by Lauren Kate
He had to find Letta, the one person who knew the truth.
* * *
CHURCH BELLS ON Sunday morning. A bottle of champagne. A cake Ana’s mother had baked with saffron. Eight varieties of sausage. Her sisters, her mother, the sestieri priest. Carlo, who had brought Carina. Ana in her second-best dress, as was tradition, with the waist let out for the baby.
That was their wedding. To Mino, it was perfect. The sun swept out from behind thin clouds after the ceremony, on their walk back to the sausage shop, which had the most space for dancing. Mino played a violin he’d just finished for Elizabeth and John. He played for an hour with intense devotion, and would not have stopped if Stella hadn’t begged to take over, insisting Mino dance with his bride.
Ana’s dress was white muslin with lace roses at the collar, and he felt the firm swell of her against him as they pressed and twirled. Mino had never danced before. With the gentle pressure of her hands, Ana taught him all he needed to know.
“I’ll teach our baby to play the violin,” Mino murmured, “if you teach her to dance.”
“Her?” Ana lips curved up.
Mino smiled. “It’s just a guess.”
“Ana,” Vittoria called from across the room. “We’re out of champagne. We’re going across the bridge to the tavern.”
Before Ana could argue, Stella had taken her sister by the arm, leading the entire wedding party out of the shop. As they walked, they passed groups of rowers, just back from the races on Giudecca. Mino used to watch the regatta from the roof of the Incurables. Today he watched his new family surround his new wife, making sure she was comfortable as they entered the tavern, patting the mound of her belly.
“You’re lucky.” Carlo sighed, joining Mino at a table as they watched the women. “I pray you’ll never understand the heartbreak that is my life.”
“Carlo,” Mino said, “I understand.”
Carlo looked at him and saw the truth Mino no longer tried to hide.
“Who was she?” Carlo asked, drawing nearer.
“She was everything, once.” He raised his shoulders. What else was there to say?
“Does Ana know?” Carlo looked worried.
Mino shook his head. “Why should she? It’s over.”
“A woman needs to know these things,” Carlo said, seeming amazed by Mino’s naïveté. “This kind of omission becomes a lie if you’re not careful.”
“Not to Ana,” Mino said. He caught her eye across the table, and she smiled.
“Don’t worry—no matter what you tell her of your past, she’ll hear what she wants to hear,” Carlo said. “Still, it’s better if you’re plain.”
“How do you know how I would tell it?” Mino laughed. “And why wouldn’t she hear it that way?”
Carlo thought a moment. “Have you ever tried to give a somber toast at a wedding?”
Mino shook his head. This was his first wedding. Ana’s mother had given the toast, which to Mino felt somewhat threatening but which everyone else found heartily amusing.
“Guests want to laugh at a wedding,” Carlo said. “Just as wives want to feel that all other women were but stepping-stones on their husbands’ paths to them.” He paused, looked at Mino. “What really happened between you and this other woman?”
“We were young,” Mino said. He placed a hand on Carlo’s shoulder and nodded to the back door. Carina was slipping out with the barman. Carlo started toward her, but Mino held him back. “I know what you don’t, Carlo. A heart can break and love again.”
Carlo smiled with more bitterness than Mino had seen in his friend.
“Maybe women can love again after a broken heart,” he said. “Carina? That is something she could do. Even Ana.” He nodded at the bride, now making her way toward them. “If one day, Mino, you fell into the canal, your wife would rescue another poor soul and stitch him into another prince.” He gazed at Mino intensely. “But fools like us? Once we love, it’s forever.”
NINETEEN
CHURCH BELLS CRASHED through Violetta’s dreams. Pain surged through her before she knew she was awake—but it wasn’t the ache at the back of her head nor the bruise at her cheekbone. It wasn’t the laudanum Davide had made her drink before he’d tucked her into his bed last night. It wasn’t even the loss of the opal necklace.
It was Mino, getting married somewhere in Venice, today. The weight of Violetta’s mistakes felt crushing, and she did not know how she could rise and bear them yet again.
She thought of the painting of Saint Ursula in the Incurables cathedral—the bride escorted by eleven thousand virgins, the endless marital caravan snaking through the Bavarian countryside. Ursula was doomed, slaughtered by Huns on her way to her own wedding, yet she was the closest thing to a patron saint of marriage that Violetta knew.
She clasped her hands and invoked the tranquility in the painted woman’s face. Heavenly Saint, she prayed, take Mino and his bride under your care. Give them happiness. And give my words meaning in my own heart. Help me to wish them well.
She lay on Davide’s pillow and watched the sun through his thin pink curtains. She listened to his snores on the floor beside her and felt shame at having drawn him into her misery. He was paid to dote on her at the casino. She had seen him counting the money Federico gave him, but he was so good at his job he sometimes fooled her into thinking they were friends. She mustn’t expect his affection to extend beyond the job. Vaguely she remembered him asking where she lived last night, how to take her home when they left the party in the rain. She was relieved that she had feigned delirium, leaving him no choice but to bring her here. She could no more let Davide know about the Incurables than she could ever go back. But she couldn’t expect to stay here.
