“What can you do?” the woman says, her eyes brimming.
“Trust me,” I say. “Come, and you will find out.”
She shakes her head. “My husband holds the strings of the family’s purse. I wouldn’t be able to pay the gondolier!”
I reach into my purse and slide a coin into the woman’s palm. “Take this. Midnight, be at Zenato’s. Believe me—I really can help.” Has this woman heard of the Segreta? Does she guess what I mean?
The woman nods once, and slips out of her seat just as Faustina returns with a twisted paper parcel brimming with fresh figs. One of the fruits has burst open and its seeds glow like tiny chips of gold.
“You’ve forgotten your figs!” Faustina calls after the woman as she turns a shady corner. I watch the ebony hem of her skirts glide out of sight.
“Where’s she going?” Faustina asks, shrugging with open palms. “Not back to that husband, I hope.”
“She’ll be safe,” I tell the woman who knows me so well, but is blind to my deepest secrets. “Venice will look after her.”
3
A hired coach takes Faustina and me across the Rialto Bridge towards home. Pulling into the gated driveway, I remember when I returned here for the first time after my incarceration. Then, it looked old and tired. Father was penniless and my sister lay in a coffin. Now, Father is on Venice’s Grand Council, his greatest ambitions realized, and Beatrice is gone forever.
I step out of the coach, Faustina sighing behind me as she lowers her tired old body. The della Scala home rises up before us. The cool of the hallway beckons. I walk across the marbled floor, once broken and chipped, now repaired. The walls glow with a fresh layer of whitewash, and the gilt frame of the hall mirror has been repainted.
“I’m home!” I call out, and hear an answering voice. Too youthful to be my father’s, but equally recognizable, even after all these years.
“We’re in the library!”
I rush into the room at the far end of the hallway, the door half hidden beneath the stairs. Pushing it open, I see a face that almost reflects mine, but not quite. The same chin, only stronger. Eyes the same color as mine, but the hair short, thick and pushed back from a widow’s peak.
“Lysander!” I cry, and fall into my brother’s arms. He doesn’t wear the clothes of a Venetian gentleman. He sports more somber colors, having lived in Bologna for many years, training to be a physician. I heard through Beatrice’s letters that his apartments are near the Botanical Gardens, where the people of Bologna grow healing herbs, but this is the first time I’ve seen him since the day I entered the convent.
“Let me look at you,” I say, pulling back. I hold him at arm’s length and turn him round on the spot. He laughs and indulges me. “You’ve put on weight,” I declare. I prod him in the stomach.
“Hey, hey! Aren’t you supposed to tell me how much you love me and how you’ve missed me? Who cares about my popping waistcoat!”
Of course, my dearest brother is as slender as he ever was. He strokes the back of his hand down my cheek.
“You’ve grown into a beautiful woman,” he says. “Beatrice would have been proud of you.”
I feel my eyes burn; tears are brimming, ready to fall. I dash a hand across my face. Lysander peers at me, then smiles.
“As soft as ever. Come here.”
How far he is from the truth. If he only knew. He draws me to him, and it’s only then—glancing over his shoulder—that I see we are not alone.
“Who’s this?” I ask, pushing myself out of my brother’s arms. A woman stands behind him. She has long auburn locks that cascade over one shoulder and a smattering of freckles against milky skin. When she smiles at me, her teeth are as white as snow and her lips blush red. As she raises a hand in greeting, there’s the sparkle of gold on her finger.
“This is my wife, Emilia,” Lysander tells me, turning to hold out an arm. Still smiling, the woman comes up to Lysander and slips her arm through the one he offers her. Cream organza froths at her neckline.
“I had no idea!” I cry, holding out a hand. I smile at her, and, after a moment’s hesitation, she takes it.
“Love moves swiftly,” she says, and laughs, the sound rolling like a bubbling stream.