The Secret of the Glass (39 page)

Emerging from the secret passage, her lids fluttered, her eyes unaccustomed to the brighter light. She rushed through the small rooms, skirts hiked up, heels beating a harsh, steady rhythm. She flew out the door into the corridor, inertia pulling at her as she maneuvered the tight turn, running through the passageway heedless of the disapproving looks of the imperious courtiers strolling along.

At the threshold of the
Sala del Maggior Consiglio
, she scoured the room, the small insistent voice inside her head questioning her actions, her very sanity. There he was; she saw his endearing face above those of ser Capello and his wife.

Sophia rushed to Teodoro, a tad more circumspect than she had been in the corridor. Many of those she brushed past stared at her in confusion, but she paid them no mind. Within these walls, she had always conducted herself with the utmost comportment, but now was not the time to worry about manners. Soon by his side, she plucked on his black brocade covered arm, offering a capricious curtsy to the couple opposite.

“Pray excuse us for just a moment?”

The elderly couple looked down their long, arched noses at her; such rudeness was rarely encountered nor often tolerated. Sophia received a stilted bow and a stiff, shallow curtsy in reply.

With his own hurried obeisance, Teodoro offered her an arm as if he had expected the intrusion all along. He asked her no questions as she led him from the room, but his inquisitive gaze worried upon her face. He tried to stop on the other side of the door.

“Sophia, please, what is happen—”

“You must help me.” Sophia refused to stop, yanking him into the corridor, toward the room just off to the right. She shook her head. “You must help him.”

Teodoro’s face darkened with concern. “Of course, but—”

“Teo!”

They spun round at the abrupt call. Alfredo marched toward them.

“I saw you leave the chamber. All is not right, is it?”

Teodoro put out a hand to his friend’s arm.

“It’s nothing,” he said, looking anxiously to Sophia. The apprehensive cast upon her features belied his words, telling their own frightening tale. “Go back, return to—”

“No.” Sophia squeezed Teodoro’s arm. “It would be better if he came. You may need his help.”

The fair-haired man gave an immediate and decisive nod of acquiescence. Sophia took Alfredo’s arm with her other hand and they continued briskly down the hallway.

“You must tell us where we are going, Sophia. What is happening?”

“It’s Pasquale,” Sophia said, frowning at the hurt that flashed across Teodoro’s features. “They tried to get him to agree to something…terrible, and he wouldn’t. Then he, Riccoboni, attacked him.”

“Riccoboni?” Alfredo asked, his voice steeped in disbelief. Riccoboni was one of them.

“
Sì
¸ ’tis true. I saw it for myself. But he is too powerful, too proficient. Pasquale is helpless.” Sophia led them into the first room, rushing them through those that followed.

At the cabinet and the secret passage behind, she stopped, gesturing into the darkness. With slow deliberateness, both men eased their swords from their scabbards, using both hands to prevent them from scraping against the confining metal. With a shared glance of determination, Teodoro bent down and entered the tunnel. Sophia took two steps behind him.

“Wait here, Sophia,” Teodoro whispered over his shoulder.

“But—”

“Please, Sophia.” He raised a hand to gently cup her face. “I cannot help him if you are near, my concern would be for you and you alone.”

Sophia put her hand upon his and nodded; she could feel Alfredo’s curious intent upon them, but ignored it. A friendship such as theirs, like her and Damiana’s, needed no explanations.

“You’ll see the entrance to the other room at the top of the stairs; they are just inside.”

“Return to the main salon,” he instructed her. “Whoever descends beside us should not find you here.”

Sophia offered him a pale, encouraging smile but promised nothing.

He held her face for a moment more, and turned, his lips set in a resolute line. Alfredo rushed past her but not before she saw the look of amusement on his dashing features.

Sophia hovered at the egress, wringing her hands, straining her ears to hear every sound within. She heard their booted feet climb the stairs, their shuffling steps at the top.

“What ho!”

