canals. “I needed some fresh air,” I say. “The streets are always interesting at this time.”
“I bet they are,” Lysander says, “but I’m not sure they’re the right place for an unaccompanied young lady.”
“Shush,” I tell him. “You never used to care when we played hide-and-seek in the mariners’ quarter as children.”
He grins, a little sadly, and I know he too is remembering Beatrice. She used to act the damsel in distress and Lysander and I the brave soldiers come to rescue her.
“Listen,” says my brother, interrupting my thoughts. “Roberto had to leave.” His brow creases in a frown. “He seemed a little … worse for wear?”
“You mean drunk?”
“Your words, Laura. Not mine.”
I laugh. “Well, it’s not like Roberto to go finding himself at the bottom of a glass. But with all of the wine on offer here tonight, I’m not surprised that people are woozy.”
“He was woozy, all right,” Lysander comments. He glances down at Emilia and kisses the top of her head. “Come, my darling. It is time to get you home.”
Emilia lets out a low murmur and smiles at some hidden detail of her dream.
“Come on.” Lysander slips an arm around her waist, another beneath her thighs and in a single movement lifts her. I watch as the gray silk of her gown’s hem whispers against the stone tiles.
“Are you coming with us?” Lysander asks.
“Perhaps I’ll surprise someone instead.”
My brother shakes his head in mock disapproval. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell Father—or Faustina.” He shifts Emilia’s sleeping body in his arms. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
I wave him off as he carries his wife down the steps towards a coach. But as I watch him leave, I can’t ignore the pricks of worry at the back of my neck. I’ve never seen Roberto drunk in all the months we’ve known each other.
It’s not hard to find a coach to take me to Roberto’s. They line up outside the palace, waiting to transport tired guests to their beds. I whisper the destination—a simple pension in the artisan quarter that Roberto keeps in secret, even though he could live in the luxury of his father’s palace. When we pull up outside, I slip out of the coach, its suspension creaking, and hand over a few coins to the driver.
“Would you like me to wait?” he asks. “I can be very discreet.”
I draw my cloak more tightly around my body. “No, thank you. That will be all,” I say coldly, although I can hardly blame him. Trysts between unmarried couples probably account for half his fares at this time of night. Faustina would have a heart attack if she knew where I was.
I turn to the wooden door that leads to Roberto’s rooms and straightaway I hear the sound of violent curses carrying down the stairs. The door, I see, is open a fraction. I step inside.
“Roberto?” I call up.
“Who’s there?” demands my betrothed. His tone of voice is startled and hostile.
“It’s me,” I answer stiffly.
“Don’t come in!” Roberto shouts down.
Something uncontrollable takes over. I run up the stairs.
“I will not be left to stand in the street,” I say, my voice full of anger. Roberto rushes to position himself at the top of the stairs, his feet braced, but I dart past him and stumble into near darkness.
An image flashes before my eyes: a woman’s body. I glance at Roberto, and his face is creased with anguish.
I look once more at the body on the floor. Her skin carries the faint blue stain of death. It is a color I know far too well—I saw it first on my sister Beatrice’s face as she lay in her coffin. But this woman doesn’t lie with her hands folded on her chest, her body cushioned by satin. Her dark limbs are flung out at awkward angles. Her face presses into the wooden floorboards. A trail of blood trickles from a corner of her mouth, and a larger wound blossoms across her corset. Her eyes look up at me, wide and accusing.
A scream worms up my throat, and I clamp my hands over my mouth as I look from the woman to Roberto.
In the gloom I see that he clutches a sword. It hangs from his fist, dripping blood onto the floor. He looks like a butcher. His shirt is torn open, and poppies of blood stain the white cotton. Red is splattered across his hose.
I find the strength to speak, backing towards the door again. “What have you done?” I