of wedding dresses for generations of Venetian women, this is high praise.
“I am blessed,” I say.
“Wait here a moment.” The dressmaker retreats to the back of her quarters, and I take a seat beside Faustina, who’s making short work of the shrimps. I take a sip of mint tea. Doria and the male servant are bowed over the oak table, smoothing out the silk. I catch a whisper, and it sounds, though I can’t be sure, like “Doge’s funeral.”
I feel my face stiffen, and as my eyes meet the girl’s, she blushes and looks away.
Do even common servants know about the Doge’s falling sickness, the ailment that places his life and reputation in peril? And if they know, where have they heard it? Despite all my happiness, all my blessings, in that moment the past tugs at my stomach. His sickness was the secret I shared in order to be accepted into the Segreta. It was a mistake, a betrayal, but at the time it seemed the only coin I had to barter for their help. Our community of women trades on secrets, but if what I shared has become common knowledge … Well, the Doge has plenty of enemies looking for just such an excuse to topple him.
Gabriella returns. “Your dress will be ready for a first fitting in three weeks. Until then.” She nods a goodbye.
Faustina and I say our farewells and we descend the stairs, out into the fading afternoon sunshine. For a moment, I feel weary—my allegiance to the Segreta is weighing me down. But Faustina is impervious to my mood.
“Jewelry next!” she announces. “To match the glass beads of your headdress.” She is already striding down the road, and I break into a modest trot. But as we turn a corner, we both stop short. A woman a little older than I am is walking towards us, wearing a black velvet dress with raised stripes of gold thread. But there is another stripe too—this one down her face—a streak of blood that runs from a deep cut on her forehead. She holds up a hand to try to hide it, but there is no disguising the swollen bruise that is forcing her left eye half shut.
“Come here,” I tell the woman, going to take her by the arm. “What happened to you?” She tries to pull away from me; I can feel her body trembling. “You don’t need to fear us,” I tell her. “Please. Let me help.”
“Who did this to you?” Faustina asks, bustling over. “The beast!”
A few people look round at Faustina’s shrill cry, and the woman flinches.
“It’s nothing to bother yourselves with,” she says, trying her best to turn her body from us. But I reach out a hand and gently bring her back round to face me. I take a handkerchief from the folds of my skirt and dab at the blood on her temple. She doesn’t pull away.
I spot a teahouse with stools ranged beneath an awning. “Come,” I say gently, taking the woman by the arm. “Sit for a moment.”
I lead the woman over to the wicker stools. She sits with a sigh, resting her head in her hands. Faustina calls for the tea and pours, holding out a glass to the woman. She takes it with shaking hands. We wait in silence for her to recover as she takes small sips. Eventually she offers us a watery smile.
“Thank you,” she says.
“I’m Laura. What’s your name?”
“Teresa,” she whispers.
“What happened to you?” I ask.
She laughs bitterly. “My husband happened to me.” She starts to get to her feet, but her face turns suddenly white and she’s forced to sit back down.
Faustina huffs. “Men!”
“Go and buy some figs,” I tell her. Anything to get her out of earshot for the moment. “Something for our friend.”
Faustina nods eagerly, glad of something to do. My nurse likes to feed people. I watch her go over to a nearby market stall.
As soon as she’s gone, I lean forward and grasp the woman’s hands. “You shouldn’t have to suffer this way,” I say.
She shrugs. “It’s the way things are.”
I shake my head. “Only if we let it happen. I can help you.”
She looks at me skeptically. “I don’t think you’re a match for Silvio.”
Perhaps not on my own, I think. I squeeze her hand. “Meet me tonight in the disused wine cellar on the Ponte San Polo. It has a green door. A tarred barrel sits beside the doorway, and the name of the old