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.