an ice sculpture of a Roman goddess—Aphrodite, I think—stands in the center of the room, the ice melting into a silver basin in which float candles. Bottles of lemon liqueur sit cooling in the melted water.
“Have you ever seen anything like it?” a girl whispers to me. She has not yet noticed that a man to the side of us is greedily feasting upon her with his eyes. He clears his throat loudly, and she jumps, then hurries to fill the goblet that he holds out to her. As she bends over the glass, his eyes follow her chest.
Agnesina watches me sternly. I am the only girl not to have hastened to someone’s side. I lower my eyes and readjust the heavy bowl against my hip. But I misjudge the balance and the bowl begins to slip from my hands, threatening to shower sugared petals over the sumptuous rugs. I almost cry out, but then I feel the grasp of fingers around my arm and a tanned hand reaches beneath the bowl to catch it. When I gather myself, I find that I’m looking into the eyes of none other than Prince Halim.
“Here. Let me take that,” he says. His eyes are quite remarkable—deep pools, almost black in this light. Looking into them is like staring into a well at night. Before I can protest, the bowl has been placed on a low table, and men reach for the pastries. Prince Halim and I watch for a moment; then I feel his hand against the back of my waist and realize that he is steering me towards one of the open windows, where a long muslin curtain billows in the breeze, providing a moment’s seclusion and a rare glimpse of the Doge’s private gardens below. As we move towards the window, I notice Agnesina nod in approval.
“Quite beautiful, no?” Prince Halim asks. Dutifully, I glance out of the window, but when I look back at him I see that he isn’t looking at the gardens at all. He’s staring straight at me. There’s nothing aggressive or predatory in his glance. It unnerves me because it is quite the opposite—calm, patient, enigmatic. What is he thinking? His appreciation for my looks is brazen, but too honest for me to feel insulted by it.
“Thank you for your help, Your Highness,” I tell him. “I nearly humiliated myself.”
Prince Halim smiles indulgently. “Half the men in this room fell in love when you stumbled. And please, simply call me Halim.”
I start to back away, shaking my head, but the prince clearly realizes his compliment has been too extravagant, and he holds up a hand. “Forgive me,” he says, bowing his head. “I’ve embarrassed you. I’m a poor student of your language, and my words are ill chosen.” When he looks back up at me, the sun has moved from behind a cloud, and as light pours through the window, I watch the changing colors in his eyes. They move from black to deep chestnut to a burnished mahogany, all in an instant.
“You, girl!” calls one of the guests—a fat man with a wine stain down the front of his costume. “Those pastries won’t move around the room on their own!” The other men laugh. Halim is hidden from view by the billowing curtain, and they don’t realize that they’re interrupting a conversation. Still, he nods his head as though to give me permission to leave his side and steps out from the window. The fat man gasps his apologies, but Halim waves his words away with an idle hand and goes to sit cross-legged on a rug. A glance of uncertainty passes through the other serving girls.
I pick up my bowl and make a circuit of the room. I’m careful not to make eye contact with any of the men and to step carefully between them. Father is watching me, his arms emerging like pale sticks of driftwood from the shoulders of his ridiculous toga. The Doge is draped over a couch at the far end of the room, dressed in a purple toga when everyone else wears white, to signify his power, I’m sure. He smiles and chats easily to those who surround him. No one would know his son languishes in a cell. He is the ultimate politician.
I’m about to leave for the kitchens to replenish my bowl, when a hand grabs at one of the two remaining pastries. Buttery crumbs fall to the floor as a Venetian nobleman stuffs the delicacy