Cross My Heart (8 page)

I shake my head. “No wonder none of the other painters have discovered it.”

He looks at me for a little while. “Oh no!” he says, almost under his breath, though a smile plays at the corners of his red lips.

“What?” I ask.

“I’ve put myself in your power now. Can I trust you?” His eyes hold me.

“Of course—”

The door swings open and we both turn at the same time. It’s Carina.

“Laura! I’ve been searching all over the palazzo for you. The footmen saw you come this way.…” She glances up at the painter, who stands quickly, moving away from me. “I was starting to worry. Come back to the ball. There are still so many people I want you to meet!”

She takes me by the hand, pulls me through the door. When I look back at him, he’s watching me, his hands on his hips.

Carina hurries me along the corridor. She murmurs, “One moment you’re in a convent, the next you’re consorting with servants in back rooms! Goodness, what would your father say?”

I know she’s only teasing me, but I think I hear a hiss of disapproval in her words.

I
was sure it would rain on the morning of my sister’s funeral. I was sure that the birds would fall silent and that the flowers would turn their gaudy faces away.

But everything is resplendent—the sky is the same blue I saw in the half-painted fresco. Turtledoves sing in the trees. Huge peonies show themselves off like the wanton women who stalk the lanes behind St. Mark’s Square.

As often as I try to close my thoughts off to Vincenzo, he sneaks back in. I feel guilty for dwelling on my own predicament on such a sorrowful day as today. Though I hate to think it, there’s even a tiny part of me that feels anger towards my dead sister for leaving me to this fate. Not that I could wish it on any other.

I escape to the courtyard. Faustina and Bianca have put me in a long, wide-skirted black taffeta dress. It rustles and swishes like trees in a storm. I want to be calm and quiet on my own, but the ripple of voices reaches me from the other side of the wall Beatrice and I used to play on. One of them
is Bianca’s, and the other sounds like that of a little girl. They laugh quietly. I move towards them, leaves and twigs catching on my dress.

“Look,” says Bianca. “A few stitches here and there and it really will look like no one’s worn it. I’ll be able to walk down to the Lido and people will think I’m a real Venetian lady!”

I step up on the bench and peer over the wall. Bianca is holding a gown of yellow silk that pours over her knees like melted gold—the dress Beatrice drowned in. A sob escapes from me. Bianca looks up as a small child jumps from her side.

“Signorina della Scala. Good afternoon—I mean, I’m sorry.” The little girl scampers off and Bianca squashes the dress into her sewing basket. “I didn’t mean you to see.… Your father said I could have it. Shouldn’t you be at the graveside?”

I look away from the gaudy silk. “The funeral hasn’t started yet,” I say, and I turn away.

As I move back to the house, I hear Faustina’s shouts.

“Laura! Laura! Laura!” She comes puffing into the courtyard, hitching up her black apron. She holds my face with her big, worn hands. They are warm and comforting, and part of me feels like the very small girl I once was. “We must join your father.”

The coffin is carried from the chapel of St. Helena by six stone-faced men in dark cloaks. I’m at my father’s side, Faustina behind. Lysander has been told the news by letter, but it may not even have reached him yet. The black
snake of mourners processes towards its destination—the burial ground. When we reach it a great mob of sympathizers has already arrived, waiting to shake my father’s hand. He presses his lips together and nods, thanking everyone for coming. Every so often he turns to me with a mournful smile, but I can’t find any comfort in it.

The mourners’ empty mantras and useless truths of condolence wash over me. A man introduces himself as Carlito, my father’s cousin. He tells me how sorry he is, and that his wife wishes she were well enough to join us. I murmur my thanks. A toothless old woman whom I don’t recognize wheezes, “She was an angel. Such a terrible loss,” and then shuffles off, coughing loudly.

I know they are being kind, these people who come to mourn with us, but most of them remind me of cockroaches, clustering together in little groups, scuttling up the avenue to pay their clacking respects.

“I wish they’d all go away,” I whisper to Faustina.

“We must grieve in public, my dear. It’s what we must do,” she replies, pressing a handkerchief into my hand.

I stand at the head of Beatrice’s grave. The grass and flowers have been wrenched away from the hole where her body will go. Broken stalks poke out of the torn ground in tufts. The priest’s robe flutters as he chants: “May perpetual light ever shine upon her. May she rest in peace. May the saints soothe her, may Jesus’s tears heal her, may the Mother of God cradle her in her loving arms.”

I feel a dark shadow at my shoulder. Vincenzo is there, like a vulture, stooping and rubbing his hands together. He leans close to me and I feel his hot breath on my neck.

“Here, at the edge of death,” he says, “we sow the seeds of future happiness for us and for your family. Isn’t that a wonderful thing for us to do, Laura?”

They put the lid on her coffin. They lower Beatrice deep down into the cold ground, where no light will ever penetrate and no birds will ever sing. Beside us, three solemn-faced women play harps decorated with gilt cherubs. The notes soar above us, but instead of the sounds of angels I simply hear the snap and twang of the strings.

I stand by Beatrice’s grave while my father wishes farewell to the other attendees. My eyes are filmed with tears; when I pass my handkerchief over them I see that I am not completely alone. A woman with silver-gray hair and a regal bearing approaches. Allegreza di Rocco—the woman I met at the Doge’s palazzo.

“Laura,” she says gently. “May I talk with you for a moment, child?”

I nod.

