through my chest and into my throat. I didn’t let them fall yet. Instead, I continued to retrace my memory.
Where was Katina? How could she allow this to happen, and by one of her own? I didn’t understand.
A huge, wracking sob caught in my throat. I buried my head and tried to release it. Nothing came out of my open mouth but raw silence. There was no sound I could make, no words I could utter that could do justice to my sorrow, not as long as I refused to face where my choices and the fates had led me.
I rolled onto my back and willed my eyes open. Soft light struck my face. I threw a hand up to block it. A dull ache registered in my left arm. I recalled hurting it when I’d leapt from the Bond Rider’s horse. Beneath the shift I’d been placed in, I could feel coarse bandages. I’d thought my arm broken; clearly, it wasn’t. Someone had not only cleaned and dressed me while I was unconscious – they’d ministered to my injuries as well.
These little acts of kindness undid my resolve; I wept freely.
I lay there for a minute or two, trying to control the emotions and images whirling in my heart and head. I wiped away my tears with the sleeve of my shift and eased myself into a sitting position. I wondered how long I’d been here – where exactly ‘here’ was.
It was evident I was in a bedroom. It was so big, it could have fitted the entire first floor of Pillar’s house within its walls. When I turned my head to the right, I could see a door with a golden handle and gaping keyhole. I stared at it for a moment, a great eye forever open in a solid socket. Above it hung a faded blue and red rug covered with geometrical designs and aurulent swirls. It matched the one lying on the floor.
On either side of the heavily draped window immediately in front of me were cabinets. Sitting upon one was a large bowl and jug with what appeared to be drying sheets folded beside it. There were also elegant gilt candle holders fitted with the melted stumps of creamy coloured beeswax tapers. I caught their faint scent. Between one set was a small glass figurine. It appeared to have a human shape – a dancer, I thought.
Through the closed shutters, other, distant sounds filtered into the room: the splash of oars on water, the coo of pigeons, the cries of vendors and, closer still, the murmur of deep voices rising through the floor from below. I resisted the urge to extract, to draw from the coverlets, the pillows, to leap from the bed and touch everything, not sure if I even had the strength. For the moment, I would rely on my eyes and ears to tell me what they could about this strange, lush place. I had never seen anything quite like it; I had no context for appreciating it except to be in awe of its size and what it contained. But even its warm tones could not hide the coldness I sensed, the artistry of its arrangement, as if it were somehow staged for my, or someone else’s benefit. Underpinning the sweet fragrances around me was a whiff of decay, of continuous atrophy. I wasn’t sure what it meant, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of falseness and decline that pervaded the room.
I slowly released my grip on the bedding. I tried to remember everything that had happened while I was in the gondola: whom I’d spoken with, what had occurred. There was Signorina Maleovelli and an old, thin man with hawk-like eyes – her father. They’d proposed a relationship of mutual benefit – a colleganza. My skin began to prickle. They knew I was an Estrattore and they didn’t care … Perhaps all was not lost.
I threw back the covers and slid out of bed. I tiptoed across the room to the window, unlatched the shutters and pushed them open. Beams of sunlight spilled inside, forcing me to look away until my eyes became accustomed. The brackish smell of shallow water made me screw up my nose. Below me was a narrow canal that came to an abrupt end a few feet away. It was lined on either side by tall casas.
The one directly opposite had moss climbing out of the water and up its walls. Some of the render had