The scream burst from above. Sophia looked up, as if she could see through the ceiling. Pounding rang out over her head, grunting voices and clanging steel rained down through the passageway. She paced a step or two back and forth, never moving from the threshold. She fisted her hands, her short-clipped nails digging into the sensitive flesh of her palms as she pounded them against her thighs. What had she done? She’d sent the only man she’d ever loved to defend a man she never could. God help her for her foolishness but would he have forgiven her if she’d left Pasquale to die?

A resounding crash made her jump. She looked up to see if the ceiling had cracked. Voices grew louder in the stairwell. Footsteps joined them. Someone was coming.

Sophia grabbed her skirts, ready to run. For an instant, she almost ran the wrong way, toward them instead of away. She was too frightened to think clearly, needing too desperately to know if Teodoro was all right. As the voices grew closer, louder, she rushed from the chamber, through the other two and out into the corridor leading to the main salon. With each step she slowed, merging with the other attendants, refusing to leave the thoroughfare until she had seen for herself who emerged from the side room. She stopped at the threshold of the
Sala del Maggior Consiglio
, one foot upon either side, the celebration to her left, the long corridor to her right.

She held her breath. The raucous noise of the festivities blocked out her own thoughts. Her eyes remained frozen upon the chamber door.

Alfredo exited first, an arm around the waist of another. For a terrible moment, Sophia thought the bedraggled figure was Teodoro, but she recognized the green silk, the small stature, and knew it as Pasquale. On his other side, Teodoro emerged, seemingly unharmed. Her breath hitched in her chest, her knees threatened to give way from the weakness of relief.

Two courtiers swept past her and she remembered the thousands of others in the room just beyond. Still she could not leave her post, could not wrench her eyes from the sight of the group emerging into the corridor. From this angle she could not see Pasquale’s face, could not tell if he was conscious. His feet dragged along the floor as Teodoro and Alfredo carried him along. She watched as they hurried through the passage, heading for the stairs and the exit.

At the top step, Teodoro glanced over his shoulder as if he felt her there. In that brief instant, their eyes met and with her look, she thanked him.

Thirty-one

T
hey swept her up, one on each side, one on each arm. For a breathless moment Sophia thought she’d been found out, discovered. Her head flipped back and forth, spinning on her spine. She closed her eyes in recognition and relief.

“We have discovered a delicacy that you simply must try.” Nora giggled insouciantly as if nothing were amiss. She handed her friend a laced-edged square of pale cyan linen and, with a low whisper, instructed Sophia to use it. “Wipe your face, Sophia, you’re covered with perspiration.”

Sophia took the cloth, blotting her skin delicately. She looked sidelong at her compatriots, at the apprehension behind their jaunty demeanors.

“I have had three helpings of it already,” Florentina trilled as if she hadn’t heard Nora’s entreaty, though Sophia knew for a certainty that she had.

The small group of women reached the banquet. Sophia grabbed a filled goblet and drank down the unknown, bitter liquid in one long draught, using her thighs to steady herself against the gold-cloth-covered table. Nora and Florentina prated at her but required little response in return, a nod here, an incomprehensible shrug there seemed to suffice.

Sophia’s mind thundered with thoughts, heavy like the oppression of a rushing storm. Teodoro was fine, she felt sure, though she had been unable to see all of him during his quick departure. But what of Pasquale? Had they been in time to save him? Was he conscious when they scuttled him from the palace? Where did they take him? How would she return home without an escort, or explain why she had none?

Florentina’s hand stroked her forearm. Sophia shook errant strands of hair from her face, raising her chin and donning a mask of normality; she knew her turmoil showed in her expression, knew she must contain it. She pressed her eyes shut, pinching at the pain behind them. They flew open when the pointy elbow jabbed her in the ribs.

“The door, Sophia,” Florentina whispered. “Look to the door.”

Sophia spun on her heel.

Alfredo swaggered into the room, sauntering as if he had just conquered the world, his jaunty cobalt
beretta
with peacock feather flouncing with every step. Teodoro stood behind him, hesitating in the threshold, his face pale above his black doublet and the white edge of ruffled shirt peaking out above it. From across the expanse their eyes met and in his, she saw her own relief. With a slight flick of his brow, and sideways dip of his head, he beckoned her. Without consideration, Sophia took a quick step forward, stopping short as sensible thought restrained her, until she felt the hand pressing against her back, urging her forward once more.

