Votive (22 page)

When we reached the casa, I went straight to my room, shut my door and fell into bed. I stared at the ceiling for what seemed like hours, reliving every word, everything I’d seen and felt. Hafeza came and went. I ignored her. I had nothing to say.

After she left the third time, I managed to nibble some bread, cheese and cold game. Climbing back under the covers, I watched the fire burn down. Outside, the rain lashed the window and the wind howled through the cracks. I imagined the world outside being washed clean, clean of today’s terrible death, of Renzo’s blood that had soaked the cobbles, of the pain of the Macelleria family who would not even have been allowed to bury him. Instead, like all traitors to the state, his body would have been dumped far out at sea.

Most of all, I imagined the rain carrying away all the connections to my old life, scouring me clean of past obligations and duty. I would do what Giaconda said. She was right – the Maleovellis were not my enemy and I could not treat them that way. But neither were they my friends. If I
could use them in the same way that they were using me, I would. If that meant obeying them, then so be it.

Giaconda would have her wish. I would go to sleep as one person and tomorrow, I would wake up as a different one – Tarlo Maleovelli, the woman who would one day bring the Estrattore back and change the world.

W
HEN
I
JOINED
B
AROQUE IN THE WORKSHOP
the following day, I was subdued. As I pulled the apron over my head and tied it around my waist, he gently touched my arm. ‘I heard about Macelleria. Mi dispiace, Tarlo. I know that would have been hard for you.’ His eyes flicked to the upper storeys of the casa.

I bowed my head, fighting back the tears I felt welling.

‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ he said. I stared at him glassy-eyed.

‘I’m beginning to know how your mind works, that you would believe his death to be your fault.’ He gave me a gentle smile. ‘The Cardinale, he is a ruthless man. He had to punish someone. Unfortunately, Macelleria was his scapegoat. But Tarlo, you need to know, it’s not over yet. He won’t stop. There will be others, and some of them will be dear to you. You must be strong.’

‘Sì,’ I said, moving away so his hand fell. ‘And I must be quick. The sooner this ceases the better, and that means helping the Maleovellis. So, let’s get on with what we have to do. Enough talk.’

I stood before Baroque and clasped my hands. I had learnt my lessons well.

‘Sì, Signorina,’ he said, and bowed exaggeratedly. He shot me one last look of concern before he began to place the
items we needed on the table. This time, Signor Maleovelli wanted candles that would engender feelings of generosity and sanguinity. More forthcoming than usual, Baroque whispered to me that Giaconda had a liaison with Nobile Pisano, one of the Council of Ten and a wealthy man who made his soldi importing spices from Marrakech.

‘No doubt the success of the Signor’s colleganza with Moronisini has prompted him to seek more such arrangements. A small investment on his part for large returns.’ Baroque lifted a handful of tapers onto the table. ‘The Moronisini colleganza is the talk of the city. Most think he’s mad throwing his lot in with Maleovelli.’ He held up a candle, examining it in the light filtering in the door. ‘In a sense, he isn’t in his right mind, but who knows, Maleovelli’s notion to send only two ships to the Contested Territories may just work. There are others watching this venture with great interest.’ He sighed and moved to his usual position on the other side of the table, closer to the fire. ‘This is a dangerous game we play, Tarlo. A very dangerous game. But then, as I have learnt over the years, it’s those with high stakes that are most worth playing.’

That was something I was learning too. Only sometimes, I thought, as the memory of Renzo refused to disappear, they are too high. I sighed. This was perilous – only not for me, not yet.

Baroque’s eyes were upon me as I picked up the candles.

‘Please, Baroque, can you pass me –’ I glanced at the variety of objects on the shelves, objects that were familiar to me. ‘That old Carnivale mask and …’ I searched for what might make someone act with unstinting generosity. It was not a common trait among Serenissians. Then I saw what I needed – a coin from a beggar’s bowl. Baroque passed the mask and coin to me.

I held them loosely in my fingers and began to extract, sorting through the emotions and sensations I found there, drawing what I needed into myself and distilling it into its purest and most virulent form. My body went hot as I held the mask, its colourful feathers tickling my wrist. I felt laughter begin to bubble inside me as I captured the joy and earthy delights of those who had worn it. The coin told a different story and in its dense composition I found many things, but it wasn’t until I felt the generosity of the padre who, torn between feeding those who relied on him in the orphanage and the plight of the sickly young street boy, gave his last soldi to the child. In his heart was such faith and love for fellow humans and a deep conviction that God would provide, and I drew on all this too. That the child later died before he was able to use the coin was something I stored for later. A chilling reminder that even kindness could not prevent the cruelty of life from striking.

