Heart of Glass - By Sasha Gould Page 0,89

of the house is easier than I expected. Father is asleep, and with Faustina keeping an eye on his door, I go to wake my fiancé. He looks so peaceful, his curls resting on the pillow. I kiss his lips, and he stirs.

“We must go to your father,” I say. “I have the key to your freedom.”

He dresses quickly in clothes Faustina has borrowed from the laundry, and we are soon outside in the predawn twilight. Aysim waits in a gondola, her shawl drawn over her head. Roberto nods politely to her, and she responds in kind.

“This is the woman you’re supposed to have killed,” I tell him. “Halim’s sister.”

“I recognize you,” he says. “You were there—when I visited Constantinople.”

“My brother likes to keep me close,” she replies, “but not too close.”

We disembark a few streets from the palace, and the gondolier slides off silently.

“Don’t you need to pay him?” asks Roberto.

He hasn’t seen the mark of the key subtly inscribed on the outside of the gondolier’s oar. Nor does he see that, beneath the scarf, the pilot is a woman. “It’s fine,” I tell him. “I paid in advance.”

As we approach the palace, Aysim takes my arm. “There’s something I meant to tell you,” she says. Her brow creases in concentration. “Halim has another accomplice in Venice—someone who used to send him secret messages.”

I share a look with Roberto. “Do you know who?” I ask. “Carina?”

Aysim shakes her head. “I think it would be a man. Halim doesn’t trust women. He thinks they’re too emotional.”

Another Venetian in league with Halim. How many traitors can one city hold to its bosom?

I push my thoughts aside as we enter the palace through a servants’ doorway. We pass unhindered up a stairwell until an old man crosses our path. He’s one of the many older grooms who wait on the Doge, and when he sees us he looks so startled I wonder if he might fall over. “Roberto?” he says.

“It is I, Carlo,” Roberto replies. “Please, not a word of this to anyone.”

The old man nods, and Roberto leads us on through the palace, creeping along the narrow, low-ceilinged corridors normally used by staff alone. Finally, after following the convoluted channels, we emerge from behind a curtain into a gallery within the Doge’s private apartments. The golden ceiling and marble floors no longer intimidate me. The three of us walk to the set of double doors that leads to the Doge’s office. Two uniformed guards see our approach, but although they gape with shock, they don’t question Roberto’s authority, and they throw open the doors. “Wait outside,” I say to Aysim gently.

The Doge sits at a large desk with a small group of men, the faithful few who have stuck by him. He looks up at our appearance, and the scroll he is holding falls from his hands.

“My son!”

Roberto is already striding across the room, and within moments he is in his father’s arms. The older man sobs with relief, rocking Roberto as he squeezes his eyes shut. No one says a word; we wait for the Doge to compose himself again. He holds Roberto at arm’s length and shakes his head in amazement. “Where have you been?”

“We don’t have much time,” I interrupt. “Can we speak in private?”

There are low grumbles of protest from around the room.

“Do as she says,” Roberto tells them. “If it weren’t for Laura, I’d be dead.”

After the men have shuffled out to an anteroom, I clear my throat. I tell the Doge that Halim’s pretext for war is a lie. His sister isn’t dead at all. The Doge shakes his head in disbelief.

“But I saw his face,” he says. “He almost tore out his hair with grief.”

“My brother—he is good actor,” says a voice in faltering Italian. All eyes turn to see Aysim step into the room, drawing her scarf away to reveal black locks. “For years he fooled even me.”

“You are his sister?” asks the Doge.

“The girl who is killed—she is my servant,” says Aysim. “My friend, also.”

The Doge’s face darkens as he looks from Aysim to Roberto. “You’d better explain what’s really happening.”

“My brother wants war to … to make himself a man,” says Aysim. “He use tricks.”

“And why are you helping us?” asks the Doge. “You are no daughter of Venice.”

His tone is hard. Too hard, I fear, but Aysim lifts her chin to answer him.

“My mother come from Venice,” she says. “When I am small girl, she tell me of it, at