts a man. He pulls back his head, purses his lips and then spits. Warm saliva hits my chest, and Emilia hurries to wipe it away with a handkerchief.

  “Don’t,” I try to tell her, “don’t take it away.” But she can’t hear me for the clamor.

  “Is that your daughter, old man?” someone else cries. I glance back at Father and see him turn away. He doesn’t try to defend me. I stumble onwards, looking neither right nor left.

  “Your fiancé is a coward!” someone in the crowd shouts. “He deserves to die.”

  “Murderer’s creature!”

  “Harlot!”

  “Roberto’s head should have rolled already,” a woman yells, her eyes narrowed. “Just because he’s the Doge’s son …” She stoops beneath the rope barrier and lunges towards us.

  “Guards!” Father calls, his voice straining to be heard above the crowds. “Come and help!”

  Men in cloaks carrying swords at their waists run over, and suddenly I am surrounded by a wall of broad shoulders. I am able to move quickly inside this cavern of safety, and our family is escorted the rest of the way to the Basilica, with its lead-covered domes and turrets. Lifting my skirts, I run up the steps. I can’t believe my arrival at Nicolo’s funeral is so undignified. Tears of shame swell in my eyes, and I wipe them away with a fist.

  As we step inside, I’m grateful for the coolness that surrounds me. Lysander is looking at me hard.

  “Why are they attacking you?” he asks, his voice somber. “You haven’t killed anybody.”

  He suddenly sounds much older than the young man who sat at our table tipsily teasing his new wife, not so many days ago.

  I look down at my stained skirts. “Neither has Roberto,” I say coldly. “It’s all such a mess.”

  We turn to face the rows of official mourners. I gaze up at the cathedral’s high domed ceiling, which glistens with gold foil. We are surrounded by marble columns and bronze statues. Singers gaze down on us from the choir lofts, and the gilded mosaic ceiling makes my eyes dance. No wonder it’s known as the Church of Gold. It’s an exercise in opulence: Venice at its best—and its worst. After all, we are here because of a good man’s death.

  My family walks down the main nave towards a row of seats that have been saved for us. On either side, women are dressed in their finery and men sport silken cloaks, the colors denoting their status. No one looks at us—whether out of respect for Nicolo or distaste for my presence, I don’t know. I spot a space farther back in the church and duck into it, leading Emilia after me.

  “I don’t want to be too near the front,” I whisper in explanation. “For Paulina’s sake.”

  I can see my friend, her back poker straight as she trains her face on Nicolo’s coffin where it rests near the high altar.

  Emilia bobs her head in understanding and I sink onto a bench as Father and Lysander move ahead to take our family’s allotted place. I grasp the wooden bench in front of me, my fingers turning white. Emilia reaches over, takes my hand and holds it in her lap.

  Beside Paulina sits the Duchess Besina, Nicolo’s mother. She glances over her shoulder and spots me in the crowd. Standing, she moves past the Doge and walks up the aisle towards me. Others shift in their seats, and I feel a hundred staring eyes. Emilia stands to give the Duchess her place, and the older woman sits beside me.

  The Duchess carries the perfume of grief with her. I smell it oozing from her skin, beneath the stronger scent of her pomade. When she gazes into my eyes, I think my heart will break. Any light that once danced there has been extinguished. I want to draw the Duchess to me, but her status as the Doge’s wife makes this impossible. She is cast adrift, isolated by an advantageous marriage that robs her of simple human kindness. For a moment, I wonder if I really want to enter this family, to marry Roberto. Do I wish the same fate for myself? For people to fear, more than care for, me?

  “Roberto,” she starts to say. She pauses and swallows hard, composing herself. “Roberto is back in the … in that place.”

  “No,” I mutter. Not the Piombi.

  “The house arrest was not well received. And especially after Nicolo’s death, it became a scandal. The Doge had no choice. Laura, I’m sorry. You won’t see Roberto again until his trial, two days from now.” Her voices catches. “I wanted … I wanted to tell you myself. I know you love him as much as I do.”

  “Two days is a long time,” I whisper. “In two days, this nightmare could be over.”

