Color Song (A Passion Blue Novel) (20 page)

Immersed in the fresco, Ferraldi noticed none of this. Alvise, who feared Stefano, did not protest, contenting himself with scowls and muttered oaths. Giulia too kept her mouth shut. She felt sorry for Alvise and regretted her part in his humiliation today, but it was not worth antagonizing Stefano to defend him.

Instead, she concentrated on the pigments she was grinding, and on the pleasure of hearing their voices rise. Humilità had never had the chance to teach her the techniques of fresco; Giulia was fascinated by the way the limewater shifted the colors’ voices, giving them a harsher edge—different from oil, which made them slower and more languorous, or egg tempera, which made them brighter and harder.

By midafternoon King David was finished. Ferraldi departed, leaving the apprentices to clean up. It was dark when at last they doused the fire. Stefano, holding aloft one of the lanterns, led the way through the courtyard and out into the street. Shadowed by day, the streets of Venice became wells of darkness at night, only a little relieved by the light escaping from shuttered windows. Even the full moon, silvering the rooftops, could not always reach so far down. If not for Stefano’s lantern, they would have had to find their way by touch, like the blind.

After a few moments Giulia fell back to walk beside Alvise. He ignored her, stomping along in his loose-limbed way, sniffling every now and then. He was fifteen, the youngest son of
Ferraldi’s sister—taken for apprenticeship, Giulia suspected, only out of obligation, for though he had a little talent and was eager to learn, he was the most awkward person she had ever met. He forgot instructions, dropped tools and spilled paint, said the wrong things and laughed at inappropriate moments. Stefano treated him with contempt, as did young Marin, who imitated Stefano in everything. Ferraldi often was not much kinder.

“I’m sorry about this morning,” she said, keeping her voice low so Stefano wouldn’t hear.

“You’re not sorry.” Alvise sniffled loudly. “You got what you wanted, didn’t you? To make me look even worse than I already do and stick your nose up my uncle’s ass while you were at it.”

Giulia held on to her temper. “I didn’t intend to do any of that.”

“Yes, you did. Do you think I’m stupid? I know what you’re really after.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You want my place.” He turned on her. He’d never liked her; but now, in the small light that filtered back from Stefano’s lantern, what she saw on his face looked more like hatred. “My uncle has no use for me. You know it, I know it, everyone knows it. Doesn’t matter what I do or say. He’ll boot me in an eye-blink if a better prospect comes along. So do me a favor and don’t pretend.”

“You’re wrong, Alvise. I do want a place, but I don’t want
your
place.”

“Same bloody difference, isn’t it? Since he can only afford to pay three apprentices.”

“Stefano will be leaving soon.”

“Oh,
Stefano.
” He spat the name. “He talks and talks, but it’s just words. He’ll never get the artists’ guild to accept him. He’ll be an apprentice for the rest of his life.”

For Alvise, this was unusually perceptive. “You’re family,” Giulia said. “I’m nothing. Your uncle would never choose me over you.”

“
You can draw!
Blood’s nothing to him beside that.”

His words silenced her. Ahead, Stefano’s lantern struck diamonds from the snow that had fallen earlier.

“You could go anywhere and get a place,” Alvise said. “But the only place I can ever have is with him. Since we’re being straight with each other, you may as well know I mean to get rid of you. I don’t know how I’ll do it. But I’ll figure a way. I swear I will.”

“Alvise, this is ridiculous. We don’t have to be enemies.”

“Yes, we do.”

He quickened his pace, leaving her behind. The sting of his anger lingered, like a bad taste in her mouth. She was angry too—angry at his hatred, which she did not deserve, angry that he’d made her see something she hadn’t seen before. She wanted Ferraldi to choose her—but could she accept an apprenticeship if it came at another’s expense?

They reached a small campo. In the open space of the little square, moonlight illuminated the snow-dusted paving and the wellhead at the center. The surrounding houses were ramparts of shadow, broken here and there by the glow of candles through the seams of shutters.

Giulia tipped back her head. Stars showed in the sky above, glinting through gaps in the clouds. What would they tell her if, like Maestro Bruni, she could read them? She was overwhelmed suddenly with a sense of her own smallness. The bricks below her feet felt unstable, as if they might crack apart
and plunge her into the salt water that ran like blood through the body of this strange city.

The light of Stefano’s lantern, a small terrestrial star, was already receding down the black throat of the street. She ran to catch up, leaving the moonlight behind.

CHAPTER 15

BERNARDO

On the day Bernardo left her in the Campo San Lio, Giulia had put him out of her mind. She’d been certain she would never see him again—or Sofia either, for she did not plan ever to call upon the aid Sofia had promised her.

I’m starting a new life
, she had told herself.
A life where no one in the world knows who or what I am. From this moment, the old Giulia does not exist.

But four days after she’d become part of the workshop, she had answered a knock at the door and found Bernardo standing on the threshold. She’d been so astonished that for a moment she could not speak.

“Good day,” he said, unsmiling. Then, in his dry way, “Close your mouth, you look like a fish.”

“What are you doing here?” she blurted out.

“That’s a pleasant greeting.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t . . . I’m just . . . surprised.”

He shrugged. “Thank my mother. She wants to be sure you are well settled.”

“Oh.” Giulia hated how flustered she felt. But the response that had jolted her in the Campo San Lio—the sudden, surprising current of physical attraction—had overwhelmed her again the instant she saw his face. “I’m settled very well indeed. How did you find me?”

