Votive (50 page)

W
HEN
I
ARRIVED IN THE WORKSHOP
Baroque was not there. His bed was empty, his coat absent from the hook. I didn’t wait for him. Instead, as a limpid sun rose over the city and a cold wind blasted through the courtyard, I began to make the candle that would kill the Doge.

Instead of simply extracting and distilling into an existing candle, I made this one from scratch. In the small grate that Baroque used to warm these freezing rooms, I used the remnants of last night’s fire and assembled a fresh one, feeding it not only with wood, but the paper upon which I had laboured while learning to write. I had brought it from my rooms. I knew it would help give me the heat required for melting wax, but that wasn’t the only reason.

What I had once been proud of now only reminded me of my complicity in Pillar’s imprisonment. I was keen to destroy it. I’d lain awake last night, my conscience aflame with guilt as I argued with myself. Why hadn’t I gone to look for Pillar? Instead I believed what the Maleovellis told me, that he had gone, vanished, left me without caring about what happened. I’d been so suspicious of the Maleovellis’ intentions regarding most things, and yet I’d never thought to question them about Pillar. Why? When did I become so selfish? So narcissistic? After all Pillar had done for me, I consigned his memory to the refuse – not because
it pained me in the way that thoughts of Dante did, but because I simply didn’t want to think about him – him or my old life. They were so interconnected that one roused the other. By shutting out Pillar, I was never Tallow, never his lowly, browbeaten candlemaker. I was never a girl pretending to be a boy; an Estrattore masquerading as a human. I did not spare a thought for Pillar, not when I could adorn myself in beautiful fabrics, swathe myself in silken sheets, be admired, adored, control others in a way I couldn’t even control my own life.

Seeing Pillar, feeling his unconditional love, whether I wanted to or not, had opened a large crack in the barrier I’d painstakingly erected over the months. And, in the early hours of the morning, the truth doused me like the cold rain that struck my windowpane. He hadn’t abandoned me. I had abandoned him.

I had always wanted to belong, to find my people. He
was
my people. I was his. The Estrattore were as a myth, a story – ghosts that haunted my present. In believing in them, trusting they would embrace me, I was behaving like a child who believed in fairy tales. What could I change? What could I really do? Even if they did exist, somewhere in the Limen, why hadn’t they tried to find
me
? They hadn’t and, I realised now, they never would. If I was so damn important, why didn’t my people help
me
? They had left me; left me to find my own way and now, finally, I had.

It was time for me to do something. Not about the Estrattore, but about Pillar and, I thought as I heard the casa begin to stir, the Maleovellis as well. For so long I had obeyed their every command, their every whim, frightened of their disapproval, keen to earn their confidence, afraid to stand against them lest I lose the little I had. No more.

I watched as the paper caught in the flames, the parchment blackening and curling, adding fuel to the fire.

The spitting and crackle of the blaze was loud. I added some wood and blew and poked.

Finally the heat was enough for my purposes.

I grabbed an old battered pot from under the table and began to break apart three candles, snapping them in as many places as I could, pulling hard to remove the wick. I dropped them into the pot. Before I consigned it to the fire, I added some oils – lavender for its sweet scent and to aid relaxation, musk, for the sheer pleasure and headiness of its perfume, and some mistletoe. I had discovered that this plant, when broken down to its essence, affected the heart and blood. This was essential if the candles were to work.

Satisfied with my initial additions, I grabbed an old wooden spoon, sat on my haunches and placed the pot on a rusty tripod above the flames. Giving the wax time to begin melting, I stirred it, allowing the mixture to fold in on itself, absorb my additives. The workshop was soon filled with the smells of my labours.

When the mixture was smooth, the original shape of the candles reduced to a liquid mass, I rose and removed the pot from the immediate heat, leaving it in the glowing embers at the edge of the grate.

Among the objects that Baroque had brought to me over the months were some small ornate glasses – the kind that held the votive candles in the basilica. I recalled that they had carried within them the memories of not only their original makers, but all those who had bowed before them, praying to lost loved ones, begging forgiveness of God for perceived and real crimes. They also carried the thoughts and essence of the padres and novitiates who had placed them in the alcoves near the pews and altar. From them I was able to detect everything from concern over spiritual matters to the content of the next meal, to carnal thoughts that had no place in God’s house. Having met a few of
God’s men myself, I knew their practice of celibacy to be an illusion. Men of the cloth were no more spared the desires of man than a cat denied fleas. Padres just had to work harder to excise them than others. Not all succeeded. These votive holders screamed their shame.

