wanders over to the open window, gazing across the canal.
“Then the Segreta has a traitor,” she says, her back to me. “If the dead woman you saw is who I think it is, there will be severe consequences. She was part of …” Her eyes flick er over to me; then she sets her lips as though coming to a decision. “She was part of a contingency to spread our movement beyond the limits of this city. We were so close to establishing another chapter.”
I bite my lip. “More of us? Abroad?”
Allegreza turns to face me. “Yes. Don’t you see—someone is determined to foil our plans. Do you think it’s a coincidence that no woman met you on Murano, and now there’s a dead woman on Roberto’s floor? A woman who was in our confidences?”
“Who was she?”
A bell rings from somewhere deep among the bowels of the house.
“That I will not say,” says Allegreza, walking towards the door. “I must be sure first.”
I understand that my interview with her is over.
“We must convene the Segreta at the earliest convenience.” She is talking to herself now, planning. She opens the door, and as I step through, I realize that I have one last chance to appeal.
“Will you help me with Roberto?” I stare at the ground. “I would be forever in your debt.”
“All in good time.” Her voice is suddenly soft. “Wheels turn at their own rate. Be patient.”
These few words must be enough for now. I dare not show any ingratitude.
“Go home and get some sleep.” She takes up a shawl that was lying on the arm of the couch and throws it over my shoulders to cover my soiled dress. “There is much you will need to be strong for.”
The door to the drawing room closes behind me. The old woman is waiting to see me out, smiling victoriously now that my time in the house is at an end.
When I emerge onto the streets of Venice, men are setting up their stalls. Another day has begun.
9
I wander through the streets, barely hearing the conversation that passes among the stallholders. A woman selling lace sets out her skeins of ivories and creams, while a man carrying a wicker basket of fresh sardines teases her.
“That would make a nice hem for a wedding dress,” he comments, pointing at a roll of lace. He gives her a fat wink. The woman throws me a smile, rolling her eyes, but I duck my head and hurry past. It galls me that they should talk of weddings, when the prospect of mine has vanished in an instant.
Arriving home, I hear the sound of raucous singing mixed in with the dawn chorus of the birds. Are people still up? I feel a jolt of alarm, but then realize that Father won’t question where I’ve been. He’ll be too drunk.
I find them in the dining room. Father has dragged Lysander in here to carry on where the ball left off. The two of them crouch around a bottle of port and two small glasses on a silver tray. Father’s singing an old naval song, as though remembering the ribald youth at sea that he never actually experienced. He throws his head back, his arms spread wide as he uses language that a daughter should never hear.
I stand in the doorway and wait. On the last verse, he notices me. “The lady of the household joins us,” he says. “Where the devil have you been?”
“Laura!” Lysander cries out. “Leave her be, Father. She’s young and in love.” He smiles knowingly, though what he imagines the past few hours have brought my way could not be further from the truth. He waves me into the room.
It’s clear my brother has been drinking too. Well, at least he and Father are no longer quarreling.
“Where’s Emilia?” I ask as I settle into a chair opposite them.
“Gone to sea!” Father shouts, then laughs uproariously at his own joke. Lysander and I share a glance.
“Which is more than we can say for you,” I reply. I mustn’t let either of them know what I have seen tonight. I must smile and pretend.
Father’s laughter dries up. “I beg your pardon? I am a member of the Grand Council. I’ll ask you not to forget that.”
“Yes, but you’ve never climbed a rope in your life,” Lysander teases, miming a sailor’s shimmying hands behind Father’s back. “You get seasick in a gondola.”
Father looks over his shoulder, and Lysander quickly drops his hands, painting an