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,