  She gives me a watery smile. “You’re right. We should be pleased for the progress we’ve made. You’re a good girl.” She strokes a hand down my cheek; then with a heavy swish of skirts she returns to her place at the front of the church.

  Emilia takes her seat beside me once more, and the funeral service begins.

  The formality of it helps. The cathedral is huge, and Nicolo’s coffin is a tiny oblong box a long way from me, pointing at the grand altar. To see it I have to strain my neck to peer above the crowd of heads. I imagine him laid inside there, as cold and still as my sister was in her own coffin. The voices of the priests barely carry to me, and I copy the movements of others in the congregation, making the sign of the cross when they do or sinking to my knees. I feel bleached of emotion, counting the moments until I can be out of this place. It’s not that I don’t care for Nicolo or Paulina, but life is pressing down very hard on my shoulders.

  A small, almost indiscernible movement at the upper edge of my vision draws my glance to the ceiling of the church. In one of the many balconies, I spot a shadowy silhouette half hidden by a porphyry statue. The silhouette sharpens into the outline of a small waist, a curved hip—a woman. She’s dressed in black and wearing a mask that glints silver beneath the gold of the church ceiling. How strange. I’m sure the mask isn’t one of ours. Luxurious curls of brown hair cascade down one shoulder. Why is she in the balcony rather than among the congregation? I twist round in my seat for a better view, but as soon as I move, she slips behind the statue, disappearing out of sight.

  As the incense clouds about me and bells are rung, I turn back towards Nicolo’s coffin. My senses are ablaze. Grief is all around me, yet only one thought fills my head.

  Someone is spying on me.

  23

  I wake the next morning and watch the muslin curtains billow in the warm breeze. The masked figure haunted my dreams, waiting each time I closed my eyes. Not for the first time I ask myself, Can I trust the Segreta?

  I barely have the energy to leave my bed and get dressed. Nicolo’s funeral and the hatred shown to me in the streets have left me drained.

  I can hear Faustina in the courtyard below, slapping wet sheets against a washboard. Then there’s a voice that makes me sit up sharply.

  “Is she in?” gasps a young boy. It’s the messenger who brought me the notes from Grazia. I’ve contracted him with a steady supply of food from the kitchen to apprise me of any interesting developments. After all, if I am to help Roberto survive the scandal that has beset him, I must know what whispers are abroad.

  “Yes,” answers Faustina, puffing heavily. I hear the creak as she turns a mangle, squeezing water from fabric as it passes between the wooden rolls. “I’ll take you to her.”

  I leap out of bed and draw a dressing gown around me, tie it hastily at the waist and run towards the main stairs. Barefoot and with my hair loose, I descend into the main hallway—just as Faustina, her hands red from scorching hot water, leads the boy indoors. They stare at me in surprise.

  “Aren’t you dressed yet?” Faustina asks. She wipes the soapsuds from her hands onto her apron. “I’ve been work
ing since dawn!”

  The boy gawps at the open collar of my dressing gown, and hastily I pull it tighter. “You have a message for me?” I ask. The boy nods, his mouth still hanging open. I throw a glance at Faustina, who has folded her arms and is giving me a long, narrow-eyed look. “You may leave us,” I tell her formally.

  She opens her mouth to protest, then thinks better of it, turning on her heel to walk back out to the wooden washbasin that rests on the courtyard tiles.

  “Well?” I ask.

  The boy swallows hard. “A ship has docked in the harbor,” he says.

  I feel my skin prickle with anticipation. “Whose ship?”

  “That Turkish prince’s—Halim.” The boy’s face colors. “The one you fought with a sword.”

  “And how do you know about that?” I ask sharply.

  “Everyone’s talking about it.”

  I feel my face stiffen. “I can hardly set foot outside my own door. I rely on you to tell me what’s happening in Venice—remember?” The boy looks as though he’s about to burst into tears. I soften my voice. “Thank you for the message.” I walk over to where my purse hangs from a wooden clothes hook and dig inside it for payment. As the coins fall into the boy’s open palm, I give him one last instruction: “Tell our coachman to prepare the horses.”

