Votive (9 page)

‘I still can’t believe Katina did this,’ said Alessandro, putting a comforting arm around Debora’s shoulders.

‘No,’ wept Debora. ‘You can’t believe that she kept her intention from us.’

Alessandro held Debora tightly. ‘How could she be so damn selfish, so bloody stupid? Now we have to wait for …’ He pressed his lips together.

Debora tried to pull out of his embrace, but he wouldn’t let her.

‘For what?’ Dante urged.

Over the top of Debora’s head, Alessandro raised his dark eyes to Dante’s. ‘For either of you to succeed and fulfil your Bond or die trying.’

T
ARLO
M
ALEOVELLI
.
T
HE NAME
, like the mellow light coming in from the series of arched windows, took me unawares. I tried it out in my mind, rolled it around in my thoughts, tasted it and didn’t find it nearly as objectionable as I thought.
Tarlo
. It suited my new look and life; it was a sobriquet that announced my sex to the world, as well my different purpose – whatever that might be. Tarlo.
So close to Tallow and yet
, I thought, my hands brushing against the silken fabric of my gown, aware of my décolletage and the earrings dangling from my lobes and the cool pearls against my neck,
so immeasurably distant
.

I took a few more steps into the room and stopped. Giaconda had taken my arm again and the downward pressure she applied forced me into an awkward curtsy. As I rose, I could see three figures climbing to their feet. I felt momentarily bereft as Giaconda abandoned me in the middle of the huge room.

Four enormous windows drenched the room in the pastel hues of the afternoon. The floor beneath my feet gleamed brightly. Elaborate rugs were scattered at intervals, their colours fading yet still managing to offer a loud contrast to the geometrical patterns of the wood. I managed to briefly glimpse the ceiling that soared above me. A silent cacophony of cherubs and angels sang in
greeting, floating amid a maelstrom of pallid clouds. The cream walls were covered in metal sconces in which sat huge pillar candles at various stages of melting. Tapestries, as discoloured as those in the corridor, hung scrappily between doorways along with leather shields bearing faded coats of arms. The overall impression was one of indifferent luxury such as I had never encountered. I’d often wondered what lay behind the windows of the nobiles’ houses; what the interior would be like. I’d never imagined it to be so vast, so lush, so colourful and yet, so used. The room whispered to me of antique wealth and manners, of business that was, as yet, beyond my ken. It was breathtaking in its richness and decadent as well. So many empty chairs, so many tables that did nothing but display beautiful objects. The painted faces looking down their aristocratic noses from the walls made me feel self-conscious. I didn’t belong here. But then, I didn’t really belong anywhere, not even in Pillar and Quinn’s dark little house either. Within seconds, I had drunk my fill of the room and yet remained thirsty. I had so many questions.

In the time it took to store these impressions, someone approached obscured by a haze of fragrant smoke. It was Signor Ezzelino Maleovelli. He wasn’t much taller than me and leant to one side. His cane marked the rhythm of his advance. He bowed. I could see his thick silver hair cascading over the crown of his head and curling down his back. As he straightened, his eyes met mine and it was all I could do not to tremble. They were cold eyes – like the fish I used to see displayed on market days.
How could a living being have such eyes?
He stood in front of me and brazenly studied my form.

‘Bella,’ he said approvingly, and then spoke over his shoulder to the people behind him. ‘What do you think? Don’t stand back there – come and be formally introduced.’
Signor Maleovelli waved them forward, wisps of smoke providing direction.

The light in my eyes meant I could not see them clearly until they stepped into his shadow. The first to be introduced was a corpulent young man who was not only hunched, but rolled as he walked, as if there was something in his shoe. I couldn’t help but glance at his feet, but they were obscured by his togati. He paused before me and bowed. Again, I curtsied.

‘This is my nephew, Jacopo. He lives with us here at Casa Maleovelli and is responsible for maintaining the family history, accounts and general housekeeping. He is, you will discover, quite a scholar.’ Jacopo dropped his eyes modestly, but the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth revealed something less attractive. ‘Jacopo, this is the newest addition to our household, Signorina Tarlo. From hereon you will not only be helping us instruct her, but you will also manage her affairs.’

‘Sì, Zio Ezzelino. Signorina Tarlo, it’s a pleasure to meet you, finally … cousin.’

I hesitantly raised my eyes, but instead of the usual expression of fear, he was gazing at me the way I used to see Quinn study the soldi collected in her tin. He had a long face and nose with pale skin stained by dark whiskers. He also possessed his zio’s eyes.

‘Prego,’ I said.

‘Cousin, you’re most welcome,’ he murmured in a rather high voice for someone so large, and stepped aside.