I sorted through and found four holders that suited my purpose. They all matched: the glass had a slight blue tinge and was decorated in geometrical patterns of jade, ruby and gold. I laid them out carefully on the counter and, as I did, began to distil into them the beginnings of my intentions. After that, I sliced open a couple more candles, like a fishmonger does his catch, pretending a spine where none existed and extracted the wick in its stead. Chopping it into suitable lengths, I laid them in the holders, draping the ends over the glass.

Finally, I was ready to pour the wax. Wrapping a cloth around the handle of the pot, I lifted it to the counter. The wax was molten cream and the smell was tantalising. The scene painted across the screen in my bedroom came to my mind – wild, exotic. Using a bent metal spoon, I began to carefully ladle the wax into the containers. As I did, I drew on my talents, distilling with such intensity that I lost track of time. From within myself I drew elements of the many poisonous plants, people, surfaces and objects I had come in contact with and which I had stored. Selecting what I needed, I poured them out of me and into the wax. My insides burned. I wanted to choke. My heart thudded against my chest and sweat beaded my brow as I worked slowly, methodically, concentrating hard, unaware I was being watched.

A sharp intake of breath distracted me enough that I raised my head. In the doorway was Giaconda. Still in her nightgown, her hair falling about her shoulders, she had a thick shawl draped across her shoulders.

‘The wax, it changes,’ she whispered, her eyes wide.

I glanced back down. Instead of the luscious colour of the lace that so often bordered her gowns, or the lustrous sheen of the pearls that scattered her hair, the wax had transformed into a dark purple, so dark it was almost black. Bruised now, the wax sank into the glass, swirling in unctuous layers. In their midst sat the little hemp wicks. I tweaked them upright and watched in pleasure as, responding to my touch, they metamorphosed from white to black.

Four votives sat – gloomy, sinister, their holders pulsating as if a tiny heart struggled to beat in all that darkness. I sighed, put down the pot containing the remainder of the wax and wiped my hand across my brow.

‘It is finished,’ I said to Giaconda.

She looked into my eyes and I saw something in hers that I had not detected before. It was fear. A thrill ran through me. I tried not to let it show on my face.

‘Bring them to me,’ she said. She did not want to cross the threshold.

‘No. They cannot be moved – yet. Later. I will bring them to you later.’

‘Bene,’ she said, frowning. She peered around the workshop entrance, wrapping her shawl more tightly across her breasts. ‘Where’s Baroque?’

‘He went to get me some wick. But he took too long so I made use of what I already had.’ The lie tripped so easily from me.

Her frown deepened. ‘Tell him Papa wants to see him when he returns.’ She glanced at me. ‘You need to rest. We need you to look your best – more beautiful than you ever have.’

I inclined my head and then turned away from her, pretending to lift the last of the wax from the pot.

The swish of her dress and the cold wind that hit my back let me know she had gone.

I slowly turned round and saw the hem of her gown disappearing up the stairs. At that moment, Hafeza crossed the courtyard to the well. I remained still, lost in the shadows that lingered in the workshop, watching as she lowered the bucket. She was humming a tune that I knew came from her home country. Her eyes followed the bucket and she bent over the edge of the well. In repose, her face possessed a gentleness and kindness that I recalled had once appealed to me. But I knew it to be false. Like Giaconda’s beauty or Signor Maleovelli’s benevolence, it was a mask designed to lure people closer the way fire does air, the chameleon insects, or the moon attracts the stars. We all wore masks in this casa.

But beneath the façade of servitude and obedience, I wondered what the real Hafeza was like, how this woman could be loyal to the Maleovellis. What did they inspire that she was forever obedient to their whim, served them unquestioningly? What horrors had they rescued her from? For that seemed to be their way. Jacopo, consigned to the life of a cripple, an orphan, first in a convent, then in the streets until his father claims him, relying on his son’s gratitude for a lifetime of loyalty. Hafeza, a mute slave given the task of raising Giaconda. Does such munificence engender trust in return? I thought of my own circumstances. It did – for a while. I was grateful, and in turn that made me not only admire the Maleovellis but seek their admiration in return.

