Heart of Glass - By Sasha Gould Page 0,39

Doge. A starling sings outside the window, breaking the silence.

“What now?” I ask.

“Now we arrest Prince Halim!” a voice calls from the doorway. We turn, and I see Julius standing there—Carina’s father and Grazia’s estranged husband. How it must cut his pride, to see the Doge’s son laid out, blood pouring from a sword wound.

But the Doge shakes his head. “We cannot.”

“He killed your son.”

“Ambassadors are protected by Venetian law,” Roberto says, bending to smooth Nicolo’s tunic. “Diplomacy must rule, even now.” He looks up at his father, and the Doge nods in agreement.

“But surely, in circumstances such as these …” Julius begins to protest. “Laura, tell them!” He must be desperate, if he is appealing to me.

I can barely look at Nicolo’s body—I’ve already seen too many corpses in my short life. “We must do as the Doge wishes,” I say quietly.

Servants have started to file back into the room. The Doge speaks without looking at them. “Take my son from this place,” he commands. “He must be laid out.”

The servants crowd closer, uncertain how best to proceed. It takes Roberto to organize them.

“You, at the head. You, come here and take the weight of his torso. One man at each leg and arm.” On Roberto’s count, they lift Nicolo. He sags heavily—all that light youth turned to meat. His skin is already fading to white, and as he is raised up, we see the sticky blood pooled on the marble beneath him. It’s too much to bear.

The Doge stands beside me, his face unreadable. Roberto’s eyes watch vacantly as the servants turn out of the doorway, and the body is gone. We stand at the three corners of an invisible triangle. Then the inevitable comes. A screech of agony as the Duchess’s voice rings out.

This morning, she celebrated the partial liberation of her eldest son. Now, she mourns the death of her youngest. My own eyes are dry as her cries fill the palace. My fingernails dig into the palms of my hands to stop the tears, and my mind turns to someone else.

Where is poor Paulina?

After a long while, I make my way back home. I’ve done my best to comfort the Duchess, but my words seemed empty even to me, and I left her maid giving her a sleeping draught as she lay on tear-soaked pillows. I am exhausted in body and spirit.

Faustina enters the room with none of her customary bustle. Bianca follows, clutching a pile of laundry.

“They’ve called a curfew from sundown,” Faustina whispers. “All across the city.” She sits beside me on the window seat and we look out over Venice. She places a hot hand over mine and muffles a sob. “To think it has come to this! Nicolo dead at the hand of an evil foreigner. I knew we should never have welcomed them into the city.” She shakes her head bitterly.

“Prince Halim is not to blame,” I say. Bianca is folding clothes over by the bed, and pauses in her work.

“That’s not what they’re saying on the streets,” she tells me. “A rug stall was burned to the ground this afternoon—the owner wasn’t even Turkish! I’m glad we have to stay housebound. It’s dangerous out there.” She brings a lace shawl and Faustina takes it from her to wrap around my shoulders.

“Why do you defend the prince?” Faustina asks. “He tried to kill Roberto and then slaughtered Nicolo. How does he deserve your pardon?”

“I was there,” I say. “I saw the grief in his face. He wasn’t thinking.…” I draw the shawl tighter around me. “You could say that this is all my fault. If I hadn’t got involved in the duel, Nicolo wouldn’t have come to my defense!”

The two servants watch my face with wide eyes. Bianca looks as though she could burst into tears at any moment.

“Now, now,” scolds Faustina. “Enough of that. It’s not your fault that angry men were holding swords.”

I know she’s right, of course. But it doesn’t make me feel any better.

“I hear that Halim has fled Venice,” Bianca says. She sits on the floor at my feet.

“I hear the same,” Faustina adds. “He’s taken his sister’s body to the mainland for burial. Good riddance, I say!”

I jump up from the window seat. “Stop it,” I say. “The poor man is mourning his sister. We all know how that is, don’t we?” I glare at my servants, daring them to remember Beatrice’s coffin.

Bianca’s face colors, but Faustina stares back at me stubbornly. “I’m only