“We will call on you in a day or two, Sophia,” Nora said, her thin fingers encouraging Sophia along. “We will have a nice long chat, won’t we, Florentina?”

“Oh,
sì
, a very long chat.”

Sophia blushed at the lascivious smiles on her friends’ delighted faces, but, however chagrined, she thanked them with a silent nod and rushed away.

Out the door and down the two flights of stairs, she rushed through the
piazzetta
and along the Molo, where a sliver of late-setting, summer sun peeked from between the gathering clouds on the horizon and turned the tranquil ocean into a sheet of red glass. She knew exactly where to find him, knew exactly where Teodoro would be.

Sophia invaded the garden like a conquering soldier, marching through the lanes and the fragile foliage intent on finding him. In the silver, grainy light of a dusk moon rising, she could see little. She stopped at every bend, at every bench, searching, longing. The light flickered and faded, warm summer rain began to fall, splashing and dripping on the plants and leaves, erupting into one of nature’s percussive songs. Sophia moved farther into the garden where the paths narrowed and the flora grew thicker.

She felt the hands clench the back of her waist and whirled in fear.

Teodoro’s lips stifled her squawk of surprise, took it into his mouth. Sophia released herself to his embrace, immersed herself in the taste of him. Her fears cut through the delicious sensations and she wrenched her lips from his, holding him out to see him better.

“You are well? You are unhurt?” She inspected his body, searching for blood or other signs of injury as her hands brushed along the length of him.

Teodoro took her fluttering fingers into his own, stilling them upon his chest, leaning toward her to whisper.

“I am completely healthy, not harmed in the slightest.”

Sophia’s head fell against his strong body in collapsing relief.

“Thank you, dear God,” she prayed, her voice muffled against his chest and tight with grateful emotion. “I am so sorry. I was wrong to put you in harm’s way, to force you to defend—”

“It was the right and honorable thing to do, Sophia.” Teodoro pressed his lips against her forehead. “I would not have wanted you—us—if that was the way of it.”

Sophia found the reluctant honor upon his features.

“He is still alive?”

“
Sì
. For now. He has two wounds, one in the arm and another, more serious, in his thigh, but the physicians are confident he will live, as long as they can keep the infection out.”

The image of Pasquale’s blood flowing from his shoulder etched itself like the ghost of a blinding light upon her retina. All the memories and images of what took place in the room above the hidden stairs infected her thoughts, like a disease of fear spreading its malicious intent.

“You are in great danger; we are all in great danger…my family…me.” Sophia’s words blurt out in staccato bursts as she told Teodoro everything she had heard. “I know you are a friend of professore Galileo’s, they will come for you too. What I made you do tonight will only find you more peril.”

Sophia shook her head, tears catching in her throat.

Teodoro smiled tenderly, his face glistening in the gentle, cleansing rain that continued to fall. He wrapped his arms around her, drawing her hard against him.

“You have asked me to do nothing that I would not have done on my own. Any menace in my life I have put there myself.” He wiped the tears from her face where they mingled with raindrops. “Please don’t cry,
cara,
it tears at my heart.”

He held her with brutal longing and tender reverence. She felt both in his potent embrace, bathed in them as they washed over her. Holding her gaze captive with his, he lowered his mouth to hers once more.

Her legs quivered beneath her, her lips beneath his. She clung to the muscles of his back, finding an anchor against the emotional and physical tide that threatened to pull her away.

Her mind filled with him. If it were hers to choose, she would choose this, forever.

“In another time, another place…” her private thoughts, the words, escaped her. She spoke into his mouth as the rain mixed upon their tongues.

Teodoro nodded against her, his mouth moving across her face, down her throat, and back up to her lips.

His heat burned her skin like the flames of the furnace, singeing her body at every touch point, her chest heaving against his, her stomach, her thighs. This inferno was alive and engulfing her. She gladly, willingly succumbed. Her head, tipped back to receive his kiss, felt weightless, caught in the cradle of his large, domineering hand. Sophia felt herself spinning, falling further and further into the whirlpool of his embrace.