by Lauren Kate
Only her singing didn’t suffer. Both in the church and at the casino, Violetta sang her heartache. She moved her audiences to tears, and she liked it. The moments she was singing were the only ones in which she felt a measure of peace.
* * *
WHEN THE LETTER came in late September that Mino would reschedule, Violetta told Laura she would attend the meeting. But when that Saturday arrived, she stole to the roof and hid for hours. She was not strong enough to bear his rejection again. The roof was the only place she could be certain she wouldn’t see him, wouldn’t be found.
It seemed an eternity that she watched boats disappear over the horizon. Eventually, cold and damp in the evening fog, she crept back inside and knocked on Laura’s door.
It swung open. Behind her candlestick, Laura’s eyes were huge with relief, then annoyance.
“And?” Violetta said.
Laura shook her head, incredulous. “We waited. I searched for you—”
“I couldn’t,” Violetta said. “Tell me. Please.”
Laura rubbed her eyes and turned back inside her room. She set the candlestick by the bedside. She retied the ribbon at the neck of her nightgown.
“We’ve commissioned a dozen violins. The expense is high but worthwhile. We’ve had to advance the funds out of—”
“Laura!” Violetta shouted. “What else?”
Laura sighed and sat down on the bed, patting the space beside her. Violetta climbed in and felt the covers close around her. She lay her head on Laura’s breast. It rose and fell. She heard Laura’s breath like scales as her friend stroked her hair.
“He is getting married.”
Violetta stiffened. Silence swelled around them.
“Tomorrow,” Laura said.
Violetta closed her eyes and felt a void open inside her. Marry someone better than me. She’d said it. Did he love this woman? It didn’t matter. She was so glad she hadn’t gone to the meeting.
Laura’s fingers brushed her, a calming weight to them. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He has a baby coming.”
Violetta pushed slowly off Laura’s chest. She rose from the bed. She looked her friend in the eyes and saw that it was true. Desperation filled her and she swung at a vase of flowers on the table next to Laura’s bed. The porcelain crashed to the floor and shattered. The water dripped across the terrazzo. There was so much more she wished to break.
“Calm, Violetta,” Laura said. Her voice stayed steady. “He’s found love again, just as you have. It’s all right—”
Violetta cried out, fell on her knees. She didn’t want to be reasoned with. Shards of porcelain cut through her dress, into her legs. The pain felt good. She wanted to be as broken as the vase.
“You’re bleeding.” Laura gasped. “I’ll get the nurse—”
“Don’t,” Violetta said, finding her feet, not even looking down at her wounds. She made herself breathe, to appear calmer than she was. “I’m very tired. I’m going to bed.”
“Violetta, don’t do anything tonight—”
“Please. Leave me be.” She hugged Laura tightly, briefly. “Good night,” she whispered, then closed herself in her room.
* * *
SHE HAD NEVER gone out her window before sundown and was surprised to see the Zattere below was crowded. But she knew her people; whatever Venetians thought of a woman scaling a hospital window, they would think on it intensely for a moment, and then the thought would flit away.
Tomorrow was to be a grand regatta, and the Giudecca Canal was already crowded with decorated boats ready for racing. Everyone who had money and access to a boat was heading out for evening picnics on the water. The casino would be crowded later.
She thought of Mino, who once planned to apprentice at the squero. This would have been an important night for his work as a shipbuilder. Instead, he had even more pressing matters on his mind. His wedding. His baby. Violetta imagined him exchanging vows with an unknown woman. Her stomach churned.
She would miss Laura. She would miss the music, always. She would miss the wonder in the eyes of the churchgoers as she sang. But she couldn’t stay in the same place any longer.
Mino had moved on. It was past time for her to do the same.
She waited for a family to pass, and then, as quickly as she could, she let down the bedsheet, climbed to the ledge, and for the last time, jumped to the street. She didn’t look back to see who was watching. She turned and ran.
Her pockets were heavy with sequins. She wore her mask, an unremarkable white dress, her cloak, and the opal at her neck. She had nothing else she valued, only the freedom she chased. She pushed through the crowds without caring about the eyes she drew. She had to get far from the Incurables, fast.
Venice glowed pink at sunset—the buildings, the water, the air. Big clouds clotted the sky, their edges limned with light. The romance of the city pained Violetta. She needed to slide into the darkness of the casino, to let it take her in its arms.
Halfway there, it began to rain. Violetta hurried, but soon she was soaked. Dipping under the cork bough, dashing up the circular steps, she drew a quizzical look from Fortunato at the door. She tugged down her cloak to bare the glittering stone.
“It’s me.”
He straightened, turned the key to open the door. “La Sirena. What a surprise.”
“Is he here?” she asked.
“Is he expecting you today?”
She shook her head. “I’ll wait.”
Fortunato bowed. “His table is open. Shall I send some champagne and a towel?”
She thanked him and ducked inside, feeling instantly soothed by the dark walls and early evening quiet. She went to her boudoir and changed into a yellow dress, forgoing her corset since her cicisbeo was not yet there to tie it. She went out to find champagne waiting at Federico’s table. Free of the Incurables, she should have had much to toast. But as she sat down at the booth and took in the view of the casino, Violetta’s whole body was shaking.