  “Where shall I say you’re going?”

  I look out the open front doors of the villa. In the far distance, I can see the sparkle of water. “Where is Halim staying?” I ask.

  “I know that!” the boy says proudly. “I asked around before coming here. He’s taken apartments near the harbor, on Albanesi.”

  “Well done,” I tell him, smiling. I slip him an extra coin.

  That’s where I’ll go, then, I tell myself.

  When I emerge from my room, ready for the journey, Lysander and Emilia are standing in the hallway. They are dressed in walking clothes.

  “Won’t you join us?” Emilia smiles. I shake my head, glimpsing the coachman waiting patiently out on the drive. Lysander looks over his shoulder, following the direction of my gaze.

  “You’re going out alone?” he asks.

  “Why not?” I say. “I’m not going to be a prisoner here.” But as I start to walk towards the open doorway, Lysander grasps my arm.

  “Are you sure you’ll be all right?” he asks, drawing me to one side. “Remember what happened before the funeral.”

  “I have to leave this house one day.”

  Lysander’s eyes are pained and he lowers his voice. “I’ve heard rumors, Laura … about Roberto.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “Consider, how well do you really know this man? He was hidden for many years, living a life free of restriction.…”

  “Just say what you mean.”

  “Do I have to?” he asks. “I know what young men are like, sister.”

  “Really?” I say. “Well, you don’t know Roberto. He’s a good man. I know this from the depths of my soul.”

  “All women in love say this, and we both know that some are wrong,” says Lysander. “Please, listen to my counsel.…”

  I shake myself free, firmly, but I don’t want to cause a scene in front of Emilia.

  “I’ve heard the rumors too,” I say. “But if I believed every rumor to take to the air in Venice, I’d be a fool indeed. Roberto. Really, brother.” I force a smile onto my face. I don’t want him to ask where I’m going.

  Turning to the waiting coachman, he calls out, “Take care of her!”

  The man nods in acknowledgment. Hastily, I go outside and climb into the coach. As the driver slams the little door shut behind me, Emilia’s face appears at the window. She reaches inside the carriage and takes my hand.

  “Stay safe,” she tells me. “We love you, you know.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I reassure her, wondering if she too has heard this new gossip about my beloved Roberto. She steps away from the coach, and I hear the crack of a whip. Then the coach lurches and I ride out towards the harbor. To the man who can change everything.

  I ask the coachman to drop me off a few streets away from Halim’s apartments. I cannot risk word getting back to my family as to my whereabouts. I duck down the alleyways, keeping to the shadows. Perhaps it’s the clandestine nature of my visit that makes me check frequently over my shoulder, but that masked face stays with me. Turning a corner, I glimpse a flash of purple skirt slipping out of sight. It could be anyone, but three more turnings on, I see it again, dipping behind a stall. There’s a wooden bench ahead, and I pause beside it, as if trying to get my bearings. My senses are stretched taut, but I don’t see the dress again.

  In the Calle dei Albanesi I spot two dark-skinned guards posted at a doorway. The men are dressed in short red jackets and billowing trousers tucked inside leather boots. Swathes of green cloth bind their heads, and each carries a short sword shoved inside a leather belt. Their thick beards make it impossible to read their expressions.

  “I’m here to see Halim,” I say.

  One of the men grins. “No one sees the prince without permission,” he says in Italian. “And he hasn’t said anything about a Venetian courtesan paying him a visit.”

  I keep a straight face. These men are not thugs, I know that. I have heard about the Ottoman army and the privileges of learning and social status that their soldiers enjoy. To call me a courtesan is not a mistake, but a well-aimed weapon. The guard’s companion joins in the mocking laughter. He nods towards San Polo, where most of Venice’s prostitutes live and work.

  “You’re a long way from home,” he tells me. “Better run back to your customers.”

  I dip my head modestly. “There must be some mistake,” I tell them. “My father sits on the Doge’s Grand Council. I am sure Halim will see me if he knows I’m here. Tell him … tell him that Laura della Scala wishes to visit.”

  The men share a doubtful glance and speak to each other in their own tongue.

