cogs turning, and I am powerless to stop them. I could refuse, I suppose, but sometimes it’s easier to swim with the current than fight against it. Roberto is released tomorrow, and I shall see him soon after. Nothing can ruin that.
And besides, one question burns in my head as Halim flicks a glance towards me, raising his glass.
Why has he chosen me?
15
At breakfast the next morning, I can barely eat. Not only because of my excitement at Roberto’s release, but because Faustina is making so much fuss that it’s impossible to even pour coffee without her bustling over to take the silver pot from my hands. Scalding liquid splatters on the linen tablecloth, and I sink back in my seat, defeated.
“Oh, now look!” Faustina cries, as though this was anyone’s fault other than her own. She wags a finger in my face. “You’ll have to be less clumsy when you show the prince around Venice. Not that I approve in the first place. Really, can’t you find an excuse to get out of it? He’s so”—she waves a hand before her own chin—“hairy!”
Emilia bursts out laughing across the table. She’s getting used to our servant’s ways. “Oh, Faustina, only you could say something like that. He’s a prince! He asked for Laura especially! You should be glowing with pride.” She gives Faustina a sly look. “Think how jealous the other servants in the city will be.”
Faustina’s shoulders straighten. “Maybe you’re right. But you, young woman!” She’s staring hard at me again. “I said a prayer for your honor and chastity last night. I just hope my prayers are heard.” She waddles out of the room.
“She seems to have forgotten I’m engaged,” I say.
“She means no harm,” Emilia says. “She clearly loves you very much.”
“And I love her,” I tell my new sister.
A short while later, I’m making my way to the front door. Father emerges from his study, clutching a book. He follows me out onto the steps and pats me on the head like a small dog. My spirits are so high today, it doesn’t even annoy me.
“Really, I think he’s been most impudent, demanding your time like this,” he grumbles. He’s maintaining the illusion of the grudging father with some aplomb, I must say.
“There’s nothing worse than impudence from someone so very highborn,” I reply. As suspected, the reminder of Halim’s royal blood makes my father puff out his chest. He kisses me lightly on the cheek.
“Try to be charming,” he tells me, before disappearing into the gloom of the interior. I climb inside the coach and rap my knuckles on the roof.
“To the port!” I call.
I’m so full of thoughts about how to compose myself that the journey passes quickly. Halim is already waiting for me when I arrive. He wears Venetian fashions today: a tight-fitting doublet in black, with black boots and a black leather belt. Despite the dozen or so Ottoman guards posted around him, he is the one to step forward and help me down as I climb out of the carriage. His fingers press lightly around mine.
“A beautiful sight,” he murmurs, and my glance flickers up to his face. Then he spreads his arm out to take in the city. “Don’t you agree?”
“The most beautiful city in the world,” I tell him. “I only hope to do it justice.”
He bows his head in acknowledgment. “With you as my guide, I know I will learn to love this place even more. Shall we?”
He leads me towards a waiting gondola. I see my face in the varnished wood and I am smiling. It’s partly his outfit—there’s something funny about a prince dressing down—but I realize too how light my heart feels.
Halim steps into the vessel and holds out his hand to help me down. I give him my arm and scoop my skirts up in my hands, but as I step into the gondola the heel of my shoe catches and I stumble into him, knocking us both onto the velvet cushioned seat at the rear. My chest bumps against his and our faces are suddenly so close that I can feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek. I push my hands against his body to lever myself up.
“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what—”
“Please don’t apologize,” he tells me. I smooth down my skirts and settle on the rear bench of the vessel. The guards have climbed into their own crafts. Our gondolier gazes over our heads, pretending not to notice