was sketching a lagoon, his simple clothes threadbare. He introduced himself as Giacomo. Little did I know his real name was Roberto. Back then, he was a prince in hiding. How far we’ve both come—I a member of the Segreta, and Roberto … I cannot bear to think. So recently come out of hiding, and now accused of murder. It can’t be true. It simply can’t!
The palace rears up above me with its mosaic tiles, pale statues and balconied terrace. The stone form of a woman holding a sword aloft stands at the top of the palace, and I pray for even half of her strength before ducking inside.
The covered courtyard is surrounded by more balconies. Immediately a middle-aged man in fine clothes steps up to greet me. I recognize him from my visits here with Roberto, but his face is closed, betraying no emotion.
“Can I help you?” he asks. It’s as if we were strangers.
“You know me,” I say, trying to stay calm. If I show too much emotion, I will surely be refused an audience. “I am betrothed to the Doge’s son Roberto.” When I say his name the man winces. I straighten my shoulders and cannot help the hard edge that enters my voice. “I would like to see the Doge.”
The man backs away from me, bowing ingratiatingly. “I will speak to my superiors,” he says. “Please wait here.” As he leaves, other men file past, casting me glances. They are dressed in the cloaks and hose of the upper classes—they must be the Doge’s senior advisers, members of the Grand Council. Perhaps they’re meeting to discuss how best to clear Roberto’s name. Perhaps I need not panic after all.
Then the Doge walks down the marbled staircase. His is a face I recognize all too well, first encountered in the infirmary of the convent. It was I who poured the peony root into his raging throat; it was I who pressed my weight against him to stop the rabid thrashing of his limbs. He doesn’t remember me from his time of ailment—and why should he want to? If rival powers in Europe, or even Venice, knew that this man was weak, our city would lose its leader and be thrown into chaos.
But now I need the most powerful man in Venice to help me. As he walks towards me I fall to my knees and hold out my hands, ready to kiss the ring on his finger. But with a swirl of long robes, he strides past me through a doorway, where the other men wait. The door swings shut, and with a dull thud I am left alone in the echoing hall.
The servant reappears. “The Duchess Besina will see you,” he says coldly as he waits for me to get back to my feet. Roberto’s mother! This may be better—one woman appealing to another.
“Show me to her,” I say. The man sucks in his cheeks and turns on his heel, trotting up the grand staircase. I scoop up my skirts and follow, moving beneath paintings while gilded stucco detail illuminates the ceiling above my head.
Finally, we arrive at the doorway to the Doge’s private quarters.
“In there,” the man says, waving a dismissive hand. Then he’s gone. I gather my courage and step inside.
The Doge’s wife waits for me on a rosewood bench covered in buttoned brocade. She wears a red robe with fine lace around her collar and a cloak embroidered with flowers. Two large pearls set in gold decorate her ears. We’ve met a few times since I became Roberto’s fiancée, but only at formal occasions. Her eyes have always danced with curiosity and happiness, but we have never had the chance to confide in each other before now.
I move swiftly across the room. She takes my hands, and her fingers tremble. When I look into her face, it’s clear that she shares my pain. The rims of her eyes are red.
“You have heard, then?” I whisper.
The Duchess grimaces. “The head guard brought us the news,” she says. “My son is incarcerated and the citizenry call him a murderer. How dare they betray us so?” She turns her face away, and for the first time, she looks old to me.
I sit beside her on the couch. “I need to see Roberto,” I say.
“You know where he is?” the Duchess asks.
I shake my head. I do not dare tell her that I watched him being dragged away.
“In the Piombi,” she says, her voice breaking on the