Heart of Glass

by Sasha Gould

  The Abbess bows her head. “Happy now?”

  “This isn’t personal.”

  “Of course it isn’t.” Her face twists in a smile full of bitterness. “It never was.”

  As I leave the convent, I hear a scuffle behind me and then I feel a hand tugging at the sleeve of my dress. It’s Annalena.

  “Weren’t you going to say goodbye?” she asks.

  I pull her to me in an embrace. I had again forgotten my old friend. I kiss her eyes and brush a hand down a cheek. My insides twist with guilt. I have been dancing, sword-fighting, dressing in fine robes. And all the time, my lay sister has been locked inside these four walls. I should have thought about her before now.

  She walks me to the main doors and kisses my hands. “It has been good to see you again,” she tells me.

  “And you will see more of me,” I reassure her, though I wonder if I am deceiving us both.

  Annalena smiles sadly. “We’ll see.”

  It hasn’t been a happy visit, and all the sugared almonds in the world won’t make up for the wretchedness of my friend’s fate.

  I head straight back to Allegreza’s apartments. I must be the first to tell her, and I can feel my heart palpitating as though it wants to jump out of my chest. I can hardly think.

  So there were two girls that night on Murano. Of course Aysim wouldn’t travel alone. This stray must be her servant, or her friend. She must have answers.

  At Allegreza’s house, the old servant lets me in again, and my skin prickles with anxiety.

  “They’re in the parlor,” she says.

  And then I’m at the doors, and my thumping heart almost stops. For it isn’t only Allegreza in the room. Others from the Segreta, at least ten, including Grazia, are ranged about. To anyone else, it would look like a gathering of well-to-do ladies taking tea. But my eyes travel among the aging faces, and see they all wear the silver rings on their middle fingers. These are the most senior of our number.

  “Well?” Allegreza says. “What brings you here?”

  I bite my lip. “I went to the convent.”

  Women exchange startled glances. The temperature of the room seems to drop. “What?” Allegreza’s fury is not far from the surface of her face.

  “Forgive me, please. I wanted to find out her secret! Roberto, his reputation—his life!—depend on it. I was just trying to do the right thing.”

  Allegreza nods to her servant, who closes the doors.

  “She wouldn’t speak to me at first,” I continue, “but when I mentioned Aysim she became angry and defensive. I told her about Halim’s distress and I also told her that … that I knew her.” Several of the women frown in confusion. “When I was disturbed at the meeting on Murano … it was her, I’m sure of it. I’m sorry I went against your orders, but …”

  Allegreza’s lips are pale, her eyes dark and deadly. “And what did you learn, Laura?”

  And so we come to it. In a halting voice, I tell her of the escape, and with each word my shame grows. The glares I receive tell the same story. None of these women would have made the same foolish mistake.

  Our leader turns her back on me and addresses the other women in a trembling voice. “You’ve heard what happened. It is of primary importance that this woman be found again. I ask you all to do what you can. You have contacts, you know the city’s secrets. Talk, persuade, bribe—whatever it takes. But find out where this girl is!”

  The women nod and begin to filter from the room, leaving me with Allegreza. She still has her face turned away from me.

  “I specifically forbade you to go to that place,” she says, her voice cold. I don’t know what to say in response. Finally, she turns and the curl of disgust at her mouth makes the blood drain from my face. “You can go now.”

  I think about speaking once more, but what can I offer but pleading and excuses? I leave, back into the harsh daylight of a city that no longer seems to be my friend.

  I’ve failed Allegreza, and I’ve failed the Segreta.

  But worst of all, I’ve failed Roberto.

  27

  “Chaos,” Father grumbles. His eyes dart over to see if I’m listening—clearly he has something on his mind. “Nothing but chaos.”

  We’re dining, just the two of us, as Lysander and Emilia are visiting friends. The food turns to mush in my mouth, and I struggle to swallow. I cannot stop thinking about how badly I performed today. But I must humor my father.