She rose and reached for her mask, wincing at the pressure against her cheek as she tied the ribbon. She stood before the glass. Her dress was filthy. She needed fresh clothes, a bath. Her bruise had spread, giving her a purple left eye that looked almost painted through the mask. She kissed Davide’s cheek and left.
Winding through the calli, she took some time to get her bearings. At last, she found the Grand Canal and moved along its stone passages. Hundreds of boats were docked and ready for the regatta that afternoon. The crowds spilled back onto smaller bridges where spectators might get a glimpse of a floral-crowned ship from their neighborhood.
The streets were damp from last night’s rain. The ripeness of the city overwhelmed Violetta—the gleaming vegetables bobbing in crates on boats, the couples walking quickly to church, the scent of chestnuts roasting.
The sun was high when she arrived at Federico’s palazzo. A doorkeeper she didn’t know leaned against the bars inside the front gate, packing a pipe.
“I need to see Federico.”
He glanced up, his silver eyebrows arching for a moment before he went back to his tobacco.
“He’s not receiving, siora.”
In her cheap mask and dirty dress, Violetta no longer looked like someone who could call on this estate. She didn’t have the necklace anymore.
“I am La Sirena.”
“Where’s the stone?”
She leaned close and lowered her voice. “I wonder,” she said, “how might Federico punish the man who turned me away?”
Behind her, on the street, a family crossed to the other side, disturbed by the hiss of her voice. But she had the guard’s attention. He narrowed his eyes and she watched him take in the blazing purple bruise behind her mask. She pressed two gold sequins into his palm, ten times the standard tip for a favor. “Get Fortunato.”
He pocketed the money, then turned up the stone path, weaving among the cypress and statues before disappearing inside the front door. Moments later, it reopened and Fortunato extended his head. Violetta raised her hand in greeting. Her arm trembled.
Know me, she willed the man, who started slowly down the path. He
was running by the time he reached her at the gate.
“La Sirena?”
She heard relief in his voice. They’d been expecting her. She exhaled. She didn’t need to raise her mask.
“Take me to him?”
Fortunato unlocked the gate. He took her hand and rushed her through the courtyard garden and tall front door.
“Wait here,” he said, ringing a bell to call another servant.
“Tea, siora?” asked a maid, eyeing Violetta’s dress.
She handed Violetta an expensive jasmine bud unfurling in a painted china cup. A lira for these few hot swallows, Violetta thought, half a month’s work for a figli del commun at the Incurables, a week for a figli del coro, a minute or two onstage at the casino. She tasted its worth in each sip.
She remembered the last time she was here, her first masquerade. How this room had thrilled her with its trunks of rich disguises. The palazzo was no less magnificent today, but now it felt warm and welcoming. It felt big enough to hold her pain.
She longed to see Federico. She feared it, too. He’d be angry about her disappearance, last night’s abandoned performance. And he didn’t even know about the necklace.
She heard slippers on the stairs and looked up. There was scarcely time to put her teacup down before Federico caught her in his arms. He lifted and spun her, holding her against his chest. She wrapped her hands around his neck and could have cried at how good it felt. She ran fingers over his robe, felt the tautness of his shoulders through the silk.
“You’re all right,” he said. He leaned away and saw her purple eye through the mask. His expression darkened and he lifted her again, this time one arm coming under her knees to carry her up the stairs.
“Lunch, Fortunato,” he called. “Send for sausages from Costanzo’s.”
He brought her to a parlor off a long hall. The curtains were closed and a draft chilled the air, but the paintings and the carpets were lavish. Federico laid her on a sofa in the center of the room.
“I’m all right,” she told him.
He knelt before her, his fingers tugging at the ribbon of her mask. She felt it loosen, fall to the ground, the littlest clatter of papier-mâché on terrazzo. He swept soft fingers over her bruise.
“Who did this?”
Violetta thought how to describe the man. In her hesitation, a fog of jealousy formed in Federico’s eyes.
“I’ll kill him.”
“Ice would be better,” she said, finding herself smiling at his reddened cheeks, his urgent hands on her shoulders.
“If you ever go back to that man—”
“Don’t worry,” she said, choosing her words. “It’s over. Only . . .” She reached up and touched her neck. She watched his eyes run over her bare skin. Her voice hitched. “I’m so sorry.”
He embraced her. She could not see his face nor read his tone when he said, “You’re here. That’s all that matters.”
“I’ll repay you.”
“Don’t speak of it,” he said. His lips at her cheek had never been so tender. “I thought I’d lost you. I went to mass this morning, and when I didn’t see you—”
“I can’t go back there, Federico.”
He watched her face for explanation. When she said nothing, he cupped her cheek. “You will be safe here,” he said, “but you must sing at the casino in two nights’ time. It won’t do for the star of the coro of the Incurabili and the star of La Sirena to have gone missing in the same week. People would wonder at the coincidence.”
She couldn’t imagine performing on Tuesday, but she understood Federico’s point. She nodded.
“You’ll rest today and tomorrow. We’ll make up your face to cover the bruise.” He cupped her other cheek, pausing a moment. “You may stay here as long as you need.”
