Dark Shimmer (15 page)

“
C
onstipation came back?” The physician shakes his head. “Perhaps we should try some other method.” He opens his satchel.

“You were so successful with the old medicine. I tell everyone how brilliant you are.”

“I appreciate your confidence in me. But quicksilver isn't easily obtained in the quantities that you use it. If I give so much to you…”

“My husband is returning soon.” I push up a sleeve and rub my wrist. Bits of dried skin come off. I quickly pull down the sleeve. “I haven't been able to sleep. I need to be well rested, I need to be ready for my husband. He's been gone for so long.”

The physician's face changes. I knew it would. Men band together about such things. He puts the flaxseed elixir back in his satchel and takes out an iron flask.

I trade him for my empty flask. “Thank you a thousand times.”

“Only this last time.”

“Don't be hard-hearted.”

“To the contrary. Your fingers are pinker than ever. Your eyes twitch. Your skin peels. I'm afraid the quicksilver has made you worse rather than better. This is the last time.”

I watch him leave from the blue-green windows at the rear of the main hall. He exits through the courtyard gate, out into the narrow alley that I glimpse for only a moment, until the gate slams shut.

Marin comes home tomorrow. The messenger promised he'd be here by the evening meal. He'll be here in time for all the festivities of the
mosto
—the fresh wines of autumn. Everyone will wear their finest. And I'll give away another tiny mirror, to Signora Dandolo. She bought a dwarf slave at the start of summer. I lost no time; the slave was gone within the week.

Last night, when I padded silently down to my workshop to fetch the last of my mirrors, I found my iron flask knocked on its side, empty. I had to search around for the plug. Perhaps the smell of the drying apples and figs drew a clumsy rat.

That can't happen again. So I hide the new, full flask under the bed. With luck and care, I shouldn't ever need another.

I settle onto the bed for a rest and rub the back of my neck. The headache that has been lurking behind my eyes now creeps through my skull. I breathe slowly to try to fend it off, but it doesn't help. I rub my forehead in a circle, I pound on it with my fist.

Now worries come. Worries often accompany my headaches.

I still have tin mirrors, but no glass. If another noble buys a dwarf slave, I'll have to talk Marin into buying glass for me again. In the end, he never denies me.

The women and girls of the Venetian nobility look dazzling at parties these days, all thanks to me. I am known as the most generous lady of Venezia. The rumor is that I have rich family elsewhere. The most I ever say is that my childhood is behind me; my family is here now. Marin is equally silent.

Silence can be so useful.

I yawn. I've done good work. I can rest now. Everything will be all right.

M
arin comes up behind me, folds his arms around my waist, and rests his chin on my head. Our eyes meet in the mirror. “You don't have to look there to see how beautiful you are, Dolce. You can simply use my eyes. You are my delight, for now and ever.”

We have passed the last three days making love every night and every morning. We glow; decked out sumptuously for the first night of the
mosto,
no one could make a more handsome couple.

“I missed you terribly, Marin. I always miss you when you travel. Women should be allowed to travel with their husbands.”

“What's the point of railing against things we cannot change?”

“Bianca used to go with you.”

“When she was small. And people told me I should leave her behind, even at seven. Besides, alone I can travel through places I'd never want to expose you to.”

“Why go to such places anyway?”

“You saw the magnificent books I brought home. The new printed books are taking over everywhere, displacing the old texts.”

“As you said, learning isn't only for the rich anymore.”

“Indeed. But the older illuminated books made by scribes are works of art. It's my privilege to rescue them for posterity. The University of Padova has a growing collection. I could offer these. Or maybe…something very different. A public library. Not just archives of the state, but information about anything, anything that happens anywhere. The poet Francesco Petrarca donated his personal library to Venezia in 1362. Others have done the same. My contribution could make the Republic decide to actually acquire books of all kinds and open reading rooms for the general public. Then one day Bianca's sons can oversee the library.”

I stare. Bianca's sons? Again he talks of her sons?

“Why so bewildered? The ancient Romans did it. They had dry rooms off the public baths, where men could look over scrolls at their leisure. Venezia could be the home to that kind of library. What do you think?”

“She's fourteen.”

“What?”

“Bianca. You said her sons could oversee the library. She's only fourteen.”

“An outstanding beauty already. And with a good head on her shoulders. She'll soon be the most sought-after young woman in Venezia. You must be looking forward to her children as much as I am.”

I was thinking about her suitors myself not long ago. But it's different when Marin says it, and the way he says it. I feel robbed. Marin is supposed to notice my beauty, not Bianca's. He should still be hoping I will bear children, not looking ahead to Bianca's. “I cannot think.”

He tucks my hand in the crook of his elbow and we walk down the wide central stairs, just the two of us. Bianca and Agnola went ahead earlier. The pouch that holds my gift mirror is hidden inside my cloak. It swings against my hip.