‘Grazie.’ I waited.

I finally caught a glimpse of the other man who replaced Jacopo by Signor Maleovelli’s side. He was shorter in stature and wider in girth. I stifled a gasp and had to dissemble quickly. His face was discoloured by livid green and purple contusions. A gash divided his lip and his left cheek was
badly swollen. Both eyes were encircled by puffy dark flesh that bled into a sickly yellow at his temples. I knew all too well what those marks signified. Memories I’d managed to all but suppress flooded into my head. He’d suffered a terrible beating. Yet Signor Maleovelli, Jacopo and Giaconda acted as if they did not notice or did not care. I wondered who had administered such pain. My heart contracted. I swallowed and offered him a slight, clumsy curtsy. He returned a surprisingly elegant bow that allowed me to see his broken, cut fingers as one hand rested across his waist.

Despite the wounds he carried and which disfigured his face, there was something disturbingly familiar about him.

He looked first at Signor Maleovelli, then Giaconda, before resting his eyes on me, his head tipped towards his shoulder. A smile played on his ruined lips and a tiny flash from a gold tooth escaped. Words caught in my throat and my pulse raced.
Non è possible
! I knew him! A flush crept up my neck and I could feel moisture gather between my breasts. What were the Maleovellis doing consorting with this man? What was going on? Why was he here? I froze, uncertain what to say, what to do. I longed to reach out, touch him, touch anything, and extract.

Just as these thoughts swept through my mind, I saw his face redden and his jaw drop. He stumbled, the back of his knees hitting a table.

‘No!’ he gasped, pointing a shaking finger at me.

I didn’t know where to look. His actions mirrored my feelings.

‘Sì,’ drawled Signor Ezzelino, chuckling. ‘She has the silver eyes, the eyes that mark her as an Estrattore. We didn’t need you after all, Scarpoli. We found her ourselves.’

The man they called Scarpoli, but whom I knew as Signor Barbacan, staggered back to the armchair he’d recently vacated and fell into it. He reached for a glass from the
table beside him and tipped the contents down his throat. He coughed a few times then stared at me more intently. ‘You’re Tallow Pelleta. The candlemaker’s apprentice. Here. Just like that.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘God has a strange sense of humour.’

There was a bubble of laughter from Giaconda. ‘This has nothing to do with God, Signor Scarpoli.’

‘
Esatto
.’ Signor Ezzelino’s word hung in sunny brumes above his head.

‘So you found Tallow yourselves.’ Signor Scarpoli shook his head in disbelief.

‘Tarlo,’ corrected Giaconda firmly. ‘From now on, she is Tarlo Maleovelli. You’re all to remember that.’ She included me as she took a seat. Signor Ezzelino and Jacopo also sat, leaving me standing by myself. ‘We picked a name that was close to her own. The fact it’s masculinised is our bit of fun, an acknowledgement that, in so many ways, the masquerade of her life continues.’ She offered me a smile. I could not yet return it.

‘Tarlo,’ repeated Baroque. ‘I never would have guessed. I never would have expected …’

I looked him straight in the eye. ‘Me neither, Signor Barbacan.’

‘You remember me, then.’

‘I cannot forget. If I’m not mistaken, you’ve been following me for some time.’ I recalled the night he tracked me and Dante on the Circolo Canal, the time he innocently struck up a conversation with me in the campo. So long ago: another lifetime. ‘I don’t understand.’ I looked from Baroque to Giaconda, to Jacopo, who quickly looked away, and finally at Signor Maleovelli. ‘What’s going on? How do you all know Signor … Scarpoli?’

‘Please, Tarlo, sit down.’ Signor Maleovelli gestured to a high-backed chair opposite his. I sat down gratefully. My
thoughts were spinning out of control. ‘The time for secrets between us has passed.’ Signor Maleovelli signalled for Giaconda to pour from the decanter that sat on one of the many tables scattered between the chairs. ‘Baroque works for me, Tarlo. I employed him to find you. Tarlo, meet Signor Baroque Scarpoli.’

My mouth dropped open. ‘Me? But how – why?’

‘We saw you, Giaconda and I, months ago in a ramo in the Chandlers Quartiere. We have rooms there for our … business.’ He glanced at Giaconda. Jacopo studied his hands intently. ‘You healed a dog, a dog that should not have lived. We watched as you lured the chandler to your side and used the power within you to extract whatever it was you needed from him to save the animal –’

I didn’t listen. Not properly, anyhow. Instead I let my mind wander back to that day in the damp ramo, the day I met Dante and saved Cane from certain death. I’d wondered if we’d been seen, but the alley had been dark and there’d been no sign of anyone. Yet the Maleovellis had witnessed what I’d done – they’d known from that one small action what I was and they’d hunted me down. I glanced at Baroque. They’d even hired this man.
God help me.