“Here?” She looked around the room, noticing a second door that led to an equally opulent bedroom.
“We’ll light a fire,” Federico said.
A warmth was already spreading through her. Was this it? Was she home? Gazing at Federico, Violetta felt she’d known him all her life. It had been little more than a year since she’d stepped inside his palazzo and he’d heard her song, but the change in Violetta’s circumstances was so great it overwhelmed her. She leaned toward him with a kiss.
He pressed her away gently but firmly.
She touched her face, winced. “I look terrible.”
“You’re beautiful.”
“But you don’t want me,” she said miserably. She remembered the opera singer, his recent lover. “Is it Lucrezia?”
Federico laughed and shook his head. “Last I heard, she was in Moscow, and that was months ago. But, no, it was never Lucrezia.”
“What then, Federico? I am here. I want—”
“What do you want with me?” His sharp tone took her aback. He moved to the window, his back to her, and looked out at the Grand Canal. “I am too old for you to lust after. You could throw a stone and it would ricochet off three men as rich as I. I am no singer, Violetta, no musician who might complement your gifts. So what is it?”
Violetta was astonished. How could anyone justify desire? How could she explain that she adored the smoothness of his walk, his rare smile, the luster of his hair and the creases at his eyes, the neat, round shape of his fingernails, and the way he never hid himself behind a mask? How could she put into words what it felt like when he watched her sing, his eyes full of wonder, even gratitude? Should she admit she liked his somber qualities and his fierce protectiveness of her? That she loved the beguiling woman she became at La Sirena, and that she would never have lived so gloriously from dusk until dawn if it hadn’t been for him? And even if she could say all of that, none of it was quite why she desired him. Realizing that he didn’t know any of this made her feel alone.
“Don’t be cross,” he said, glancing back at her.
She was not cross. She was embarrassed.
He sighed. He looked sorry. “I welcome you here. I expect nothing from you in exchange for shelter. We have an agreement. You owe me only your songs.”
Violetta remembered the night they’d watched the fireworks over Giudecca. That was the closest Federico had ever come to opening himself to her, speaking of the woman he had asked too much of and lost.
“What was her name?” she asked.
“Who?” he asked, the word like a whip.
“The woman you lost. Is it she who stands between us?”
“Of course not.” He was looking out the window again.
How she wished he’d turn to her.
She stood up, went to him, and took his hands, relieved that they held hers fast.
“What was her name?” she pressed. Something about his former love still haunted him. She wanted to understand.
“Antonia,” he said, as if the name were always at the tip of his tongue. His voice was calm but his eyes were cold, gazing out the window.
“What happened to her?”
“She disappeared.”
Violetta felt his hesitation. There was more he wasn’t telling her, but she sensed the story would dissolve if she reached for it, like a reflection in the canal.
A knock startled them both. Federico strode to the door and opened it.
Fortunato entered, studying his master carefully. “Are you all right, sir?”
“Fine,” Federico said. “Put the tray down there.”
Fortunato set it before Violetta. The tray held ice, wine, a tureen of soup, and a wonderfully aromatic plate of steaming sausages.
“Stay with me?” Violetta asked Federico, reaching for him as he moved toward the door. She had assumed that they would dine together.
“You must rest,” he said. “Fortunato will see to anything else you need.” He put a hand on the servant’s arm.
“Sir?” Fortunato leaned close.
“Find the jewel,” Federico said crisply.
Fortunato glanced past Federico and briefly met Violetta’s eyes, as if gauging her reaction.
Federico turned back to her. He smiled tenderly, took her hand. “I don’t want you to hold out hope. The thief has likely taken the opal outside the republic by now. It’s too well known to pawn within Venice. But we will do everything we can to get it back.”
Before Violetta could respond, Federico was gone.
TWENTY
AFTER CHRISTMAS, as Venice swayed back into the arms of carnevale, Mino danced between two labors in his shop: in the cold, early mornings he applied himself to the cradle commissioned by his wife; afterward, he turned his attention to the first violin for the Incurables.
He had no prototype for the cradle, only Ana’s vision, described as she lay in his arms at night, the waxing moon of her belly warm against his ribs. He built it out of willow, sturdy and elegant, with smooth bars spaced just widely enough for him to reach through and meet little fingers.
The violin proved thornier. When he had built the six new violins for the Baums, his effort had felt miraculous, given his lack of formal training. Now that lack pressed on him, and his work lagged. The violin eluded Mino; neither the brine for the wood nor the angle of the neck were ever right. He had sanded, varnished, and resanded ebony more times than he cared to count. And the thing still wouldn’t play. It seemed to speak another language than the song of violins.
He was testing it, cursing the whine it produced, when Ana appeared at the shared door between their shops.
“It sounds finished to me,” she said, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. It was earlier than she usually met him to close up, but Ana had been checking in on him more in recent days. She’d made no secret of her impatience for Mino to finish the first Incurables violin. She was certain he would get the blessing of the prioress and the new maestro, and be able to approach the rest of the commission with less anxiety.
