give the Duchess her place, and the older woman sits beside me.
The Duchess carries the perfume of grief with her. I smell it oozing from her skin, beneath the stronger scent of her pomade. When she gazes into my eyes, I think my heart will break. Any light that once danced there has been extinguished. I want to draw the Duchess to me, but her status as the Doge’s wife makes this impossible. She is cast adrift, isolated by an advantageous marriage that robs her of simple human kindness. For a moment, I wonder if I really want to enter this family, to marry Roberto. Do I wish the same fate for myself? For people to fear, more than care for, me?
“Roberto,” she starts to say. She pauses and swallows hard, composing herself. “Roberto is back in the … in that place.”
“No,” I mutter. Not the Piombi.
“The house arrest was not well received. And especially after Nicolo’s death, it became a scandal. The Doge had no choice. Laura, I’m sorry. You won’t see Roberto again until his trial, two days from now.” Her voices catches. “I wanted … I wanted to tell you myself. I know you love him as much as I do.”
“Two days is a long time,” I whisper. “In two days, this nightmare could be over.”
She gives me a watery smile. “You’re right. We should be pleased for the progress we’ve made. You’re a good girl.” She strokes a hand down my cheek; then with a heavy swish of skirts she returns to her place at the front of the church.
Emilia takes her seat beside me once more, and the funeral service begins.
The formality of it helps. The cathedral is huge, and Nicolo’s coffin is a tiny oblong box a long way from me, pointing at the grand altar. To see it I have to strain my neck to peer above the crowd of heads. I imagine him laid inside there, as cold and still as my sister was in her own coffin. The voices of the priests barely carry to me, and I copy the movements of others in the congregation, making the sign of the cross when they do or sinking to my knees. I feel bleached of emotion, counting the moments until I can be out of this place. It’s not that I don’t care for Nicolo or Paulina, but life is pressing down very hard on my shoulders.
A small, almost indiscernible movement at the upper edge of my vision draws my glance to the ceiling of the church. In one of the many balconies, I spot a shadowy silhouette half hidden by a porphyry statue. The silhouette sharpens into the outline of a small waist, a curved hip—a woman. She’s dressed in black and wearing a mask that glints silver beneath the gold of the church ceiling. How strange. I’m sure the mask isn’t one of ours. Luxurious curls of brown hair cascade down one shoulder. Why is she in the balcony rather than among the congregation? I twist round in my seat for a better view, but as soon as I move, she slips behind the statue, disappearing out of sight.
As the incense clouds about me and bells are rung, I turn back towards Nicolo’s coffin. My senses are ablaze. Grief is all around me, yet only one thought fills my head.
Someone is spying on me.
23
I wake the next morning and watch the muslin curtains billow in the warm breeze. The masked figure haunted my dreams, waiting each time I closed my eyes. Not for the first time I ask myself, Can I trust the Segreta?
I barely have the energy to leave my bed and get dressed. Nicolo’s funeral and the hatred shown to me in the streets have left me drained.
I can hear Faustina in the courtyard below, slapping wet sheets against a washboard. Then there’s a voice that makes me sit up sharply.
“Is she in?” gasps a young boy. It’s the messenger who brought me the notes from Grazia. I’ve contracted him with a steady supply of food from the kitchen to apprise me of any interesting developments. After all, if I am to help Roberto survive the scandal that has beset him, I must know what whispers are abroad.
“Yes,” answers Faustina, puffing heavily. I hear the creak as she turns a mangle, squeezing water from fabric as it passes between the wooden rolls. “I’ll take you to her.”
I leap out of bed and draw a dressing gown around me,