‘– Baroque was to find you and bring you to us. But he disappeared. Turns out that the hunter was also hunted.’ Baroque’s cheeks became ruddy and he muttered something. Signor Maleovelli dismissed his mumblings with a wave of his hand. ‘As it was, you literally fell into our laps. Well, our gondola.’ Signor Maleovelli chuckled. Baroque perceptibly started. It was evident he hadn’t known about that.

‘It was providence. The goddess, Fortunata – forgive my blasphemy. Tarlo, my dear, it seems that one way or another, you are meant to be with us.’

Silence filled the spaces between us.

‘Why? What do you want from me?’ I asked finally.
‘Why was Signor Barba … Scarpoli seeking me?’

Signor Ezzelino and Giaconda exchanged a long look that I couldn’t interpret. Jacopo glanced at me. I detected need in his gaze. Need and something else. The back of my neck became ice-cold.

‘There’s nothing sinister at work here, Tarlo. You have no reason to be afraid of us. We know what you are and what you can do. We haven’t sought you all this time to simply turn you over to the Doge or the Church. On the contrary, we want to protect you but, like anything in this damn city, our protection comes at a price.’ Signor Maleovelli leant back in his chair and sucked on his pipe.

What did he mean? Was he threatening me? The corset constricted and I was beginning to feel cloistered, even in this spacious room.

‘Papa, I think it’s best if I explain, don’t you?’ Giaconda rose from her seat and strolled towards one of the windows. She turned her back to the view. A halo of light formed around her, turning her into a gleaming silhouette. ‘Being part of this family, being a Maleovelli, carries obligations, duties. That’s what Papa means by a price. Don’t look so concerned. You’ll be assigned certain tasks and, if you do the right thing by us, Tarlo, then we’ll do the right thing by you. First we will give you the protection of our home and our name.’ Her arm swept the room. ‘You must understand, these are not given lightly. What we offer is to be taken very seriously.’

I felt them all watching me. Time seemed to slow.

‘I don’t know that I do understand.’ My voice sounded distant, small. ‘Why would you do this? Take such a risk? What can I do for you? What sort of duties are you talking about? I can clean, I can cook …’

Giaconda tittered. ‘Do you really believe we would ask you to cook? To be a house girl? We already have those. Oh,
Tarlo. What we want from you is so much more, so much better.’ She detached herself from the window and moved towards me. ‘You have so much to offer, my dear young woman. Why, you’re an Estrattore.’

I winced as she used the word so brazenly, so openly. Just like Katina when she first came into my life. Pillar had panicked, shutting doors and windows, glancing over his shoulder, even in the safety of his own home. I wasn’t sure what would happen here, but when nothing did, when the others sat there and Signor and Signorina Maleovelli bored holes in my head with their intent stares, I released the breath I didn’t even know I’d been holding. I waited expectantly. So did the men. We were all now focused on Giaconda. Her gown rustled softly as it reorganised itself around her legs. She faced me. ‘Until recently, you’d been taught to deny what you were, hide away your talents, isn’t that right?’

‘Sì.’ Endless beatings, reminders to lower my head, my eyes, not draw attention to myself; even the umber glasses that Katina had insisted were made for me were all attempts to disguise my origins. ‘Sì. Vero – it’s true.’

‘Well, while you’re under our roof, my dear, you don’t have to hide anything. Not from us. We want you to refine what it is you do, hone your skills, your talents: make them so much a part of who you are that they are indistinguishable to anyone but us. It can be done. It will be done.’

‘We understand,’ continued Signor Maleovelli, ‘that you were a candlemaker. Scarpoli tells us that somehow, you used the candles to … how do I put it? Make special things happen? That you were able to effect change in those who burned your candles.’

‘Those who survived that dreadful plague, the Morto Assiderato, in your Quartiere attribute it to you – to your candles,’ confirmed Baroque.

He’d learnt a great deal about me. Information that I foolishly thought was hidden, safe. That unnerved me. I cleared my throat. ‘I distilled what I extracted from objects and people into the candles. It was a way of hiding what I cannot help but do, of making the process less obvious. Or so I thought.’

‘This is excellent,’ said Signor Maleovelli. ‘And, are we to understand that, like the Estrattore of old, you can extract any emotion, any feeling from a thing –’ he held up a brightly striated piece of glass ‘– or a person and distil it down to its most potent form?’