Lost in my reflections, I noticed Hafeza had left only when she was mounting the stairs, struggling with a full bucket. She would be replenishing my water, no doubt. It was time to leave.

I moved the votives to a space where they could cool undisturbed. Then, picking up the pot, I scraped the
remnants of the wax out of the bottom and threw them in the fire. I wanted no evidence of this batch to remain – no opportunity for the Maleovelli’s to abuse my talents. When I’d finished, I took the pot out to the well and scrubbed it thoroughly, along with the spoons and knife.

I re-entered the workshop, standing still to wait for my eyes to grow accustomed again. As I did, I noticed the door to Baroque’s room was ajar. I placed the implements back on the shelves and then paused.

Curiousity overcame me and I pushed the door open further and stepped inside Baroque’s room. I had only ever been in there once before, when I’d hidden from Lord Waterford – and that had only been brief and my anxiety at being discovered had discouraged me from exploring. There were no such deterrents now. My eyes travelled over the space. It was small and neat. His bed was unmade, but his belongings, such as they were, lay folded on the chair or the small rickety table. A stock of candles sat to one side, a holder with a melted stump nearby.

Where was he, this man who didn’t know the meaning of loyalty and yet desired to be friends? Who warned me away with words but lured me closer with actions. He too had betrayed me but, like the Maleovellis, when had he ever promised anything else? He told me not to trust him. Why did the Maleovellis – well, the Signor at least – give Baroque so much responsibility? First to find me and, later, to kidnap Pillar. I knew that Baroque was behind that, and at first it had enraged me. But when I touched the iron bars of Pillar’s prison, I had also learnt something else, something that in the whirlpool of my emotions I’d only sorted later. It was Baroque who had brought Pillar food, fresh clothes, and extra blankets when winter descended. It was Baroque who had spent nights talking to Pillar and easing his solitude. I was grateful for that. Was that why Baroque’s attitude
towards me had changed? Had Pillar facilitated that? The man I sensed in this bedroom and had worked with side by side no longer accorded with the one who had followed me almost two years ago in the Candlemakers Quartiere or who had lured Pillar from his house to the Maleovellis’ dungeon. Where had that man gone?

Surely these journals that kept him here, as much against his will as Pillar, could not be that important? I would know.

I reached out to touch the chair upon which a shirt was draped. I rubbed the material between my fingers and opened myself to what I found.

Emotions flowed into me; sometimes they were accompanied by images. I moved around the room, running my hands over every surface, feeling the man who owned these things, understanding him in a way that had been denied me.

It did not stop there. Emboldened by my new awareness and knowledge, I left the workshop and ascended to the piano nobile. As I passed the objects in the corridor, I touched them. I didn’t care anymore who saw me. The servants who did ignored me, believing me lost in reflection or suffering ennui. I extracted and, before I could stop myself, distilled a little of something back into them. Tapestries, chairs, mirrors, paintings, nothing was spared. Sensations warred inside me. Feelings such as I’d never known – jealousy, craven lust, deception – it was all there, carved deep into the fabric of the casa itself. But there was also love, hate, loathing and lies – dreadful, terrible lies.

I moved along faster now, my breathing heavy. I had to stop. This was too much, too great for me to bear. Outside Giaconda’s door, I hesitated. Just one tiny extraction, one little insight into the woman who hovered over my life like
an avenging angel. I slowly reached out and then touched the door handle.

I staggered and fell into the chair against the wall.

‘Who is there?’ called Giaconda. ‘Hafeza?’

I was panting now. The shock of my discovery almost undid me. I whirled to my feet and ran down the passage. I reached my door and wrenched it open and ran inside, straight into Hafeza, almost knocking her off her feet. I threw my arms out to steady her, not realising that I was still extracting. It was only when I saw the horror spreading across Hafeza’s face, saw the way her eyes were locked onto mine, that I knew what I was doing. But by then it was too late. I could not stop.