“I did bring you most of the way, if you remember. I needed only to ask for the house of Ferraldi the painter. Will you let me in?”

Giulia hesitated. “I have work to do.”

“You can spare a moment, can you not?”

He brushed past her into the storeroom. Its clutter was more starkly visible than usual, for she’d been carrying slop buckets downstairs to empty into the rio and had left the water door open.

“This is the workshop?” There was distaste in his voice.

“The workshop is upstairs. This is the storeroom.”

He glanced at the buckets, which she’d set down when he knocked. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”

He poked around the storeroom as she emptied the buckets, inspecting supplies, kicking at the rubbish on the floor. She went upstairs for more slops, taking her time, hoping that when she came down again he would be gone. But as she descended, she saw he was still there.

“Someone sleeps down here?” He pointed to her sleeping area—still makeshift, but thanks to Sofia’s purse, better furnished than on the first night, with a straw mattress, a pillow, and a privacy curtain rigged from lengths of linen.

“I do.”

“In the
storeroom
?” His eyebrows flew up so high they nearly disappeared into his bangs. “This is how your master treats his apprentices?”

“It’s quite comfortable.” The involuntary thrill of his presence had vanished; all Giulia felt now was annoyance.

“Comfortable? You’re practically on the water. The air is noxious. I wouldn’t keep my scullion in such conditions.”

“It’s not so bad.” Giulia wanted to smack him for his arrogance. “It’s temporary, in any case, just until there’s space upstairs. And now I really should get back to work. Please thank clarissima Sofia for me, and tell her I am well. She needn’t trouble herself further.”

She closed the door firmly behind him, hoping he would not return. She did not want Sofia’s eye on her, no matter how kindly meant—the eye of someone who knew her secret. She didn’t want Bernardo poking his haughty nose into her affairs.

A few days later, she was scrubbing one of the worktables, and half listening to the bickering of Zuane and Antonio, when young Marin came running up from the storeroom to announce at the top of his voice that there was a well-dressed gentleman downstairs asking for Girolamo.

She felt a stab of real anger. Why on earth had he come back? But her heart, as if it belonged to someone else, had already begun to race.

“Go,” Lauro told her in his gravelly voice. “But be quick about it.”

“I thought you said you didn’t have friends in Venice.” Stefano, at another table trimming brushes, paused to watch her with his sharp blue eyes as she dried her hands on her tunic.

“He’s not a friend. He’s . . . a patron.”

“Ho! Patrons already? Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself?”

She ignored him and went down to the storeroom, where Bernardo was pacing restlessly about. With his dark hair and clothes, he melted into the dimness, except for the pale blur of his face and the glint of his silver-handled dagger.

“Here,” he said, holding something toward her. “From my mother.”

She took it, careful not to let her hands touch his: a beautiful blanket of soft wool, rolled up around a feather pillow.

“I’m very grateful. But your mother doesn’t need to give me gifts. I have everything I need, truly.”

He pointed at her sleeping area. “I see you haven’t moved upstairs yet.”

“Not yet.” She carried Sofia’s gift over to her bed. “I’m thinking I may not. I like being on my own.”

It was true. Her little curtained area was a godsend for the privacy she needed to manage the more intimate aspects of her disguise.

“Well, if I hear you’ve died of an ague, I suppose I will know why.”

She put down the bedding and faced him. “Truly, you don’t need to be concerned.”

“It’s my mother who is concerned.”

“Well, she needn’t be concerned either. And you don’t have to come back every week to inspect my living conditions.”

He looked affronted. “What makes you think I intend to come back every week?”

“I’m just saying it’s not necessary.” Giulia drew a breath. “I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I am well aware of how much I owe clarissima Sofia, and I mean to pay my debt, every penny.
But I have a place now. I have a master. No one needs to be concerned for me. No one at all.”

“Well.” He swung around, an abrupt motion that made the hem of his mantle flare, and paced toward the water door. “That is not why I came, in any case. I came to ask you to draw my portrait.”

“Your portrait?” Giulia said, surprised.

“I’ll pay you. I don’t expect you to work for nothing.”

“What sort of portrait? Is it for your mother?”

“No. For my betrothed.”

Giulia felt a small, unwelcome jolt of surprise. Carefully, she said, “I didn’t know you were betrothed.”

“It hasn’t been formalized.” He reached the storeroom’s far wall and pivoted to pace back toward her. “My mother’s friend, the one whose lying-in we were attending, was a courtesan too, but she caught herself a husband. My betrothed is his daughter by his first marriage. I met her while we were in Vicenza.” His expression tightened. “A suitable match for one such as me, who does not bear his father’s name.”

“I hope you’ll be happy,” Giulia said awkwardly.

“I will be settled. That’s good enough for most people.” He halted a little distance away, staring past her into the shadowy corners of the storeroom. “This is my mother’s wish. Not mine.”

“The portrait?”

“The marriage.”

“You don’t . . . want to marry?”

His dark eyes snapped to hers. There was a pause. “Will you make the portrait, then?”

A dozen reasons to refuse flashed through Giulia’s mind. But she heard herself saying, “Yes.”

“When shall we begin?”

“I’ve work to do today. But Sunday I’ll be free.”

“I must accompany my mother to Mass. I’ll come after.” He looked at her from beneath his brows. “I do know who he is, you know. My father. If you were wondering.”