with my darling?”
Prince Halim’s dangerous reputation isn’t what bothers me. My mind turns over as I realize that my father’s orders will force me to miss my meeting with the Segreta. They won’t be happy.
I draw the boy to me and lead him to my father’s library, out of the earshot of Faustina and Emilia.
“Can you take a message to Grazia de Ferrara for me?” I ask, scribbling a note, then sealing it with melted wax.
The boy’s eyes widen. “I can, but that will cost you my top rate.”
“Top rate!” I repeat, shaking my head. I take some coins out of my pocket and drop them into his hand. I give him the note too.
The boy runs down the steps away from me. He calls a final message over his shoulder: “The banquet has a Roman theme!” A few seconds later, he has disappeared from sight, leaving clouds of dust behind his departing heels.
I turn quickly and run up the stairs, pausing halfway to call into the hall, “Faustina, come and help me. I’d better find something to wear!”
13
I stand in the entrance of the Doge’s palace, surrounded by laughing young women. We are all dressed as maidservants at a Roman banquet, despite the fact that most of us come from Venice’s most well-to-do families. Faustina has done a fine job with my outfit. A sheet from the linen cupboard, as white as swan feathers, has been pleated along its length and clasped at one shoulder, leaving my arms bare. There’s something unpleasant about this masquerade. Are there political points to be scored in reducing Venice’s gentlewomen to these games? Does the Grand Council want to fool the Ottomans into thinking that everyone in Venice is silly and shallow?
Looking around, I see that the other women are all enjoying the charade, carrying baskets of fruit or jugs of wine. For myself, I know all too well what it is to be truly servile, bound as I once was to the Abbess of our convent, scrubbing her floors and embroidering altar decorations until my fingers bled. There’s nothing glamorous about running to the shouted orders of others. Still, I must paint a smile on my face and pretend that I too am having a pleasant time.
I put a hand to my head to make sure that the rosebuds are still firmly nestled among my curled hair—Emilia brought the flowers up from the garden as Faustina readied me. The only adornment to my simple costume.
Paulina joins the gaggle of girls and catches my eye. She takes in my outfit and the heavy bowl I am carrying, filled with pastries that are covered in crystallized rose petals.
“You make a good servant,” she says. I can’t judge whether she’s gently teasing or if there’s something more cruel in her tone of voice.
“That’s what the Abbess used to tell me,” I say. Paulina’s smile fades.
“I’m sorry to hear about Roberto,” she says. This time there’s no cruelty at all.
“Come, come, ladies!” calls a slightly older woman who’s in charge of us girls. I recognize her as Agnesina, the wife of one of the Grand Councilors, but not, as far as I know, a member of the Segreta. “Don’t forget to circulate and ensure that all of the men have something to eat. If you spot anyone without a partner, it is your duty to go over and entertain.”
She snaps her fingers and turns sharply to face the door leading towards the dining hall. Then she walks down the marble hallway. Sharing secret glances and enjoying a final whisper, the other girls trail after her. I am the last to move, bringing up the rear.
When we step inside the dining hall, even I feel a shiver of excitement. I’ve never seen this part of the palace before. The painted ceiling towers over us, and the room is cool, despite Venice’s heat beyond the windows. Oil paintings in gilded frames decorate the walls, and thick rugs of woven silk are scattered across the floor.
But an extra effort has been made for the Roman theme. Lounging couches fill the room. There is a man in an approximation of a Roman toga reclining on each, their bodies draped against the cushions. They lean over the armrests to fill each other’s goblets. Heavy bunches of grapes hang from the chandeliers, and buntings made of fresh flowers weave between the paintings on the wall. In a corner, a servant boy sits plucking at a tiny harp, and, most exceptional of all,