kitten and I must be patient as he slowly climbs the steps to my room.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he protests. “We’re not yet married.”
“Wedding vows can wait,” I tell him.
Roberto smiles. “You never did like being told what to do.”
I lean past him to open my bedroom door and usher him inside. He sinks onto my sheets, and within moments he’s asleep.
I slip out of the bedroom and go to the kitchens for a pitcher of hot water.
Fresh sheets of pasta hang from a line above the counter and—there!—a copper urn of water is steaming on the stove. Bianca is leaning over the deep sink, up to her elbows in suds and steaming water.
“I’ll just help myself to some water,” I whisper, not wanting to disturb Faustina, whose chair is visible through the open door. But as I step towards the urn, I trip over a coal scuttle. Faustina stirs in her chair.
“Is everything all right?” she asks. Her eyes fall on my dress. “Oh, Laura, you’re filthy!”
“I tripped,” I say. “I’m going to bathe.”
Faustina bursts out laughing. “That’s right! A lady drawing her own bath. As if Bianca or I would allow that! The household might survive many scandals, but not that!”
“Faustina, no, really …”
But it’s too late. She’s already cutting through the courtyard, into the main doorway and up the stairs.
“Stop!” I call after her. “Faustina, please …”
She bustles straight past the bathing chamber and turns the handle of my bedroom door. I rush in just as she shrieks, “Get out, get out, or have your filthy hands chopped off!” As she tries to run from the room, I seize her arm.
“Will you calm down,” I whisper, dragging her aside.
“Calm down? Venice is soon to be at war and there’s one of … one of … them in your bedroom!”
I give a deep, exasperated sigh. “That man isn’t a Turk,” I say.
“You’ve seen him!” Faustina does a rapid sign of the cross.
“Yes, I’ve seen him. I’m engaged to be married to him.”
I wait for my words to find their mark. Faustina blinks once, twice—then understanding dawns.
“That’s Roberto?” she whispers. I nod, but she still looks doubtful. “He’s losing his looks, Laura.”
“He’s half starved. He was kidnapped. I need your help to return him to health. And Father must not know.”
Faustina’s lined face is wracked with indecision. She looks at me, then back at my bedroom door, then at me once more. “I’ll get you some hot water,” she says.
I smile as she scuttles back to the kitchens, and I know that Roberto is in the best possible hands.
When I poke my head around the door, Roberto looks solemn. I sit beside him on the bed, and he reaches to stroke my hair.
“Each day I was tied up there, I would close my eyes and try to summon your face,” he says. “But you’re much more beautiful than my imaginings.”
I nestle my cheek against the warmth of his palm. “It must have been horrible.”
Roberto grimaces. “Carina … she didn’t just torture me with words. She kissed me too. She said we could be together now you were gone. I tried to get away, but …”
“Don’t punish yourself,” I say, feeling sick and guilty at the same time. How could I ever have doubted him? I think of telling him about Halim, not that anything really happened between us, but it would only cause him pain, and he is too weak to bear it. Perhaps one day I will reveal to him all that went on while we were apart. “It’s over now,” I tell him. “Your father will be reinstated and honor returned to Venice. Carina cannot touch us.”
Roberto’s hand drops from my face, and he gazes out of the open window. “I hope so.”
42
From below, the dinner gong rings a second time.
“Laura!” Father calls gruffly. “Get down here, before the food turns cold.”
Faustina is sworn to secrecy, but I shouldn’t keep my father waiting and force her to make a suspicious excuse for my tardiness. After his bath, Roberto crawled into my bed and fell into a deep slumber. I tuck a blanket around him and kiss his forehead. “Sleep well, my love,” I whisper.
Over a plate of grilled sardines, Father is full of excitement. “Two days!” he declares. “Then we will sink Halim and his filthy crew. Our men will make Venice proud.”
Easy for him to say. Father won’t be carrying a sword or musket; he won’t have to risk spilling his own blood. Members of the