dismay.
There’s nothing in there at all. Not a single ruby. Not a stone.
“They’re gone !” shouts Bianca. She tosses the empty box aside and it clatters on the marble floor. “We must tell Signor della Scala. There’s been a robbery!”
With a sigh, Faustina runs her fingers through her gray hair. She sits heavily on the bed, her shoulders slumped.
“No, there has not been a robbery,” she says firmly.
I sweep my skirts over my arm and stoop down to rescue the box. Closing the lid, I hand it to my nurse. I know something is wrong.
“Faustina,” I ask. “What happened to my mother’s jewels?”
“Your father sold them,” she said. “His income is not what it was. I had hoped”—and she glares at Bianca—“to explain it to you more gently.”
Faustina sends her to see that the carriage will be ready to take me to the party. I sit on the bed and Faustina tells me that my father has been stripping the palazzo of its treasures. This is what the empty spaces on the walls mean. I don’t really care. The greatest treasure is lost to me already, her body lying in her coffin.
The carriage awaits. Bianca walks beside me to the door, beaming.
“Are you excited about seeing the Doge, signorina?” she asks.
I cling to the stone banister as I move down the wide, curved staircase, fearful that I might trip over the folds of red fabric and tumble down to the marble floor.
“Are you?” Bianca insists. There is a tinge of sadness inher voice, and I realize that many girls in this city would envy me tonight.
I squeeze Bianca’s hand. “If I meet him I’ll tell you every detail.”
My father emerges from his library, looking twice his normal size in fine hose and great padded shoulders of tan velvet. When he sees me, he smiles and his face softens.
“My sweet Laura,” he says, and I blush at the unfamiliar praise. “How wonderful. You’re just the thing.”
He takes my arm and we step out into Venice.
A s the carriage clatters along the cobbles, my father pats my hand and tells me what I’m to do and how I’m to behave at the Doge’s palace.
“Vincenzo will be the center of attention, of course, and so will several members of the Grand Council.” He leans forward to brush an invisible speck of something or other off my cape. “Remember, Laura, that you’re not a child anymore. You’re on show this evening. Our future depends on it.”
At the edge of the Grand Canal we step out of the carriage and onto the barge. My heavy skirts mean that one of the young bargemen has to lift me over the side. His hands around my waist are broad and flat, almost like the oar that rests dripping over the water. He smiles as he places me on the deck, but quickly looks away as my father clambers on board and sits at the prow, his pale hands and his wrists folded in front of him.
I take my place beside him and the great whale of a boatlumbers towards St. Mark’s Square. We pass the Rialto—that arch of dark wood linking the east side of the city to the west—and glide into more open water. My father doesn’t seem to notice, but I can feel it: the chill of my sister’s last moments. Where did she fall? It was somewhere near here. I lean out a little and look down into the inky liquid grave.
We pass the sparkling buildings and lights of Venice. The great tall houses cast their stretched reflections onto the water, where they mingle with that of the moon. Distant laughter bounces off the hard surfaces of stone.
My father’s expression is taut in the succession of shadow and light, and I realize that his face is powdered, to smooth the tired lines. I wonder if he is worrying about the impression I will make. There will be things he’ll want me to do and to say—rules I don’t know and rituals I’ve never had a hand in, patterns of talk that I’ve never been part of. I’m able to chant glories to God for hours. I can force oil of peony root into the mouth of a crazed man, breaking him like some
There’s nothing in there at all. Not a single ruby. Not a stone.
“They’re gone !” shouts Bianca. She tosses the empty box aside and it clatters on the marble floor. “We must tell Signor della Scala. There’s been a robbery!”
With a sigh, Faustina runs her fingers through her gray hair. She sits heavily on the bed, her shoulders slumped.
“No, there has not been a robbery,” she says firmly.
I sweep my skirts over my arm and stoop down to rescue the box. Closing the lid, I hand it to my nurse. I know something is wrong.
“Faustina,” I ask. “What happened to my mother’s jewels?”
“Your father sold them,” she said. “His income is not what it was. I had hoped”—and she glares at Bianca—“to explain it to you more gently.”
Faustina sends her to see that the carriage will be ready to take me to the party. I sit on the bed and Faustina tells me that my father has been stripping the palazzo of its treasures. This is what the empty spaces on the walls mean. I don’t really care. The greatest treasure is lost to me already, her body lying in her coffin.
The carriage awaits. Bianca walks beside me to the door, beaming.
“Are you excited about seeing the Doge, signorina?” she asks.
I cling to the stone banister as I move down the wide, curved staircase, fearful that I might trip over the folds of red fabric and tumble down to the marble floor.
“Are you?” Bianca insists. There is a tinge of sadness inher voice, and I realize that many girls in this city would envy me tonight.
I squeeze Bianca’s hand. “If I meet him I’ll tell you every detail.”
My father emerges from his library, looking twice his normal size in fine hose and great padded shoulders of tan velvet. When he sees me, he smiles and his face softens.
“My sweet Laura,” he says, and I blush at the unfamiliar praise. “How wonderful. You’re just the thing.”
He takes my arm and we step out into Venice.
A s the carriage clatters along the cobbles, my father pats my hand and tells me what I’m to do and how I’m to behave at the Doge’s palace.
“Vincenzo will be the center of attention, of course, and so will several members of the Grand Council.” He leans forward to brush an invisible speck of something or other off my cape. “Remember, Laura, that you’re not a child anymore. You’re on show this evening. Our future depends on it.”
At the edge of the Grand Canal we step out of the carriage and onto the barge. My heavy skirts mean that one of the young bargemen has to lift me over the side. His hands around my waist are broad and flat, almost like the oar that rests dripping over the water. He smiles as he places me on the deck, but quickly looks away as my father clambers on board and sits at the prow, his pale hands and his wrists folded in front of him.
I take my place beside him and the great whale of a boatlumbers towards St. Mark’s Square. We pass the Rialto—that arch of dark wood linking the east side of the city to the west—and glide into more open water. My father doesn’t seem to notice, but I can feel it: the chill of my sister’s last moments. Where did she fall? It was somewhere near here. I lean out a little and look down into the inky liquid grave.
We pass the sparkling buildings and lights of Venice. The great tall houses cast their stretched reflections onto the water, where they mingle with that of the moon. Distant laughter bounces off the hard surfaces of stone.
My father’s expression is taut in the succession of shadow and light, and I realize that his face is powdered, to smooth the tired lines. I wonder if he is worrying about the impression I will make. There will be things he’ll want me to do and to say—rules I don’t know and rituals I’ve never had a hand in, patterns of talk that I’ve never been part of. I’m able to chant glories to God for hours. I can force oil of peony root into the mouth of a crazed man, breaking him like some
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