Heart of Glass - By Sasha Gould Page 0,93

with wisps of cloud, and the air smells clean.

Soldiers are patrolling the city, Bianca tells me, just in case of a surprise attack, but by noon we receive word that all but a handful of ships from the Ottoman fleet have vanished from the horizon.

“The upstart has fled!” my father announces.

I think of Halim on board his ship, brooding on his foiled plans. I can’t help but smirk, imagining his fury.

Shortly after our conversation, we receive an invitation to the palace. There’s to be a celebration in honor of the Doge and the power of Venice. My father can’t stop smiling as he hums a naval song.

“I’ve never seen him so happy,” mutters Faustina. “He actually kissed me on the cheek this morning.”

I grin, and dispatch a note to Roberto. It contains only three words, but what else matters?

46

That night, I’m back at the palace, wearing a dress that once belonged to Beatrice. It has a girdle of woven gold, with white silk tassels hanging from the waist. The skirt hangs around me in heavy black folds with gold thread running through the velvet. Gold satin slippers peek out from beneath the hem, while against the perfumed curls of my hair, I wear a light veil with crystals embroidered into the net. I feel my cheeks flush in the warmth. My arm is linked through Roberto’s, and he keeps me close by his side. He wears an ivory padded doublet, slashed in the shape of stars and crosses to reveal the taffeta lining. Over the top he wears a short, gold-embroidered cape. His beard is trimmed and his bruises have almost faded away. I have my fiancé back.

Father saunters alongside us, then hurries to slap a friend on the back.

“I told you, Luca. We sent those Turks running!”

Along with the other noble men and women, I stroll beneath the oil paintings that line the Doge’s palace and step inside the ballroom. The first face I recognize is that of Aysim, who throws herself into my arms. She is resplendent in a dress of mulberry silk, with rows of glass buttons down the bodice. Her hair is plaited with flowers. This is a far cry from the frightened girl I first found cowering in a nun’s cell.

“Thank you, thank you!” she cries. Around us, people look startled. I hold a finger to my lips to hush her.

“Most people here don’t know how much I am responsible for the turn of events, and they must never know,” I tell her, glancing up at Roberto. “That’s how Venice works.”

Aysim frowns. “Will I ever understand your city?” she asks in French.

“If you stay here long enough.” The voice echoes with authority. Turning round, we see the Doge in his white peaked cap and ermine robes. He extends his gnarled hands, and we each place a palm in his. Roberto gives his father a small bow.

“You’ll have asylum in Venice as long as you need it,” he tells Aysim. “For life, if you wish. You’ve been through many trials.”

Aysim’s eyes brim with tears. “I will like that,” she manages in Italian, dipping in a curtsy.

“You’ll be treated like the princess you are as long as you stay,” he adds.

The Doge’s wife, Besina, arrives by his side. This is the first time I’ve seen her since Nicolo’s funeral. There’s some color in her cheeks and, although she’s lost weight, she’s still taking great care over her appearance; her hair is coiled neatly and her jewels are sparkling.

“We would be proud to have you continue to stay with us,” she says.

The Doge lets our hands fall and puts an arm around his wife’s shoulders. It’s the most informal thing I’ve ever seen him do. Roberto comes to stand on the other side of his mother.

“My son,” she whispers. Then she looks at me. “We owe you our deepest gratitude,” she says.

“You owe me nothing,” I tell her. “I only did what any woman would, for Venice and the man she loves.”

The Duchess nods. “If you’ll excuse us.” She strokes Roberto’s cheek; then she takes Aysim and leads her around the room, introducing her to the guests as men of state crowd around the Doge. It feels as if things are returning to their natural balance. Then, as Roberto talks to a group of men, and the Doge converses with his Councilors, the unwelcome face of Vincenzo appears.

“Laura,” he says, his stale breath washing over me. “May I speak to you in private?” His glance flickers towards Roberto,