Allegreza takes my arm and we move along the path, away from my father and the others. The gnarled cypress trees bend above us and the gravestones lean and lurk.

“Your father thinks it’s your duty to marry that horrible old man,” she says.

The anger in her voice startles me and I pull my arm away from hers.

Allegreza strokes my cheek. “Don’t be afraid,” she tells me. “This match between you and Vincenzo goes against the laws of nature. There’s not a woman in Venice who doesn’t feel for you. I can help, if you listen very carefully. Tonight, as soon after midnight as you can, you must come to see us.”

She takes my hand and presses a slip of parchment into my palm.

“Once you have read this, burn it. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I say, even though I understand nothing at all.

“And tell no one,” she adds.

“M
y appointment to the Grand Council is practically guaranteed now!”

My father smiles. His teeth and lips are stained dark from many glasses of wine, making him look fierce and slightly frenzied. “Laura, can you imagine what this means?”

I can’t, but I say, “Yes, Father,” and push the grilled sardines across my plate.

“Lysander’s no good,” he says, jabbing the air with his fork. “Nose stuck in books and potions. But you’re a good girl. And your sister was a good girl, and I am a fortunate man.” His gestures have become large and sloppy. He knocks his glass against my plate and murmurs an apology to his wine.

I feel inside the pocket of my dress for the scrap of parchment Allegreza handed to me.
The monastery at San Michele
, it reads. Beneath the lettering is the symbol of a key. I see Allegreza’s strong noble face inside my head and wonder whether it is wisdom or folly to do as she asks.

“There’s so much we must prepare for the wedding.” My father is slurring his words. “And then you’ll be busy afterwards, with the demands of the bridal bower!”

As I understand what he means, my appetite leaves me. The doubts I had about Allegreza evaporate completely.

As St. Mark’s bell tower strikes a distant eleven o’clock, I watch the parchment catch alight in the candle flame. I throw it into the hearth.

I dress quickly and silently. Bianca has finished converting one of Beatrice’s warm gowns into a new cape, and she’s draped it over the chair beside my bed. Midnight-blue lined with bright purple satin, it slides soothingly against my arms. I tiptoe to my door and wince when it creaks open. I flip the silky hood over my head and I pray to the Blessed Virgin Mary—even though I’m almost positive she won’t approve of what I’m doing. I creep past my father’s door, down the marble staircase and into his library. I scoop up a few coins from a platter on his desk and pour the tinkling handful into my velvet purse. I bite my lip as I open the side door of the palazzo and slip through.

In the dark, I run down towards the canal, scuffing the ground with my shoes. Shadows cast spindly shapes on the pavements and the walls as I hurry past, my hooded head down. The licking and lapping of the black water sounds like a slurping, hungry beast. A strain of distant singing floats through the air.
Calma. Calma
.

A gondolier leans against the dock, idly stirring the water.

“Signor?”

Though fear courses through my blood, it occurs to me that I’ve never before given instructions to a man.

“Can you take me to San Michele? The monastery?”

He frowns. “On the north shore, isn’t it?”

I nod, although I have no idea. I hope he’s right.

“I’m in a hurry,” I say.

He stares at me curiously, then offers me his arm. I lean on it and climb aboard.

“Only so fast a gondola can go,” he says, “but I’ll make it as quick as I can.”

He sets off, pushing his oar against the side of the canal with a low
clunk
. In the glossy dark, with the night lights of Venice winking at me, I feel a shiver of freedom tingle down my spine. This is the first time in my life that I have chosen my own path.

I almost enjoy the journey. To the south, the domes and the turrets rise up from our waterborne city, silvery white against the dark sky. The gondolier swirls the dark waters beneath us, driving the boat forward in a way that feels half magical. We turn the corner of one of the northern canals and cross the lagoon.

“What’s a young girl like you doing, anyway, rushing across the water at night?” he asks. His voice is not unkind, though, and I try to sound like I’m on normal business.

“I have an aunt. She’s old and sick. She’s been asking for me.”

“Well, you’re a good niece to be going to her at this hour of the night. I hope it’s nothing serious.”

“So do I,” I reply.

Ahead of us hulks an island. Slowly, slowly, it looms
closer as the boat rocks in the choppy current. From its center the dome of the monastery and its bell tower rise into a purple-black sky.

He steers us closer. The building’s long, low wall isn’t flanked by any pathways, and the water laps at its base. At first I can’t see a way in, but as we draw nearer I realize that there are gates embedded far down the wall. Small torches, which don’t shed much light, glimmer tentatively on either side. My gondolier slips his craft through the watery gateway, and we are inside.

The landing place is beside a castellated courtyard. Pillars and arches form a sheltered walkway. It’s utterly silent, save for the perpetual slap of water against stone.

The gondolier stares around us. “Would you like me to come with you?”

“No, no, thank you, sir. But I would be grateful if you could wait. I’ll try not to be too long.”

He looks uncertain, so I hand him a coin. “Please.”

He lays down his oar. “Take as much time as you need. I’m sure your aunt will be the better for your visit.”

He helps me out of the boat and I step up onto a great plateau of black and white marble. It stretches from the canal to the walls of the monastery like a giant chessboard. The water reflects on its surface and the marble wobbles and shimmers.

I walk towards the covered walkway. All is silent, dark and still. An unnatural breeze whips my cape, something flaps past, and I crouch to the ground with my hood pulled around my head. Just a bird—a disturbed gull, perhaps—but it makes me pant like an animal.