  “What do you mean?”

  He pours himself a glass of wine and drinks it down greedily, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. Then he shrugs. “People are talking.”

  “People are always talking in Venice,” I say.

  He watches my face carefully. “Yes, but this is different. There are men who …” He allows his words to hang in the air.

  “Men who what?” My nerves are suddenly alert. “Is this about the Grand Council? What have they been saying?”

  Father twists a napkin round and round between his knuckles. He hangs his head to one side, as though unsure about what to share with a simple woman.

  “There’s a faction,” he says eventually. “I think I see their side of things.”

  “What side of things?” Venice doesn’t need more intrigue, not at a time like this.

  “They think that the Doge is handling the city’s affairs badly, that he is too compromised by everything that is happening in his family—one son dead and another a murderer.”

  I flinch at his words. “How can you talk about Roberto like that—your future son-in-law?” I ask.

  “Do you blame me?” he replies. “All of Venice says the same thing.”

  “What else do they say?” Father pushes his chair away from the table, as though preparing to leave. “Tell me!” I say, my voice dark with warning. “You’ve started, so you may as well finish.”

  Father throws his napkin down on the table. “The Doge’s position is becoming untenable,” he says, staring me brazenly in the face. “There are plans.…”

  “What plans?” He shakes his head, but I repeat myself, my voice louder. “What plans?”

  He glances uneasily at the doors, beyond which servants will be waiting—and overhearing. “All right, all right. Be quiet, and I’ll tell you. Massimo, the Admiral of the Fleet—he thinks he could take command.”

  “Depose the Doge?” I ask.

  Father leans back in his chair. “You sound surprised, Laura. Don’t you think it would be best if Venice was rid of such a family of monsters?” He waits for me to protest, but I manage to control myself. I won’t leap to Roberto’s defense in front of Father. Strong emotions make weak tacticians. I’m learning that. If I’m to protect Roberto, I need to compose myself. Stiffly, I get to my feet and begin to walk out of the dining room.

  “Don’t worry, daughter,” my father calls after me. “It will all be for the best. You’ll see. Then we can start piecing our lives back together again.”

  I leave the room and pause by the veranda doors. I glimpse the jasmine in the courtyard beyond, its small white flowers glowing in the moonlight. Their scent carries to me on the air and draws me out. I go to sit on the bench beneath the olive tree and lean against the gnarled wood, my head tipped back, my eyes half closed as I watch a bat dart through the shadows.

  How did it come to this? How can the city I love have become such a prison? Not just for Roberto, but for myself also.

  I hear the scuff of leather on stone, and when I glance over, Emilia is standing in the doorway, her dress shining in the candlelight. A shawl droops from one hand, its silken tassels whispering across the flagstones as she comes to sit beside me.

  “Lysander’s gone to bed,” she says, reaching to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. “You look tired, too. What are you doing out here?”

  I shrug. Any explanation suddenly feels exhausting. More lies on top of too many others.

  Emilia wraps her arms around her waist, hugging herself. She follows my glance up to the fat orb o
f the moon.

  “It shines on us, wherever we are,” she says with a smile. She looks back at me. “Lysander and I are thinking of going home soon. Perhaps you … perhaps you’d come with us?”

  I’m suddenly wide awake. “Leave Venice?” I ask.

  Emilia grins. “That’s not such a very extraordinary idea, is it? You’re a young woman who has had a heavy weight on her shoulders these past days. A trip away could work wonders for you. Or perhaps something more permanent.” Her hand grasps mine and her skin is warm.

  “Without Roberto? How could I?” I ask, too sharply. I immediately regret my tone and squeeze her hand. “You know I couldn’t leave him.”

  “He could join you!” she says. “When all this is over, the two of you will be free to travel wherever you please. Away from all this intrigue and gossip!”

  Emilia has a point. Listening to Father this evening, I felt heavy with fatigue. How much longer do I have to defend my fiancé against the rumor mills of this city?

