Votive (37 page)

Waterford slid off the ledge and began his preparations for tonight’s soiree. The prospect of yet another evening in the company of the Serenissian nobiles suddenly didn’t seem so unappealing.

T
HOUGH
B
AROQUE HAD LONG AGO
imparted everything he claimed to know about the arts of spying to Tallow, it was only when she was in the workshop, extracting and distilling, that she felt some sort of peace. She knew that everything she was doing was helping the Maleovellis rise to power and that, once this had been accomplished and the Estrattore were brought home, her role and position within their household would be over. She longed for that day. It was what made Jacopo’s unwanted attentions, the endless evenings with strange men, the pretence, the danger, and the dark, acrid memories tolerable. It all had to mean something, didn’t it? This couldn’t all be for nothing, could it?

She stopped what she was doing, her concentration momentarily broken, and sighed. She wiped the back of her hand across her brow. It was hot in the workshop, and the smells, while pleasant, were overpowering. She felt Baroque’s eyes upon her. He’d been hovering over her like a bee to a flower, ever since that Lord Waterford had spied her in the workshop. Tallow appreciated his presence, their silent communion shared over the crushed flowers, distilled essences and, above all, the candles she altered. There was something so familiar about testing the candles with Baroque: the mixture of excitement and concern they
exchanged before Baroque would remove the spill from the tinderbox and, striking it against the flint, light the wick. The sputter and slow sizzle of the flame was like the introduction, and they would hold their breath until the wax began to melt and the core of what Tallow had infused in the candle was released.

It reminded Tallow of what to her now seemed like happier times – her life with Pillar in his greasy old workshop. It was funny, thought Tallow, how current context or even a mood or feeling could change the way you viewed the past, colour it in more sympathetic hues. Pillar would occasionally slip into her mind and she would wonder what he was doing, if he ever thought of her. She tried not to think about him too much. She’d been told he’d left Serenissima and that information hurt – she suspected that was why she’d been told. Though she knew it was dangerous for him to remain, let alone to seek her, she had thought she meant more to him. He’d run after her on the bridge that awful day – called to her. If she shut her eyes, she could still see his face: gaunt, grey and yet so filled with joy to see her. And now he was gone – from Serenissima, from her life. Just like Dante, just like anyone who had ever been kind to her.

But what have you done to look for him?
she pondered. She scolded herself for her silly fancies. Just as she could not search for Pillar, which would bring danger to not only herself, the Maleovellis, and the people of the Candlemakers Quartiere who had suffered enough, neither should she seek connections where there were none anymore. Glancing at Baroque as he cleared a space on the table, she had to remind herself that he was not Pillar and she was no longer Tallow. She was Tarlo Maleovelli. She was Signorina Dorata. The past was a wasteland.

With a sharp puff of breath, she threw herself back into her work.

W
ORKING BESIDE
T
ALLOW
, Baroque was aware of her every move, every sound. Each day her mien became increasingly mask-like as she fought to bury the emotions burning inside her and which, periodically, would escape across her features. Each sigh reached into his heart and squeezed it. He longed to touch, hold her and swear to protect her from those who would hurt her.

Surprised at the depth of his feelings, he could no longer deny them. For weeks, he’d shut himself off from the effect Tallow’s presence had on him. But ever since that day he’d walked into the workshop and saw the bruises, the dark shadows under her eyes, her downturned mouth, something within him had transformed. It wasn’t the external changes that tore away at him, but the hollowness he sensed within her. It was as if a bright spark had been extinguished.

A candle spluttered, drawing his attention. Yes, he thought, as if a candle had been snuffed out. Tallow was nothing more than a walking shadow. Almost daily, her beauty increased and it seemed, from what he heard in the streets, the market, the piazza, the coldness and indifference that attended her whenever she left the casa simply amplified her allure. But those people did not know her. They didn’t know what she had once been, the lovely, fragile being he’d first seen parading as a boy in that floppy cap, ambling through a campo, sipping a juice, delighting in the simple pleasures.

He watched her now – her eyes downcast, the lashes thick and long, hiding those eyes that not even the belladonna could prevent from being extraordinary. He watched the way her long narrow fingers fondled the plant, saw her inhale, her chest rising and expanding, colour flooding her cheeks as she extracted. He noticed the way tiny tendrils of
hair escaped her elaborate coiffure, still in place from the night before, and clung wetly to her forehead.

He wanted to dab her brow, cool the feverish thoughts that he sensed working in her mind. But he did not deserve to do that. He had not earned the right. He who was prepared to betray Tallow and in ways she did not even yet realise – but she would. He feared that day.

Yet he did not act to change things either. He stayed. He no longer tried to find the Bond Rider, Katina – that was true. She could seek him and be damned. Thoughts of going to the Cardinale were no longer foremost in his mind. Even his desire to retrieve his journals had been dampened. He remained in the casa and continued to teach Tallow, even though they both knew that the student had long surpassed the master. If he was honest with himself there was only one reason he stayed – and she was standing across from him now.

Tallow picked up a spray of hemlock – a deadly plant. He saw her trying to draw from it, understand what it could do. His heart lightened. It was moments like that, when she shut her eyes and concentrated, that she was able to forget what troubled her.

Anger flared within him. The urge to kill, lash out, was so very strong. He almost laughed at the power of his feelings. Silly old man that he was! How could it have come to this? Baroque Scarpoli, enchanted by an Estrattore – not in the way her paramours were. This was different – this was lasting and deeper than anything he’d felt before. For the first time in his life, he didn’t want to put himself and his needs first.
Is this how a parent feels for a child? A father for a daughter?

