Heart of Glass - By Sasha Gould Page 0,49

alleyways, keeping to the shadows. Perhaps it’s the clandestine nature of my visit that makes me check frequently over my shoulder, but that masked face stays with me. Turning a corner, I glimpse a flash of purple skirt slipping out of sight. It could be anyone, but three more turnings on, I see it again, dipping behind a stall. There’s a wooden bench ahead, and I pause beside it, as if trying to get my bearings. My senses are stretched taut, but I don’t see the dress again.

In the Calle dei Albanesi I spot two dark-skinned guards posted at a doorway. The men are dressed in short red jackets and billowing trousers tucked inside leather boots. Swathes of green cloth bind their heads, and each carries a short sword shoved inside a leather belt. Their thick beards make it impossible to read their expressions.

“I’m here to see Halim,” I say.

One of the men grins. “No one sees the prince without permission,” he says in Italian. “And he hasn’t said anything about a Venetian courtesan paying him a visit.”

I keep a straight face. These men are not thugs, I know that. I have heard about the Ottoman army and the privileges of learning and social status that their soldiers enjoy. To call me a courtesan is not a mistake, but a well-aimed weapon. The guard’s companion joins in the mocking laughter. He nods towards San Polo, where most of Venice’s prostitutes live and work.

“You’re a long way from home,” he tells me. “Better run back to your customers.”

I dip my head modestly. “There must be some mistake,” I tell them. “My father sits on the Doge’s Grand Council. I am sure Halim will see me if he knows I’m here. Tell him … tell him that Laura della Scala wishes to visit.”

The men share a doubtful glance and speak to each other in their own tongue.

“That’s right,” calls a voice from the hallway. The prince steps out of the shadows, into the column of sunlight streaming from the open doorway. “She’s the one I’ve been speaking of.”

“My lord,” I say, dipping into a curtsy.

Another figure sidles from within the apartment and stands beside the prince. Faruk.

He speaks urgently to Halim, looking at me with barely concealed disgust.

The prince waves a hand through the air. “Paper and ink can wait,” he says, staring at me. “Come inside, Laura.”

The guards step aside.

I take Halim’s outstretched hand, feeling his fingers curl around my own.

“Thank you,” I say. He has no idea how much I mean it.

Then he leads me into the hidden darkness of his rooms.

24

I’ve never seen a Venetian apartment like this before. It has been transformed. Clouds of incense fill the air from shallow copper bowls, and thick rugs cover the marble floor. Chairs and couches have been pushed against the walls to make room for scattered cushions. Halim lowers himself onto one of them and sits cross-legged. A length of glistening linen has been twisted around his temples in a neat turban. His trousers are made of rich silk that whispers luxuriously as he moves, and rows of tiny buttons line the edges of his collarless tunic. Over it, he wears a waistcoat of cream taffeta embroidered with gold brocade. There is a wide sash at his waist, and leather boots encase his feet. When he smiles, his teeth glitter white against golden skin.

Across the room from us are some of Halim’s advisers. They kneel and sit around a low wooden table with a map spread across it. From the familiar curves of the coastline, I recognize it as the Mediterranean. Faruk goes to join them, and the men pause in their murmuring, watching as Halim indicates a cushion to me. I tuck my skirts beneath me carefully, sitting with my legs arranged to one side. It is difficult to be a graceful Venetian lady sitting so close to the floor, but I take a tumbler of white liquid from a servant and sip it to hide my embarrassment. It’s sweet and sour at the same time, and I wrinkle my nose.

Halim smiles. “It is a yogurt drink,” he explains. “Traditional in our country, though I fear the Italian cows do not produce such rich milk as ours.” The smile falls from his face. “But I’m sure you’re not here to discuss dairy cows.”

My eyes flicker over to Halim’s advisers as I try to judge what I can and cannot say in front of witnesses. Halim notices my reticence and clicks