When I’d finished, I sat on the stool, a mug of vino from Baroque’s own store in my hand. He packed the candles away carefully then, from under a piece of cloth, pulled out the plant that I had tried to fathom earlier – the belladonna.

‘Do you want to try again?’ he asked me.

‘Baroque, I don’t think I want to deal with any more death today,’ I sighed.

‘But it’s not for its deadly properties that I’m giving you this.’

‘What then?’

Baroque sat back down and with great care picked up the plant. It was quite dry now and brittle. The petals of its flowers had curled and some had dropped. ‘Once, a long time ago now, I had a woman –’ He chuckled at the expression on my face. ‘Oh, don’t look so surprised. I wasn’t so bad in my younger days and, even as a spy, I had some status.’

I tried to imagine him as a young man. The creases in his face vanished, the pouches beneath his eyes reduced and the gold teeth became creamy and whole. I suppose he wasn’t unattractive. Not handsome, but there was something. It was his eyes that I liked best. Grey, bright and sharp. I wondered what sort of woman she’d been.

As if sensing my thoughts, he moved out of my reach. ‘No, you’re not going to do that!’ He shook a finger at me.

I frowned and sat up straight. I wouldn’t have dared put my hands upon him and was astonished he thought I would. ‘Why are you telling me this?’ I asked, to cover my confusion.

‘Well, Zonia, that was her name, Zonia Cucitta, she would use belladonna – not the way I was accustomed to employing it, of course, but as part of her toilette.’

My mouth dropped open. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Sì. Many women did. They would pound down the flower, the root – all parts – and turn it into a liquid then, they do the most strange thing of all. They would place drops of it in their eyes.’

‘Why?’

‘In order to enlarge the pupil – to make their eyes brighter and more shiny.’ He put the plant back down carefully. ‘It got me thinking –’

‘That perhaps I could use it in the same way.’

‘Esatto,’ he said, pleased. ‘What do you think?’

By way of an answer, I reached for the belladonna again. Its swollen buds resembled the sky before a storm. Locked within them was something equally dangerous and wonderful. I would know what that was.

Baroque remained still.

I pressed the flower of the belladonna between my fingers. Viscous ooze escaped and stuck to my fingertips. My pulse quickened. Baroque was right. There was
something there. A property that, if used in just the right way …

Abandoning my earlier caution, I tore the plant apart, dropping it into the enormous wooden mortar ready for grinding. I’d cleaned the vessel thoroughly yesterday, but even so, I could detect traces of feverfew and beyond that, the original ash tree from which the mortar had been carved.

I pounded furiously for a few seconds before being overtaken by the sensations running up and down my arm, the icy tingle along my spine. I was repulsed by what I sensed – a desperate longing within the plant itself to be released, to sigh into an unsuspecting system and weave its spell. I took a deep breath, exhaled, and kept grinding.

After five minutes, I became aware of two things: firstly, that my shoulder was aching with almost unbearable intensity and secondly, that Baroque was standing beside me, peering into the smooth velvet potion I had created.

‘What do you feel?’

I put down the pestle carefully and cupped my hands around the bowl of the mortar and shut my eyes. This time I didn’t hesitate, but dived into the sensations emanating from the vessel.

Waves of relaxation swept over me, making the tension fall from my body. The tightness in my shoulder eased. I searched further, allowing the essence of what I’d mixed to mingle with my system. My skin began to grow cold and my eyes to burn. I screwed them shut as tears fought to escape. I wanted to focus on the contents of the bowl. Broken images of women, laughter and huge, glistening pupils spun behind my eyes.

‘Stop!’ cried Baroque and snatched the mortar out of my hands, dumping it on the bench with a thud. Some of the liquid splashed onto the surface. Baroque jumped out of the way.

‘What? What is it? I asked, my eyes flying open and the tears I’d been withholding pouring down my cheeks. I couldn’t see properly. ‘Oh, my eyes are stinging!’ The candlelight, the dimness and Baroque’s face were all blended. I went to wipe the back of sleeve across my face and then remembered my handkerchief. I dabbed at my cheeks and eyes.

‘You’ve gone deathly white.’ He examined me intently. ‘By God!’ he exclaimed. ‘Tallow!’ He sometimes used my old name when he was excited. ‘Your eyes.’

‘What do you –?’ I began, but he dragged me out into the courtyard and over to where the light was the strongest. His earlier tenderness with me forgotten, he took my chin in his hand, forcing me to look up into the light.

‘What? What is it?’ I was scared, blinking rapidly to alleviate the burning, wanting to screw up my eyes, shut them against the sunlight, but I wanted to know what was wrong more.

Baroque let go of my face and began to laugh. He slapped his thighs. ‘Sì, sì, sì!’ He did an awkward dance around me, looking like a jester at Carnivale.

