with stars. Their reflections bob in the water of the lagoon. Carina is down there, locked in the depths.
There can be no doubt.
6
Somewhere, a clock strikes, tearing me from my reverie and reminding me that I have a job to do. I glance over my shoulder at the room, women leaning against men and strangers kissing. It’s time to leave. I worry about Emilia, but then I spot her with Lysander, his arm snaked around her waist.
I check that no one is paying me any attention and head down a narrow flight of ivy-clad stairs. Even at this hour, the stale warmth of a spent day drifts up to greet me from the city’s canals. I walk quickly through the streets, keeping to the shadows and darting from one tiny alley to another covered walkway. It’s surprisingly easy to move unseen. Others are abroad, but they turn their faces away from me, hiding their own secrets. I spot the yellow scarf of a prostitute beneath an awning, and at another window two men are talking urgently to each other. As I pass, they slam the shutters on me.
Finally, I arrive at a concealed pier. If the Segreta had not told me how to find this place, I’d never have known that boats docked here. The entrance is disguised by heavy leather curtains, stained with blood and grease. It looks like a butcher’s warehouse, a place to hang venison or pigs, and the slap of waves is concealed by the sound of singing that comes from a nearby bar. Someone has put a lot of thought and care into keeping this place hidden.
I slip between the leather curtains, carefully tucking my skirts around me, and walk down the pier. The skeleton of a boat sits across the canal, abandoned by the shipbuilders for the evening. There’s a sudden splash in the water, and when I turn I see that someone has pulled up beside the pier in a low boat. On the prow is the faded mark of the Segreta, a painted key. The woman stares up at me and we give each other a sharp nod. Not a word is said until I am in the boat, having climbed down the short flight of slippery steps. I sit on the bench opposite her, holding the side to steady myself against the sway of the current.
“You know where to go?” I whisper.
“I know.”
She adjusts the scarf across her face, and we begin to slice through the water. Her shoulders move strongly as she rows, and her feet are braced against the floor of the boat. I have no doubt that this woman can get me to my destination quicker than any paid gondolier.
I thought that I would resent leaving the ball, but I am glad to be out on the water, away from voices of the past. We cross the choppy lagoon in silence, cleaving into the darkness. After a short while, the glassworks of Murano stand in tall silhouettes across the island. Many of the rich men of Venice own studios here, or have shares in the factories. The island is another place of secrets—the artisans who work here are forbidden to share the details of their craft. The windows are frosted and no one can see out—or in. Perfect for our purpose tonight. So why do I glance over my shoulder, my nerves throbbing?
I climb up some steps and the woman slips her oars into the boat as it moves silently beneath the boardwalk. “I’ll be back,” I whisper.
Turning my back on the small pier, I step into the nearest glassworks. This one is owned by Julius, the husband of Grazia, but he has no idea of my assignation. As planned, someone has left the door unlocked for me. My feet crunch loudly on grit as I walk past the workbenches. A fine layer of glass dust covers everything in sight, and I dare not touch a thing, for fear of leaving clues. On a pedestal in the middle of the room is an unfinished urn. Half of a galloping horse is sketched into the side of the glass; the front legs are still to be completed. Beside it are a small copper drill, a bottle of linseed oil and another bottle of emery. The oil glints in the moonlight.
A sudden noise from a corner of the studio makes me scramble back behind a store cupboard, but then I hear the flap of wings and spot a pigeon resting