The gondola slides through our gates onto the wide waters. Night fog sits on the canal so thick, boats are little more than shadows until they are near enough for a collision. If it weren't for the bobbing lanterns, I might not even be sure they were there. Antonin cries out,
“Premi,”
and we pass a gondola going in the opposite direction, right side to right side, with the
slip, slip, slip
sounds of the water. Antonin cries out,
“Stali,”
and we pass, left side to left side,
slip, slip, slip.

The palace of the Bernardo family looms above us in the foggy night. We go up the grand staircase and a servant takes our cloaks.

Marin looks quickly at the pouch that hangs from my waist. How can he begrudge me this indulgence when he's been gone so long?

People are noisy with laughter and talk. The wine has already taken effect. I see the lights and the gowns and the lavish foods, but my head is abuzz. Marin greets old friends right and left. I find a side room where people are sitting and chatting, and take a seat.

The women here talk of their children. They would look down on me, if not for my tiny mirrors.

Someone's speaking to me. A girl, three or four years older than Bianca.

I speak back. She kisses me three times. It confuses me. I'm used to only two kisses. She's delightful. She probably just wants a mirror someday, but she is charming anyway.

A woman comes in. Signora Grimani. She reminds me that they have a wonderful library, that they care about rare books just as much as Marin does. Her attempts are more obvious than the girl's. She goes on and on, letting her eyes dart toward my pouch now and then. I need help.

Bianca. Where is she?

But no. Not Bianca. Not after Marin said she was an outstanding beauty. I pinch myself; a mother shouldn't be jealous of a daughter. Still, I take the signora's arm and ask her to help me find Agnola.

No sooner am I hanging on my Agnola's arm than Signora Dandolo appears. We exchange kisses, and I hand her the tiny mirror. She produces a purse for it, one side open so the mirror can show through, the other side finely embroidered. She hangs the purse from her waist and turns the mirror-side outward.

“That's a beautiful blue purse,” I say.

“Blue? It's yellow. Like the purse you gave to Signora Contarini.”

I reach to flip the purse over, to show her the back is blue, but someone has already noticed the new mirror. Now everyone's exclaiming, and I am pushed out of the way. After all, they know only one mirror is handed out at a time.

I go back to Agnola, and the rest of the evening passes comfortably.

We ride home in the gondola, the four of us. The oar rubs with a smooth
shhhush
in the
forcula.
The water smells of fish and urine.

“Did you enjoy yourself, Dolce?” asks Marin. He stands near the prow, while we three women sit under the canopy. He comes to sit beside me on the bench. “Every time I caught sight of you, you were pensive. I hope you're not going into one of your shy periods again.”

“Dolce was fine tonight,” says Agnola. “We were together. She is loved by everyone for her kindness.”

Marin rubs at the sides of his mouth. “Kindness? Or do you mean…” He reaches inside my cloak and feels the pouch that hangs there, empty now. “Dolce, did you give—”

“We can talk later, Marin. Please. It's very late. My head is on fire.”

He is contrite; his arm circles my waist and he pulls me to him. “What about you, Bianca? How was your evening?”

Bianca laughs. “Unexpectedly exciting.”

“I saw you talking with the young men,” says Marin. “At one point you were the only girl in that corner.”

She laughs again. “Don't worry, Papà. It was not in the least flirtatious.”

“Really? ‘Not in the least'?” he says, mimicking her.

“You can make fun of me all you like, but I'm not a child anymore, Papà. We talked of religion, politics, and philosophy.”

“How can politics and philosophy interest you?” says Agnola.

“They're all one thing, Aunt Agnola. The church runs everything.”

“We are a republic, Bianca,” says Marin.

“Yet we cringe at any questioning by the pope, any suggestion of an inquisition.”

“Cringe? Never act silly, Bianca.”

“You taught me not to be afraid of change, Papà.”

“And you should not be,” says Marin.

“Situations change per force,” says Bianca. “People learn new things. As our knowledge grows, our behavior must adapt.”

Marin nods.

“So we cannot continue to swallow everything the church says without examination first.”

“Be careful, Bianca. Our souls are at risk.”

“We owe it to ourselves and to each other to live the best way we see fit.”

“It's God we owe it to.”

“Yes. God, as well. But the church may be standing between us and God. All of its luxury—the gold and silver—reeks of corruption and decadence.”

“This is what you talked about?” Marin shakes with anger. “I hope those young men were smart enough to keep their voices down. The hypocrites, talking of decadence as they feast and are waited on.” Marin jumps to his feet, and the gondola lurches. “We're almost home. And Dolce's right, it's very late. We'll continue this discussion tomorrow. It's an important one. But a private one, to remain within the family. Bianca, you are not to have these discussions with others, only with me. Agnola, Dolce, you are not to mention this to anyone else. We'll talk as a family. Talking openly about such subjects is dangerous. Do you understand?”

Something momentous has happened. Marin is concerned with threats to Bianca's soul. And to her reputation. To the reputation of the family.

Those concerns trump his worries about my mirror.

So why do I still feel as though I'm twisting in the wind?