She should have been happy for Mino. She had been the one to reject him. For years she had convinced herself she wished him well. But what she felt now was different. Envy roiled through her core. She was jealous of Mino for getting what he wanted. And she was jealous of the woman who would get him for the rest of her life.
“What have I done?” she whispered.
“Do my eyes deceive me?” a voice said over her shoulder.
“Federico—”
He slid into the booth beside her. He was smiling, but his eyes conveyed alarm. “What are you doing here on a Saturday?” He touched her hair. “And all wet? I would have sent Nicoletto to pick you up in the gondola. I hope everything is all right?”
“I want to sing.”
She tipped her mask up a little, just above her lips. She wrapped her arms around Federico and kissed him on the mouth. His lips met hers, welcomed them, and Violetta’s breast warmed with desire. He took hold of her shoulders. Tenderly and too quickly, he held her back.
“You’re drunk.”
She should tell him why. Not about Mino, but that she’d left the Incurables for good. But she feared she might weep if she put it into words. “Only a little champagne.”
He lifted the bottle and she was surprised to see she’d nearly finished it. “You can’t sing in the state you’re in.”
“I can,” she said crossly and turned her back to him, pouring herself the last glass of champagne.
“Violetta,” he warned. He whisked her glass away. “Go to your boudoir and freshen up. If you can do that, I’ll give you the stage in an hour.”
She sat in the booth a moment longer, staging a small, impotent protest even as Federico disappeared. When she finally rose, she felt a man catch her gently by the elbow.
“Do you need to get out of here?”
“Davide,” she whispered. Her cicisbeo
’s deep voice was a relief. “Yes.”
“Come on,” he said. “There’s a door in the back.”
* * *
IN AN UNKNOWN tavern down a calle she’d never seen before, Davide ordered two wines on credit.
“The drinks are terrible here,” he apologized, handing her a dingy mug, “but the dancing is the wildest in the republic, and something tells me you need that tonight.” He downed his wine. “I need it every night.”
Violetta laughed, but soon sadness overwhelmed her. Davide was patient as she wept into his chest. She couldn’t tell that the wine was terrible, nor that the dancing was wild. She was drunk and having a wonderful, terrible time.
“Federico won’t be happy,” she said, feeling both a freedom at having disappeared and a dizzy pull back to the casino.
“Don’t worry about him tonight,” Davide said recklessly, a little drunk himself. “Tomorrow, if you insist, we can worry about him together.”
He introduced her to a dozen friends, using the false name she’d given him months ago—Gelsomina. It charmed her to meet his friends, who were as loud and drunk as she was. She could almost imagine a life for herself where nights like this might be common, if she’d been born a different girl. She might have been boisterous, competitive at drunken games of billiards. She might have kissed strangers in corners. Soon she drifted from Davide and found herself dancing the furlana, caught up in the arms of a gray-suited man. When the music changed, he pressed her up against a wall.
“Siora,” he said with an amorous purr. The anonymity of his flirtation relieved her; he didn’t desire her specifically. As a child, she had always longed to distinguish herself from others, to be loved distinctly. Tonight she wanted to escape herself: as Violetta, she had ambitions and responsibilities; as La Sirena, she had desires and dreams. But she and this stranger were just two bodies. Tonight she didn’t want to be known. She only wanted to feel.
“Sior,” she said and hiccupped.
His mouth moved toward her neck and he kissed her just below her jawline. She was surprised by how exciting it was, a stranger’s mouth and touch. A yearning for more coursed through her as she arched her neck in offering. His lips were hot and wet, moving down her skin until they stopped at her necklace. He pulled her cloak open wider.
She didn’t want to think about the necklace, but she liked his open admiration and his dark, spellbinding eyes. She lifted her mask just enough to kiss him.
His arms encircled her, drew her close against his body. How she had wanted Federico to do this earlier tonight. How simple it could feel to be taken in someone’s arms. She kissed the stranger more deeply. She felt herself opening, surrendering to pleasure as his hand moved between her legs, feeling her through the layers of her clothing, applying a pressure that made her gasp.
“Is that his name,” the stranger said with a little laugh. “Mino?”
“What? I didn’t—” The name sent a shiver down her spine.
“It’s all right.” He laughed and kissed her again. “I’ll be your Mino tonight.”
Violetta wrapped her fingers around his and drew them down again between her legs. He took the invitation eagerly, now hoisting her skirt and reaching under it, touching her through her chemise. He kissed her breasts as he pleased her, until she threw her head back, amazed to feel such a wild sensation in the middle of this tavern.
When she came back to her senses, she gaped at the stranger, needing air, a drink of water.
“Excuse me,” she said, and moved to leave him.
“I see,” he said, bowing farewell. “Goodbye.”
But then, Violetta felt a lightness at her throat, and when she reached for her necklace, it was gone. She pushed through the crowd, seeking the stranger.
“Davide!” she called. Where was her cicisbeo?
She could find neither her friend nor the stranger in the crowd, and she panicked as the room began to spin around her. At last, near the door, she saw the man in the gray suit. He was leaving. She rushed him, caught his arm.