He wondered if Tallow really understood what it was the Maleovellis were doing. He knew she was convinced that once Signor Maleovelli was crowned Doge, he would do
everything in his power to ensure the Estrattore returned. All the talk he’d heard from the Maleovellis supported that, but something within Baroque cautioned acceptance of their intentions. Not their plans – they were going well; they’d even seemed to have drawn that foreign ambassador into their web.

Now, he was one to watch – Baroque could tell. The Maleovellis thought him a dupe, a puppet whose strings they could pull. Baroque knew better. But how the Waterford Signor could help the Maleovellis, he wasn’t sure. Nor was he certain what they would do once their years of preparation finally came to fruition. Would they help Tallow as they promised? Of all people, he knew what good the Estrattore could do, despite what the Church said. But he also understood their potential to do great harm … and, he admitted, glancing at Tallow as she prepared to work with the hemlock, it terrified him.

The light outside had changed in the last few minutes and a gentle breeze began to blow through the courtyard. There was a coolness to it that suggested seasonal change was not far away. Baroque would be glad when the heat ended. It hung over the city like a pall, turning the canals a thick green and carrying within it the squalid smell of humanity. He screwed up his nose in memory.

‘Are you ready to extract?’ Baroque asked quietly.

Tallow opened her eyes and looked at him. ‘Sì. This hemlock, it’s very dangerous.’

Baroque nodded. He studied the little white flowers, the purple blotches on the stems.

‘It’s sticky,’ said Tallow, pressing the ends of her fingers open and shut to demonstrate. ‘It will cause strange dreams, but it can also kill.’

‘I know,’ said Baroque.

Tallow glanced at him. ‘What do the Maleovellis hope to achieve this time?’

Baroque frowned. ‘They want to persuade someone to do something totally uncharacteristic. So you need to think of how to relax someone, how to make them susceptible to suggestions they wouldn’t normally be. A small dose of hemlock should achieve that. It has hallucinogenic qualities.’

‘Are the changes to be permanent?’

Baroque hesitated. ‘Sì.’ He waited. There was a time when Tallow would bombard him with questions in the way he had prisoners of the Doge – relentlessly, endlessly. He would not always give her direct answers, particularly when the few he did upset her. But Tallow did not even demand to know for whom the candles were intended anymore or the details. She simply made them and then carried out the orders she was given with whomever she was assigned to that night.

‘Then, I will use some hemlock, comfrey and …’ She thought for a moment. Not always needing to prepare new potions, Tallow could reach inside herself and draw from plants and objects she’d already extracted. ‘Ah.’ She waved her hand in the air. ‘I have it. I know what to use.’

Baroque no longer asked either. He didn’t want to know.

She took a deep breath. ‘Bring me the candles, Baroque. Two should do. Votives, please.’

Baroque lifted a pair out of the box he’d bought at the markets yesterday and placed them in front of Tallow. In seconds she’d distilled the necessary emotions into them. ‘There’s no need to test them, Baroque. They will work. I know it.’ Wistfulness tinged her tone as she took one more look at what she’d done. The candles glowed, the glass containers enhancing the effect.

She glanced out of the doorway. ‘It grows late. I’d better prepare for tonight’s festivities.’ Undoing her apron, she slowly hung it on the hook at the back of the room. Baroque watched. Instead of leaving straightaway, she lingered.

‘Baroque?’

He quickly swung back to the bench. ‘Sì?’

‘Do you know who exactly these are for?’ She stood close beside him. He caught the scent of musk and vanilla. He inhaled deeply, as if she too were one of her candles. His head spun.

‘You know I’m not supposed to answer that, Tarlo. That is for Signor or Signorina Maleovelli to tell you.’

‘I know,’ she said, locking her eyes onto his.

‘They are for the Prince.’

‘Which one?’

‘Cosimo.’

‘Ah, of course.’ Tallow touched the candles. ‘What do they intend apart from making him ignore his better judgement?’

‘I don’t know.’

She nodded faintly and Baroque was shocked to realise she didn’t believe him.

‘Tallow, I mean, Tarlo, I
really
don’t know. You will find out soon enough. You’re to take them to Signor Maleovelli and receive your instructions.’ He paused. ‘The Maleovellis do not share much with me. They never have.’

‘No,’ said Tallow, raising her huge silver-grey eyes with their dilated black pupils to his. ‘I don’t suppose they do anymore. They have no need. Not since you helped them secure what they wanted most.’

His heart flipped. Did she know? Then, he realised what she meant – herself. The rebuke in her voice stung. He was rendered speechless. She collected the candles and plucked a couple of others from the shelf. Candles she
would no doubt use in her room. He noted that one had been infused with the elements of heartsease, effectively a love potion, while the other was as yet untouched. What was Tallow intending? He couldn’t read her face; it had resumed its mask.

She gave him the barest of curtsies before leaving. ‘I will see you tomorrow,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘I may be late.’

Baroque watched her ascend the stairs and wondered who was going to enjoy her favours tonight. He found that, for once, he didn’t envy them.

G
IACONDA WAITED UNTIL
T
ARLO
had left the room before she perched herself on the arm of her father’s chair. She began to stroke his hair. He sighed and relaxed his head into her hands. ‘How much longer till we make our move?’ she asked softly.