whisper.
Roberto shakes his head over and over. He never stops shaking his head. His face is pale, and his hands tremble.
“I don’t know,” he whimpers. He takes a step towards me, and I find myself moving away. “I didn’t do anything!” he cries.
A whistle pierces the air, cutting off his words; then someone shouts, “It’s this one!” The sound of heavy-booted feet comes from the street outside. Roberto and I stare into each other’s faces, unable to move or speak. One thought flashes through my head: it was all too good to be true. My happiness is over.
Roberto runs over to me, grips my arms so hard that it hurts. “Go, quickly! If you’re found here …” He throws an anguished glance at the body on the floor. He need say no more. He hustles me over to a window at the back of the room. It is barely wider than my skirts, but I find myself climbing onto a chair and forcing my body through the tiny opening.
There’s an angry shout from the stairs, and I let go, dropping to the street a few feet below. A low bush of bougainvillea breaks my fall, and I roll off it, cowering on the cobbles beneath the window. The last thing I see is Roberto’s terrified face at the window.
“Murderer!” cries a voice, thick with disgust. Then Roberto’s eyes widen as an arm comes around his throat and drags him away. I rock my body, shoving a fist into my mouth, forcing myself not to cry out. Squatting on the ground, among the scented petals, I stare at the moon high in the sky above Venice. My whole body shakes as I listen to the sounds of angry voices, until a door is slammed, and everything turns to quiet once more. In the far distance, a lute is being played by a lone musician in the night. But I don’t follow the tune. Instead, I listen to the sound of my own heart breaking.
8
I don’t take a coach home. I couldn’t face a driver—any person at all—the way I feel. I run across the Rialto Bridge, towards the wealthiest part of Venice. I barely notice the wide arches of the bridge or the market stalls, the banking houses or clock towers. I have only one thing in mind.
As I race up the marble steps of Allegreza’s home, the great oak doors stand firmly shut. I throw myself on them, banging my fists against the varnished wood and crying out. I don’t care who hears.
“Help—let me in!”
Will she hear my voice, from one of the many arched windows that gaze down over the canal? I grasp the door knocker, shaped like a writhing sea serpent, and bring the brass down again and again. But the noise seems muffled by the dawn air, and with a gasp of exhaustion I crumple to the ground, my skirts rising up around me like soft clouds. I hide my face in my hands and weep, kneeling on the steps of the grandest house in the district.
“Get up, child!”
I peer between my fingers at the timeworn face of an old woman wearing a huge white apron. She stands in the crack of the door, resting a hand on the bolt, ready to slam it shut again at any moment.
“Please,” I beg, scrambling to my feet. “Please let me in. Allegreza, she knows me. I need to see her!”
The woman’s whiskered face hardens. “Venice will sink into the sea before I let you in here at this hour.” She drags a hand across tired, puffy eyes. “You’ve woken half the household. How dare you show such—”
“That will be all,” says a voice.
The servant woman’s eyes widen in recognition, and I feel a small flicker of hope as she turns. Now I can see into the hallway. There stands Allegreza.
“Come in,” she says, throwing a glance to the servant who stands cowed, her gaze firmly on the tiled floor. “You may leave. Tell Effie to bring our guest a warming drink. We’ll be in the parlor.”
“But the fires aren’t lit yet—” begins the old woman. Allegreza silences her with a raised hand. “Of course, my lady,” the servant murmurs. “Right away.”
I step inside, and we wait for her to leave. I feel suddenly aware of my appearance—the dress stained from hiding in the street, locks of hair torn free from their pins, my eyes that surely must be red from crying. I try to smooth my skirt, but Allegreza