I crumple the paper back up in my hand and paint a smile on my face, ignoring the stab of disappointment. Paulina knows better than most how much this wedding means to me, how much I suffered to get to this place. My mother and sister are both dead and cannot be with me today. I was looking forward to my childhood friend helping me choose the most important dress of my life. Not even a proper explanation! I push my uncharitable thoughts away. She must have a good reason.
Faustina is watching my face carefully, and the maid is drumming her nails against her folded arms.
“Please, show us the way,” I say to the servant.
We follow her up the gloomy marble staircase to the grand floor where the dressmaker accepts visitors. Faustina made an appointment for us a few weeks ago.
A white-haired woman sits on a low couch, a string of coral at her throat. She wears a simple cotton dress with a pattern of flowers woven into the fabric and hems the square of gold silk on her lap, a silver thimble on the middle finger of her right hand. Seeing her work reminds me of the many hours I toiled at making lace during my time in the convent, before I was summoned home upon Beatrice’s death. A moment’s pain passes behind my eyes, but as the woman looks up at me and smiles, it falls away again.
“Welcome,” she says, getting to her feet. Faustina goes to greet her, and waves a hand towards me. “Do you see what I mean? Beautiful, yes?”
“Yes, quite charming.” The dressmaker does not have to introduce herself. Her name is famous in the streets of Venice: Gabriella da Mosto. She made the wedding dresses for Roberto’s mother and, years later, for Paulina, when she married Roberto’s brother, Nicolo.
The woman turns her attention to me. She holds out her hand, and the young girl who answered the door runs to place a wooden bobbin in her palm. Around it is a thin roll of waxed canvas, marks etched along its side.
“Come here, my dear,” Gabriella instructs. I feel clumsy and awkward before her. Lightly, she takes my hands and lifts them away from my sides. “Stay like this,” she orders. Then she brings the tape around my waist and holds it before the front of my bodice, frowning in concentration as she murmurs numbers to the girl, who scribbles them down in a ledger. I stay where I am as Gabriella moves from shoulder to neck to waist. Finally, she steps away and casts an assessing glance down the length of me. “Doria!” She snaps her fingers without looking round. “The deep rose pink.”
Faustina and I share a glance, and my servant smiles encouragingly. She lowers herself slowly onto the couch, and a male servant brings two steaming glasses of mint tea and a plate of marinated shrimps, setting them on the table before her. Faustina pops a curl of tender flesh into her mouth as the girl returns, a heavy bundle of fabric balanced between her outstretched arms. Reverently, she places her load onto a varnished oak table, and Gabriella comes to stand beside her.
The dressmaker takes hold of a bolt of the pink silk and unfolds it. I can’t help but draw near. This is the fabric that I am to be married in. As she works the silk loose, Gabriella talks.
“A low bodice, I think,” she says, “and tight sleeves in the Spanish mode. A cap of green netting and perhaps even a sable pelt. Gathering at the waist. Of course, silk thread for hand picking the seams.” She allows the thick fabric to fall back to the table in a waterfall of color.
“I’d like a secret pocket in the lining of the skirt,” I tell her.
Faustina coughs uncomfortably, and Gabriella cocks her head to one side. Perhaps she isn’t used to such requests.
“A secret pocket,” I repeat. “I must insist.” This woman will make me a beautiful dress, of that I am sure. But I want a hand in it. This is the dress that will take me into my future.
A smile spreads across the dressmaker’s face. “With our seams, you could hide a dagger and the hang of the skirts would give nothing away.”
From the couch, Faustina sighs with relief.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Betrothed to the Doge’s first son,” Gabriella continues. “This will be the marriage of the year.”