we’ll wait for the offers to arrive.’ Giaconda rose and walked around me. ‘In this dress, you’ll attract many.’
‘You think so?’
For an answer, Giaconda looked at Signor Tedeschi. ‘May I?’ she asked.
‘Sì, Signorina,’ he bowed and stepped out of the way, pulling the last of the pins from his mouth.
Giaconda helped me from my perch and led me towards the mirror. Hafeza scuttled out of the way. I ignored her.
‘Shut your eyes,’ ordered Giaconda before moving behind me and placing her hands on my shoulders. I could feel her breath against my ears. I quivered beneath her touch. ‘When I tell you, I want you to look at yourself, not as Tallow or even Tarlo, but as someone else would see you. Imagine the dress finished, your hair done, a different mask.’ She paused. ‘You ready? Open them.’
I did as I was told and through my dark mask saw the woman facing me. A tall, slender woman with full breasts, suffused in gold, her skin soft and white, forming a velvet contrast to the sheen of the fabric. This was a woman people would notice, men would desire.
I shook my head.
‘I don’t believe it. That’s me. Signor Tedeschi, it’s beautiful.’
‘No, Signorina.’ Signor Tedeschi moved in front of me, blocking the dress from my view. ‘It is you who is beautiful. I’m just framing that which God created.’
Giaconda and I exchanged a smile in the mirror above his head. I thought of my past life, my secrets, my lies, the abuse, the pain, the joy, the sorrow, the love, the anger. Abandoned by my own, hunted by others – I was barely my own creature, let alone God’s.
‘That which God created …’ I repeated and began to laugh.
A laugh, I realised as Giaconda joined me, that sounded exactly like hers.
LORD WATERFORD SHUDDERED as he read again the fancy gilt card that had been delivered while he was sitting in his sun-drenched portego overlooking the Circolo Canal. Written in his language, it was clumsy and misspelled, but clear in its intention. There was to be an official function to acknowledge, not simply his arrival in Serenissima, but celebrate the new treaty between the canal-city and Farrowfare. It was to take place in the Doge’s palazzo in two days’ time. He was guest of honour and, as such, would be escorted to the palazzo by no less than one of the current heads of the Council of Ten, Nobile Zanino Nicolotti.
He threw the invitation back upon the tray and rose, gesturing to a servant to refill his cup. Damn, but that cafe the Serenissians drank was addictive. Initially appalled to discover his store of tea was damaged en route, he had soon adapted to the drink of the locals. Bitter, it left a strange taste in the mouth that was easily offset with sugar. He found he not only liked it, but preferred it to his customary drink.
Taking his cup to one of the windows, he gazed out over the jade waters, the surface crazed by the glacial wind that came in from the north, brilliant under the cloudless azure sky. Snow had fallen overnight, covering the fondamenta and surrounding casas in white cloaks. He watched as gondoliers brushed the pristine powder from the top of the felzes, pulled back the heavy covers that protected the seats, periodically pausing to slap life back into their frozen hands as they worked. Gondolas glided past, nobiles and artists standing erect in the bottom, their faces fixed on their destination, refusing to be distracted by the journey. Below him, people scurried along the cobbles, their capes wrapped warmly around them, their caps snug upon their heads. Many had masks firmly fixed to their faces. Such a strange custom. He supposed he must find one to wear to the Doge’s welcome. What would his wife make of all this?
He lifted his eyes and stared beyond the pinnacles of the Doge’s basilica and the towering campanile in the piazza, towards the lagoon, imagining the wide expanse of ocean beyond. An ocean that led back to his homeland, to his wife, Annabel and son, Karlin – back to his queen. He wondered briefly how Annabel was faring. Trapped on their estate in the west, he knew she would be finding his absence difficult, especially since the queen had appointed an overseer to care for his affairs – someone keen to ingratiate himself with Zaralina. He remembered Sir William Oxford. A simpering lightweight who only ever acted in his own