into his mouth. Opposite him sits the bald man I spotted at the harbor. His mouth is twisted in disapproval as he watches the other man eat. I offer him the last morsel in my bowl, but he shrinks away from me, his lip curling in disgust.
“I-I’m sorry,” I stutter. “Have I done something to offend you?”
There it is again: the warm press of a hand on the base of my spine. I straighten up quickly. Prince Halim. He’s crept beside me as quietly as a cat.
“Forgive him,” he says, smiling down at the bald man, who’s now turned round in his seat to show me his back. “Faruk is fasting—a personal observance of his religion. Some say that he is stricter than Mohammed himself!” Halim laughs gently at his own joke, but Faruk only hunches his shoulders like a vulture. He mutters something in his language, which I don’t understand, and stiffly hobbles out of the room.
I gesture to my bowl. “I must go and find more refreshments,” I say.
“Let me escort you,” Prince Halim answers. I can hardly protest, and he walks with me towards the open doors of the dining hall. As we move across the room, I feel the eyes of the men watching us—curious, envious even. I am acutely aware of my bare arms and throat, my red-painted toes and the light fabric that clings to my body. It seems to take an age to arrive at the doorway.
“I know my way from here,” I say hastily.
“Of course you do,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say, backing out of the room. For some reason, my heart is racing, and I’m sure my face must be scarlet. I turn and almost break into a run. I hardly see where I’m going, and waves roar inside my head.
When I arrive in the kitchens, a huge fire is lit beneath a steaming urn. Gleaming copper jelly molds decorate the walls, and a row of pheasants hangs from the ceiling. A leg of lamb sits on a marble stand, a silver carving fork resting beside it. At a huge wooden table, two members of the house staff with gleaming faces pour ruby liquid into glass cups. The scent of cloves sits heavy in the air.
“Are you here for the refreshments?” a woman asks, smoothing down her apron. She looks to be in charge here. Then her eyes widen and she drops into a low curtsy. Looking over my shoulder, I see the Duchess is standing behind me.
“Laura!” she cries as I set my bowl down on the kitchen table. “I’ve been waiting for you!”
The kitchen servant begins tipping butter biscuits into my bowl as the Duchess draws me aside. We step into the cool of the pantry, where bowls of dates and dried apricots rest under squares of muslin. She grips my hands so tightly they hurt. “My pleas worked! Roberto is to be allowed out of the Piombi tomorrow.”
Her eyes widen as she watches the joy flood my face. In an instant, tears are spilling over to stain my cheeks.
“He’ll be free again? Can I come to see him?”
“Soon,” she tells me gently. Her own smile fades. “He must have time. A bath, a meal, a clean change of clothes—and then he’ll be himself. Can you bear to wait? I know how you love him, but I’m his mother. I want to ensure that he has not suffered too greatly.”
I bring the Duchess’s hands up to my face and kiss them. “I understand,” I whisper. “I’m just so thankful.”
I step out into the kitchen, pick up my bowl and make my way back to the banqueting room. I cannot stop smiling, and there is no need to fake pleasure now. No glance that lingers too long can ruin my happiness. Roberto is waiting for me. I shall hold him again soon.
14
I stand outside the dining room, framed by the doorway. A cloud of warm air, heaving with the scent of wine, billows towards me. Things have evidently moved on in my absence. The men no longer politely take a couch each; now they encourage girls to sit beside them or they talk in groups, laughing raucously. I wonder how the Doge and his Council can have such scant regard for their daughters—they must truly want to impress their guests. But then, I suppose this is all part of the game of diplomacy. Cheeks are flushed red and eyes are alight with pleasure. One of the men standing near me