character. Oh, please! I’m only saying what we all know.”
Paulina’s face is red with fury, but even as her final words melt away, I can see the guilt there too. She knows she’s gone too far. All of the women’s eyes are on me, and I want nothing more than to disappear.
“I see,” I say stiffly. “Thank you for educating me.”
Grazia reaches out for Paulina, but she turns away, defeated and sobbing. “Leave me be!” She runs from the room.
“Shall I go after her?” asks Sophia.
Grazia shakes her head. “There’s nothing we can do for Paulina at the moment.”
Why did my friend say such horrible things? I suddenly feel very young again. Naive and innocent as the day I left the convent. Was she speaking merely out of anger and grief, or was she venting secrets that have been kept from me? I swallow back a rising panic. Roberto is no whoremonger. He isn’t capable of anything like that.
Allegreza watches from across the room. In her hands, she holds the scraps of paper from the vote.
“A decision has been made,” she announces. “The Segreta have spoken.”
“And?” I say.
Allegreza looks at me, but I cannot read her expression. Compassion, maybe, or pity. “I think it best for you not to know the result of the vote,” she says.
I’m flabbergasted. Not tell me? “But why?”
Allegreza nods. “You are too close to this, Laura. Too emotionally involved.”
“But I have to know,” I say. “Will you help him?”
Allegreza shakes her head. “The meeting is over.”
22
The noise greets us even before our coach arrives at the cathedral. It is the sound of mourning—wailing voices and low sobs. But nothing prepares me for the sight we come upon as we turn into St. Mark’s Square. Beside me, Emilia lets out a small cry of shock, and I feel my breath catch in my lungs. So many people!
Venice is mourning Nicolo’s death. Hundreds are crammed into the square and lining the surrounding streets. Rope barriers have been erected and soldiers stand before them to keep back the press of the crowds. Women dab their eyes with handkerchiefs and opportunistic stall sellers are offering black-stained flowers to throw upon the coffin when it passes. The scent of incense is heavy in the air, and a distant band of street musicians plays a lament. Agile young men climb the fountains and statues to get a better view of their dead prince when he arrives.
The funeral has been organized quickly. In this heat, no one wants to leave a body waiting for burial. Word traveled the streets, the canals and the narrow alleyways, sent out from the Doge’s palace: the ceremony would take place on the second Sunday of the month, four days after Roberto bent to hear his brother’s last words. I haven’t seen my beloved since, and my messages have received no reply.
Now, even the Segreta are keeping secrets from me.
The coach draws to a halt, and I step out, helped by my father. The skin of his hands is papery and dry, and when I look up into his face I see nothing there but accusation. You bring us to this, his eyes tell me. You and the man you insist on loving. If I hadn’t been loyal to Roberto, defending him against Halim’s attacks, Nicolo would still be alive and my family would have been saved from scandal. Perhaps Paulina was right to attack me. But the moment I think this, my heart twists. How can loving Roberto be wrong? What could I have done differently?
As I move across the square, the black taffeta of my skirts swishes noisily. I wear a single string of pearls at my throat, and my hair is framed by an embroidered cap. The sky is gray above us, and the tiny pieces of jet sewn across my bodice barely glimmer.
Lysander looks up at the dense clouds threatening rain and shudders. “The perfect day for a funeral,” he comments.
“Don’t,” Emilia reproves.
“Show some respect,” Father hisses from behind us.
“Yes, show some respect!” calls a stranger’s voice. I look over my shoulder and see a woman, her bosom spilling out of her corset, lunge towards me. Her eyes are wild, and I can smell the wine on her breath. “Look, everyone! It’s Laura della Scala—betrothed to a murderer.”
More noise erupts around us, angry shouts and curses. Lysander puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me to him. “Ignore them,” he whispers into my hair. But I can feel the blood drain from