creases in his face vanished, the pouches beneath his eyes reduced and the gold teeth became creamy and whole. I suppose he wasn’t unattractive. Not handsome, but there was something. It was his eyes that I liked best. Grey, bright and sharp. I wondered what sort of woman she’d been.
As if sensing my thoughts, he moved out of my reach. ‘No, you’re not going to do that!’ He shook a finger at me.
I frowned and sat up straight. I wouldn’t have dared put my hands upon him and was astonished he thought I would. ‘Why are you telling me this?’ I asked, to cover my confusion.
‘Well, Zonia, that was her name, Zonia Cucitta, she would use belladonna – not the way I was accustomed to employing it, of course, but as part of her toilette.’
My mouth dropped open. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Sì. Many women did. They would pound down the flower, the root – all parts – and turn it into a liquid then, they do the most strange thing of all. They would place drops of it in their eyes.’
‘Why?’
‘In order to enlarge the pupil – to make their eyes brighter and more shiny.’ He put the plant back down carefully. ‘It got me thinking –’
‘That perhaps I could use it in the same way.’
‘Esatto,’ he said, pleased. ‘What do you think?’
By way of an answer, I reached for the belladonna again. Its swollen buds resembled the sky before a storm. Locked within them was something equally dangerous and wonderful. I would know what that was.
Baroque remained still.
I pressed the flower of the belladonna between my fingers. Viscous ooze escaped and stuck to my fingertips. My pulse quickened. Baroque was right. There was something there. A property that, if used in just the right way …
Abandoning my earlier caution, I tore the plant apart, dropping it into the enormous wooden mortar ready for grinding. I’d cleaned the vessel thoroughly yesterday, but even so, I could detect traces of feverfew and beyond that, the original ash tree from which the mortar had been carved.
I pounded furiously for a few seconds before being overtaken by the sensations running up and down my arm, the icy tingle along my spine. I was repulsed by what I sensed – a desperate longing within the plant itself to be released, to sigh into an unsuspecting system and weave its spell. I took a deep breath, exhaled, and kept grinding.
After five minutes, I became aware of two things: firstly, that my shoulder was aching with almost unbearable intensity and secondly, that Baroque was standing beside me, peering into the smooth velvet potion I had created.
‘What do you feel?’
I put down the pestle carefully and cupped my hands around the bowl of the mortar and shut my eyes. This time I didn’t hesitate, but dived into the sensations emanating from the vessel.
Waves of relaxation swept over me, making the tension fall from my body. The tightness in my shoulder eased. I searched further, allowing the essence of what I’d mixed to mingle with my system. My skin began to grow cold and my eyes to burn. I screwed them shut as tears fought to escape. I wanted to focus on the contents of the bowl. Broken images of women, laughter and huge, glistening pupils spun behind my eyes.
‘Stop!’ cried Baroque and snatched the mortar out of my hands, dumping it on the bench with a thud. Some of the liquid splashed onto the surface. Baroque jumped out of the way.
‘What? What is it? I asked, my eyes flying open and the tears I’d been withholding pouring down my cheeks. I couldn’t see properly. ‘Oh, my eyes are stinging!’ The candlelight, the dimness and Baroque’s face were all blended. I went to wipe the back of sleeve across my face and then remembered my handkerchief. I dabbed at my cheeks and eyes.
‘You’ve gone deathly white.’ He examined me intently. ‘By God!’ he exclaimed. ‘Tallow!’ He sometimes used my old name when he was excited. ‘Your eyes.’
‘What do you –?’ I began, but he dragged me out into the courtyard and over to where the light was the strongest. His earlier tenderness with me forgotten, he took my chin in his hand, forcing me to look up into the light.
‘What? What is it?’ I was scared, blinking rapidly to alleviate the burning, wanting to screw up my eyes, shut them against the sunlight, but I wanted to know what was wrong more.
Baroque let go of my face and began