  I get to my feet, and Emilia rises beside me. “Thank you,” I say, “but …”

  “Just think about it,” says Emilia.

  I promise that I will and we walk back indoors.

  Bidding her good night, I take the stairs to my room.

  I kneel beside the window. I haven’t prayed properly since my days in the convent, and I wonder if anyone will be listening now.

  But I ask anyway. I pray that Roberto will walk away a free man. That we will then be free together. That we can leave this place and all its worries.

  I stand and lean out of the window, looking in the direction of the Doge’s palace.

  The Segreta can keep their secrets, if only I can get my beloved back.

  28

  The crowd jostles me as I stand before the temporary wooden stage that’s been built in St. Mark’s Square. My fingertips grip its edge, my face level with the rough-hewn planks. I’m surrounded by men and women who have been up half the night in anticipation of today’s events. The smell of stale sweat hangs heavy in the air, but above us the sky is blue and clear. The Basilica of St. Mark’s stands at the eastern side of the square, and the clock tower looms over the scene, marking out each passing second as I wait to see Roberto’s face. We’re hemmed in on the other three sides of the square by rows of archways and columns, three stories high.

  One thought swirled around my head last night as I tried to sleep: could I be wrong about Roberto? It makes me sway on my feet to even consider such a possibility.

  A man laughs beside me, his breath ripe with the smell of beer. A flagon dangles from his hand despite the early hour. “I hope we see his innards slither to the ground!” he cries, before belching loudly.

  I close my eyes and force my expression to stay blank. I cannot risk these people sensing my disgust; they must believe I’m one of them. The Venetian nobles are watching from above, in the buildings surrounding the square. No lady would lower herself to stand at the front of a boorish crowd eager for a spectacle, and I’ve taken some of Bianca’s clothes to conceal my status. The fabric of the dress is dyed a simple dark blue. My curls are scraped back severely, and I wear a bonnet with a deep brim to hide my face.

  “You won’t see his innards,” a woman says, prodding the drunk man in the ribs. She jerks her chin towards the stage. “He’s too good for that.” She spits vigorously on the floor, and I only just manage to pull the hem of my skirts out of the way in time. “Son of a Doge? He’ll get a nice, tidy execution. It’s not right, if you ask me. Should be …”

  Whatever she says next gets drowned out by a sudden, vicious roar from the crowd. I stand up on tiptoes to see. It’s Roberto! A guard leads him out onto the stage. He looks much better than last time, thank goodness. He’s wearing clean clothes, his hair is washed and his bruises are almost healed. He’s thin, though—the veins stand out on his arms, and he holds his body slightly to one side as he walks, as though protecting an injury. His hands are manacled in front of him.

  “My love,” I whisper.

  As he passes the edge of the stage, I reach forward, my fingers trembling.

  “He won’t have any coins for you!” the man beside me guffaws. “Son of the Doge or no.”

  I snatch my hand back, but not before I hear Roberto gasp in recognition. His eyes widen and he slows. A guard shoves him roughly in the back and he stumbles forward, his eyes flickering over to me one last time. Then he has moved away, going to stand in the center of the stage.

  Three men step onto the wooden boards. These are the judges, three senior members of the Council. They’re wearing ceremonial robes and sit themselves on high seats at the back of the stage, staring out at the onlookers. Their faces look carved from stone, expressions unreadable.

  There’s no sign of the Doge or his wife. Perhaps they’re hiding behind one of the hundreds of windows in the palace that rears over us. Roberto is so fully alone that it makes my heart ache.

  A figure in a cloak steps up onto the stage and brings a wooden staff down against the floorboards.

  “Silence!” he calls. His voice carries easily across the square, and the people around me stop their gossiping, their eyes trained on the stage.

  A second figure comes forward: Faruk. His stooped shoulders are hidden beneath a luxurious robe, and his face is clean-shaven. He is invited by one of the Council to begin the prosecution, and he turns to face the crowd, sending them a winning smile. It makes my blood run cold.