“My necklace.”
He raised his shoulders in a shrug. “What?”
She launched at him, thrashing her fists against his chest.
“Give it back—”
“Get off me,” he shouted, snapping his elbow up and hitting Violetta’s cheek. She gasped and cupped her hands against the hot pain through her mask.
“She’s crazy,” the man said loudly. “I don’t know this woman.”
“He stole my necklace,” she cried. “Search him and you’ll find it.”
Men surrounded her and she assumed they had come to her aid, but then rough hands took her body, shoved her away from the stranger.
“Gelsomina!” Davide’s voice rang out.
“Davide!” she screamed.
At last, she spotted her cicisbeo through the crowd. She waved him over. But before he reached her, Violetta felt a blow at the back of her head, and the world dissolved, the horizon caving in.
EIGHTEEN
THE VOICE BECKONED but never grew closer. It stayed faint and far away. Mino would have followed that song anywhere, so desperate was he to find the woman singing. But he couldn’t move. Something fixed him in place, as if he were an insect pinned under a glass.
He was dreaming. He knew this feeling. He reminded himself that he always awoke. Still, the darkness frightened him. He knew where he was.
The wheel. Again.
He tried to scream. Nothing. He tried to move but could hardly breathe. If the singer would only come closer, he could ask for help.
The song ended, and behind a sudden glowing brightness, he saw Letta. Her beauty slapped him in the face. She appeared precisely as she had on the bridge that last day. She wore her blue cloak inside out. She wore the bright white mask he’d bought her. Her short hair was plaited, loose strands falling about her face. Behind the mask, her large, remarkable eyes were full of wonder. They looked just as they had when she leaned forward, holding his hand, to see the view of the Grand Canal.
Now she reached for him, and at the touch of her hand on his shoulder, he felt a terrible disparity. He was a boy, the same five-year-old who’d been abandoned at the Incurables. But she had grown, matured. She was a woman, responding to a small child in need of help.
Letta, he tried to say, but nothing emerged, and she looked at him as if he were a stranger. She opened her mouth, but the sound that came out was music. Her voice was a violin.
* * *
HE SHOT UP in bed. The moon hung low outside the window.
He touched his chest and arms to reassure himself of their size. Ana slept next to him, hands cradling her belly. When the sun rose, it would be their wedding day. They were marrying on the day of a grand regatta. Had he stayed on at the squero, this festival would have been as big as carnevale to Mino. But here in the inner calli of Cannaregio, they were far from the Grand Canal, and farther still from the Giudecca Canal, where most of the races took place.
He had never guessed his life would turn out this way. So much was because of Ana. Her face usually steadied him. But where was her grounding effect tonight?
If Ana was a candle, lighting the amount of space one needed to see, then Letta was a conflagration; she lit up the full night sky, but she burned all she touched along the way. Marrying Ana was what he wanted. Soon they would be a real family. Their child would grow up on love.
Still, Mino couldn’t forget how bright Letta’s face had been in the dream, and when he put his hand over Ana’s belly, he almost felt unfaithful.
Why this dream? Why now? Yes, he had been at the Incurables that afternoon, pretending nothing was wrong when Letta failed to show. Yes, he had wondered all evening whether Letta had heard of his wedding, of his child. But the dream seemed to be about more than Letta, and Mino couldn’t understand what it meant.
He needed to clear hi
s mind. He rose, careful not to tug Ana’s covers or set his weight on the creaking floorboard, even though at this point in her pregnancy, very little roused her. He took his cloak, slipped from the apartment, and descended the staircase in his slippers.
Sprezz appeared as Mino stepped into a drizzly autumn chill. He rubbed the dog beneath his chin and they began to walk. They crossed the bridge at the bend in the calle, and soon they passed his violin shop. They kept going.
Mino missed Venice’s stillness. It could only be felt outside, standing motionless, in the middle of the night. Most nights he worked on his violins but never this late, and when he left his shop, he was always tired, hurrying back to the apartment, to Ana. He couldn’t remember the last time he had loitered on an empty bridge.
He peered into the dark water and saw his shimmering reflection in the moonlight and soft rain. A grown man, twenty years old next month, tall and muscular, his blond hair shining. He’d finally made something of himself. His life was respectable. But that wasn’t what Mino saw. He looked harder. He forced himself to see the truth:
Inside, he was still a boy abandoned by his mother. His heart was still as fragile as it had been when he awoke in the ospedale kitchen. He worried that he did not deserve his own child.
In the two years since he’d left the Incurables, he had not come near to finding his mother. She was a void, her elusiveness his deepest shame. Who were his people? Who gave him to this city and this life? His child would know Ana’s kin, of course, but Mino had no one to offer.
The baby had changed Mino’s understanding of himself. He wanted to earn the child’s esteem. He might spend his whole life trying to be half as good as his wife, but would he ever feel worthy?
An answer came to him like a boat along a current: he had dreamed of Letta because she had seen his mother at the wheel. She could tell him what she’d really witnessed that night. He was finally strong enough to listen. And perhaps in knowing how his mother left him, he would understand how to hold on to his child.