  “That’s right,” calls a voice from the hallway. The prince steps out of the shadows, into the column of sunlight streaming from the open doorway. “She’s the one I’ve been speaking of.”

  “My lord,” I say, dipping into a curtsy.

  Another figure sidles from within the apartment and stands beside the prince. Faruk.

  He speaks urgently to Halim, looking at me with barely concealed disgust.

  The prince waves a hand through the air. “Paper and ink can wait,” he says, staring at me. “Come inside, Laura.”

  The guards step aside.

  I take Halim’s outstretched hand, feeling his fingers curl around my own.

  “Thank you,” I say. He has no idea how much I mean it.

  Then he leads me into the hidden darkness of his rooms.

  24

  I’ve never seen a Venetian apartment like this before. It has been transformed. Clouds of incense fill the air from shallow copper bowls, and thick rugs cover the marble floor. Chairs and couches have been pushed against the walls to make room for scattered cushions. Halim lowers himself onto one of them and sits cross-legged. A length of glistening linen has been twisted around his temples in a neat turban. His trousers are made of rich silk that whispers luxuriously as he moves, and rows of tiny buttons line the edges of his collarless tunic. Over it, he wears a waistcoat of cream taffeta embroidered with gold brocade. There is a wide sash at his waist, and leather boots encase his feet. When he smiles, his teeth glitter white against golden skin.

  Across the room from us are some of Halim’s advisers. They kneel and sit around a low wooden table with a map spread across it. From the familiar curves of the coastline, I recognize it as the Mediterranean. Faruk goes to join them, and the men pause in their murmuring, watching as Halim indicates a cushion to me. I tuck my skirts beneath me carefully, sitting with my legs arranged to one side. It is difficult to be a graceful Venetian lady sitting so close to the floor, but I take a tumbler of white liquid from a servant and sip it to hide my embarrassment. It’s sweet and sour a
t the same time, and I wrinkle my nose.

  Halim smiles. “It is a yogurt drink,” he explains. “Traditional in our country, though I fear the Italian cows do not produce such rich milk as ours.” The smile falls from his face. “But I’m sure you’re not here to discuss dairy cows.”

  My eyes flicker over to Halim’s advisers as I try to judge what I can and cannot say in front of witnesses. Halim notices my reticence and clicks his fingers above his head. “You can go,” he tells the men. Led by a grumbling Faruk, they leave the room, shutting the door behind them.

  Now we are alone. Now I can say anything I choose.

  “You are a brave woman,” Halim tells me. “Strong in spirit, too. It cannot have been easy, coming here today.”

  “I heard that you buried your sister on the mainland,” I say.

  I wonder if he knows why his sister came to Venice in the first place—why she felt the need to make contact with the Segreta. An answer to that question flashes across my mind, but I push it away for now, because it’s too painful to think about.

  Prince Halim leans to light another cone of incense and I guess that he is playing for time, waiting for his composure to return. Finally, he looks at me through the clouds of frankincense and juniper.

  “Do you want to know about Ottoman funerals, then?”

  “I want to know how you are,” I tell him. If I want this man to help me, I need to understand him. “I know what it is to lose a sister, remember.”

  Halim changes before my eyes. Something seems to fall from his face, and he slumps back against the cushions.

  “After my sister was born, my mother gave away the—how do you say it?—the ‘good-luck eyes’ she’d had since girlhood. Do you know what they are, Laura?”

  I shake my head.

  “Glass beads that ward off ill fortune. Mother always said that her beautiful daughter was all the good luck our family needed.” Halim laughs at the memory. “We all believed the same, until she ran away.…” His eyes cloud with darkness, and I move to sit on a cushion nearer to him. I daren’t reach out and clasp his hand in sympathy, but it doesn’t matter—he’s lost in a scene playing out in his head. “She ran away from home a month ago, and we didn’t even know why. She was the center of our family, and suddenly our heart was torn from us. When she disappeared, I truly thought …” He breaks off, and suddenly his eyes snap back to me, his gaze hungry for reassurance. “Why would a young woman run away like that?”