  “The Ottoman Empire sends out its thanks to you, Venetians, for allowing us to plead our case today. My countrymen have heard much of your fair-minded and educated legal system, and we are privileged to be part of it …”

  He’s transformed himself for today’s performance, and even I am amazed. His Italian is faultless as he walks confidently across the stage.

  “… but there can be no denying that the Ottoman kingdom has been maligned by a son of Venice.” At this, he flings out an arm, motioning to Roberto.

  My fiancé simply stares at his feet, his face hidden from the crowd. A flash of frustration passes through me. Can’t he see that standing like that makes him look defeated already? Guilty, even?

  “The case is clear-cut. Princess Aysim was found dead in this monster’s rooms. We have watchmen who will swear to it. The motive for murder? Frustrated lust! Our dear princess would not fulfill his wishes and so he brutally killed her.” Faruk shakes his head in disgust. “Do you want this stain on your society?”

  “No!” the people around me chorus. “Never!” They are like baying dogs. How can they allow themselves to be so easily deceived?

  Faruk gives a solemn nod, as though confirming how very wise they are, and retires to the side of the stage.

  “And now for the defense,” announces the man with the staff. There are crows and hoots of anticipation, and Roberto is led forward by a chain to the front of the stage.

  His eyes scan the crowd, though I notice he avoids looking at me. I mustn’t feel hurt; he is doing what he can to get through the next moments.

  “I am proud to be a son of Venice,” he begins, his voice cracking. He straightens his shoulders. “I would die rather than dishonor this city.”

  “Die, then, dog!” someone shouts from the back of the crowd, and ugly laughter fills my ears. Roberto waits for the insults to die away. His expression is strong and proud; this is not a man who will cower before them. Hope flutters in my heart. Finally, quiet descends.

  “This much I can tell you: I have never met the woman, Aysim. On the night she was so foully killed, I was drugged and my apartments arranged to look like the scene of murder. Whoever committed this crime, it wasn’t me.”

  Now there are hisses of disapproval from onlookers.

  “I am an innocent man,” says Roberto. He lowers his head again.

  He allows himself to be brought back to the center of the stage, and I feel my hands ball into fists at my sides.

  “Is that all he has to say?” The words are out of my mouth b
efore I can stop myself.

  “I could have done better myself,” says the man beside me, taking a long gulp of beer.

  Anyone could have done better than that. Roberto has betrayed his fate with a few paltry words and a story that not even a child would believe. I want to sink to my knees, to weep. What hope is left to us now?

  Halim steps up. Handsome, powerful Halim. His hair is freshly oiled and his robes are pristine. He looks every inch the prince he is. He talks quietly with the judges, and I guess that he is requesting permission to speak. Then he turns to face the crowds.

  “I’d hoped that the Doge’s son would show his noble birth, and admit his guilt, but it seems that is not to be. So my hand has been forced.” My glance darts towards Roberto. The blood drains from his face as he watches Halim intensely. “My poor sister was the most virtuous of women. When she first disappeared,” Halim continues, “our lives fell apart. We didn’t know whether she had been kidnapped, or worse. We searched high and low for clues that might help us find her.” From the sash of his robe, Halim pulls out a roll of parchment. “Then we found this letter.”

  Halim slowly unrolls the parchment, which bears a broken ducal seal. Though no one can read the writing from their vantage point, the crowd seems to press forward as one. I can see the prince’s hand shaking a little. He looks upwards to the sky.

  “Forgive me, sister,” he mutters. “I betray your secrets to save your honor.” Now he turns his face to the parchment and begins to read.

  “My Darling,

  “Since we met in Constantinople last month, I have not been able to put you from my thoughts. Even when I close my eyes, your face does not leave me. Each day since seems a year in length. That night, you gave me a hundred reasons why we should not be together, but my single reason trumps them all. I love you, and cannot live while we’re apart. Come to Venice at once, and I promise our life together will be a paradise. I think of you whether the sun or the moon rules the sky.”