I began to smile. ‘Did it work? What is it?’ I pressed my fingers gently against my eyelids. The pain was subsiding.

He pulled me over to the well and made me wait while he lowered the bucket and filled it, heaving it to the top. He unhooked it, water sloshing over the sides, and banged it on the ground, losing even more on the cobblestones. ‘Look for yourself,’ he ordered.

I shook my head at him and bent over obediently. At first the water fractured my face into hundreds of wavering lines. But gradually, it stilled. I stared into the depths and what I saw took my breath away. ‘I did it!’ I fell to my knees, my hands gripping the edges, and looked at what I had done.

In the centre of my silver eyes, two huge black discs had formed – pupils. The silver had fled to the edges, looking almost grey against the onyx in the middle. I could not believe the transformation. Why, I looked almost normal.

Baroque clapped his hands together.

‘What has given you cause for so much … joy?’ Giaconda’s voice cut over Baroque’s as she appeared at the top of the stairs. Holding the railing, she began to descend. Close behind her was Hafeza. Jacopo appeared as well. Seconds later, Signor Maleovelli emerged from the ground-floor offices, followed by the ever-present Salzi.

‘What’s all this commotion about?’ asked Signor Maleovelli calmly, tapping his way across the cobbles, stopping only when he was inches from where I knelt.

Giaconda and Jacopo flanked him while Salzi and Hafeza remained in the background. Only Jacopo revealed his curiosity; he was doing his usual hand-wringing and his tongue moistened his lips. They stood around me, blocking the light.

‘Look at what she’s done,’ said Baroque, his hand gesturing to my face.

I slowly raised my head.

‘My God!’ Jacopo stepped backwards, colliding with Hafeza. In one graceful movement, Giaconda knelt down and took my chin in her hands, her nails digging into my flesh. She twisted my face first one way, then the other, peering deeply into my eyes. For just a moment, I was reminded of Quinn and winced. She softened her hold. She stared and then turned to her father, allowing him to see for himself. ‘Papa, look.’

Signor Maleovelli studied my face and then smiled. ‘Bene. Molto bene. Is the change permanent? Does it affect her abilities?’ He fired the questions at Baroque.

‘I don’t know, Signor. It’s only just happened.’ Baroque spoke in a measured way. I could hear the amusement in his tone.

‘I don’t think it’s permanent,’ I said softly. The stinging had almost stopped. I blinked a few more times. Giaconda grabbed hold of my face again.

‘No, her eyes are changing back.’ Her disappointment was palpable.

‘If she can do it once, she can do it again.’ Signor Maleovelli nudged me with his cane. ‘Your talent?’

‘I … I can still use it.’

‘Bene. Now, all you need to do is experiment with whatever it was you did until you can disguise your eyes for a much longer period.’

‘It was belladonna.’

‘Ah,’ Giaconda smiled. ‘Of course. How appropriate,’ she murmured, but didn’t elaborate. I didn’t know what else to say.

Signor Maleovelli flicked his fingers towards Baroque. ‘Well done, Scarpoli.’ Without another word, he turned and limped back inside the casa, Salzi in tow.

Giaconda let go of me and rose to her feet. ‘Tarlo, do not kneel on the ground like a peasant. Remember whose name you now carry.’

I tried to stand up with as much elegance as I could muster, almost twisting my ankle on the zoccoli. ‘Sì, Signorina Giaconda. Mi dispiace,’ I said, dropping into a curtsy.

‘The candles Papa asked for, are they ready?’

‘They’re ready, Signorina,’ said Baroque.

Giaconda gave us one last look before making a noise of approval. She took Jacopo’s proffered arm and sauntered back inside, as if nothing momentous had just occurred. Hafeza, after a shy smile, followed. I turned away from her.

Baroque waited till they were all out of sight. ‘What has Hafeza done to deserve such a look from you?’

I brushed down my apron. ‘Turns out you were right. I can’t trust anyone.’

‘I see,’ said Baroque thoughtfully. Then he changed the subject. ‘I knew if you delved deeply enough, you would find the means to effect your disguise! Belladonna.’ He started to usher me back in the workshop. ‘Come on. We’ll work on quantities and determine how much you can take. I am not going to have you ruin your eyes, no matter what the Maleovellis say.’ He disappeared through the door, muttering away.

I paused and peered into the bucket again. I blinked. The colour had almost fled but for just a brief few minutes I’d possessed a pair of eyes from which people would not turn in fear or disgust. Dark like the night sky, they’d reminded me of someone else’s, someone who had once stared at me with such love and devotion; not in the calculated way that the Maleovellis just had, or as Baroque was wont to. I shook myself. This would not do. I fixed a smile to my face and tilted my head. In the doorway, Baroque waited.