Heart of Glass - By Sasha Gould Page 0,71

this must be stopped.”

I pace the room. “But how?”

Lysander peers at the writing. “We’re being urged not to give shelter to any of these women or communicate with them. Apparently, Allegreza is in custody and being interrogated in the Piombi.”

I gasp. “But the Piombi is a place for men.”

“Massimo is making an example of her. Quite right too.”

“I saw Roberto after he was mistreated,” I say. “I can’t bear to think of someone else suffering like that.”

Lysander raises his eyebrows. “Perhaps she deserves it, little sister.”

“Well, I for one hope she isn’t suffering,” says Emilia, shaking the shawl from around her shoulders. “I think there’s more to it than the pamphlets suggest. Women don’t go round stirring up trouble and murdering people for the sake of it.”

“You’re right,” I say. “There’s a reason this happened, surely. If it’s even true.”

“I don’t care about reasons,” Lysander says. “The law is the law! No one should take a life. If this is what women do to make their voices heard in Venice, then they should be silenced!”

I can’t listen to him any longer. “Would you have me silenced?” I demand. “Or Emilia? Are you saying we don’t deserve a voice because we wear dresses? For shame, brother. I thought better of you.”

Emilia places a hand on Lysander’s chest. “Really, darling, we should leave Laura alone.”

But now Lysander’s blood is up too. He shakes her off and points at me. “Don’t twist my words,” he says.

“I don’t need to,” I say. “You already sound just like Father.”

A low blow, I know, but Lysander has made me so angry.

He seizes Emilia’s arm and leads her with him from the room.

“Lysander!” Emilia tries to protest, but he isn’t listening.

Faustina is gaping, still holding the comb to her chest. “Men!” she mutters.

From my brother’s chamber, I hear raised voices behind the closed door. I hurry down the stairs, away from the angry sounds. At the bottom, I pause. Whether it was deliberate or not—I cannot tell—I find myself beneath the portrait Roberto painted of me.

That day he delivered it, before I knew who he really was, the work astounded me. He’d captured every detail of my face, and each brushstroke sang of his insight. He knew me so well, even then.

But I don’t recognize that girl anymore. The glint in her eye, the promise that seems to linger about her, both have gone. All that remains of the girl I was is this portrait.

Roberto fooled me back then, when he was Giacomo the painter. Perhaps he’s fooled me as Roberto too.

35

I can’t live like this. Allegreza is being tortured and the Segreta are in more danger than I ever thought possible. Meanwhile, we each sit in our separate homes, gazing listlessly out of windows or picking at meals. How can we call ourselves a society, I think, when not one of us is doing anything to help our leader?

And just like that, my decision is made. I call to a servant boy to fetch my shawl. Before anyone else in the household can notice, I slip out and summon a gondola. Soon I am gliding down the liquid paths of the city and I emerge beside a small market where a beggar always sits in the shade of a stunted tree.

I drop a coin into her hat. Few would know that this toothless unfortunate, with her blind eye and hunched back, is a trusted messenger of the Segreta. I’ve learned never to underestimate anyone.

I kneel beside her. To onlookers, I’m a well-to-do lady with a soft heart. Little do they know that Margarita needs no one’s pity.

“God bless you,” she says.

“I need you to send the message out,” I tell her. “To meet in the carpenter’s basement.”

Margarita raises an eyebrow. “These are dark times,” she says. “I hear Allegreza is having her fingernails torn from their beds even as we speak.”

I can’t help wincing and Margarita notices, cackling with laughter.

“And who are you to make such a request?” She gives a gentle burp, staring brazenly into my face.

I reach into my velvet purse, pulling out a soft leather pouch that hangs heavy with coins.

“How many?” I ask.

Margarita grins, revealing black holes in her gums. “All of them,” she says, snatching the pouch from me. She doesn’t bother to count, stuffing the leather into her filthy cloak. She shifts herself on the ground. I straighten up and reach out a hand to help her, ignoring the creases of dirt in the wrinkles of her palm.

With a grunt,