Dark Shimmer (20 page)

“Maybe not. Maybe the old head of the family is dead by now. Maybe the son who's my father is in charge. Maybe he'd welcome me.”

“And maybe our latrine has a seat made of gold,” says Baffi.

“All those years of living on Torcello with only other dwarfs, they made you ignorant of how the world works,” says Ricci. “No noble is going to recognize you as his son. You're an idiot to think otherwise.”

“I'm not an idiot.”

“Good. Then you know our latrine doesn't even have a seat.”

“You three,” says Neve, “Baffi and Ricci and Giallino—you have nicknames.
Baffi
for your mustache,
Ricci
for your curly hair,
Giallino
for your blond hair. What are your real names?”

“Those are our real names,” says Ricci. “We were named by the big people we lived with. And we hold on to those names, to remind us that we can't get lazy, we can't forget who we are and what we went through. Not like Alvise.” He shoots a look of disgust at Alvise. “We don't pretend it never happened.”

“That's one way of doing things,” says Alvise. “Another way is to put it behind you. To recognize who you are and stand firm in your own name. I'm not pretending anything. My mother called me Alvise. I have a right to that name, no matter what big people called me.”

“You and Pietro,” says Ricci. “Fools.”

“I'll tell you what I want,” says Giallino. He points at the hearth. “Let's eat that pig.”

“Finally,” says Alvise. “Finally someone's showing some appreciation. Let's eat.”

“You can have my stool,” Tommaso says to Neve. “I'll sit on the floor.”

“Oooo. Suffer, suffer, suffer,” says Ricci.

“You can build yourself a new stool,” says Alvise. “I'll help you.”

A
gnola looks at the wall. With a groan, she rolls over. Waking up is the hardest part of the day. She has to face it—Bianca.

She stands and reaches high to touch the tip of the green damask that stretches over the top of the canopy bed. The coverlet matches it. Agnola and Bianca have identical bedcovers in deep green, Bianca's favorite color.

Agnola dresses. Lucia La Rotonda has left a tray outside the door. Bread and raisins and chamomile brew. Agnola eats alone, sitting on the rush-bottom stool at the table. The food is without taste. She gives half of her bread to Pizzico.

The house is so quiet. Not even Pizzico makes a noise above the little
sht, sht
of his chewing. Agnola walks the dog down the rear stairs and waits while he does his business in the courtyard. Carlo comes out instantly and cleans it up. Antonin is nowhere to be seen, but Agnola is sure he's in the wings somewhere, waiting. Everyone is solicitous. Everyone misses Bianca. Christmas without Bianca was bleak. Every day without Bianca is bleak.

When Agnola goes back up the stairs, she sees Dolce standing in front of the long mirror at the front of the big hall. Agnola walks up behind her slowly. She looks at Dolce's face in the mirror, but their eyes don't meet. Dolce stares at herself. Her lips move.

“What does the mirror tell you today?” says Agnola gently.

“The same,” says Dolce. She turns and faces Agnola. “Always the same.”

Dolce hardly speaks these days except to that mirror. Agnola thinks sometimes of covering the mirror like in the past—and forcing Dolce to be part of the household again. “We need a change.”

Dolce looks slightly alarmed. “Who needs a change?”

“The feast of Santo Stefano was a week ago today,” says Agnola.

“Time passes.” Dolce traces the edges of her lips with her fingertips, those pink, pink fingertips.

“We're already a week into Carnevale,” Agnola says with forced enthusiasm. Carnevale is the last thing Agnola wants to participate in. But Dolce's hold on this world is weakening day by day. “Let's be part of it. I'll tell Franca we'll go to her party, after all.”

“Franca? I don't care about Franca.”

“Friends are important, Dolce.”

“Anyway, we didn't have gowns made this year.”

“We can use last year's. And I can buy us new masks. That's all we need, really.”

“You don't care if others remember the gowns?” asks Dolce.

“Let's talk.” Agnola touches Dolce on the arm as softly as she can. “Come. Let's sit in the music room.”

“Not the music room. The library. The music room was Bianca's.”

Agnola sucks in air sharply. The words hurt. But at the same time she's glad of them. This is a rare admission of the fact that Bianca is gone; perhaps it's a healthy sign. “It's true, sweet Dolce. The sight of the harp always brings tears to my eyes.” She follows Dolce into the library. They sit near the table where Marin liked to stand hunched over his large, heavy books. He would spread open two or three on the table at once and move from one to the other like a bird hunting through bushes for berries. He was always eager, delighted. He used to smile so much. “Is there any word from Marin yet?”

“Nothing.”

Agnola's head feels heavy. Her poor brother. He will come home with gifts for everyone, for a wife who's gone mad and a daughter who isn't here. He'll learn the news and…simply break. The whole household will begin the process of grieving all over again. She looks around. So many books. And still Marin wants more. What makes people like this, focused on only one thing? In some ways Marin is as bad as Dolce. But he has some perspective. When he finds out, none of these books will matter to him anymore. None of them holds the answers he'll need. He'll cry. He won't pretend that nothing has happened.

“You wanted to talk?” says Dolce.

The physician has urged Agnola to try to get Dolce to engage in conversation. “Do you know you hardly talk these days, except to that mirror. It's sad, Dolce.”

“Most things are sad.”

“It's odd, Dolce.”

Dolce raises an eyebrow.

“An obsession, really. The physician says talking to the mirror allows you to block everything else out.”

“What else is there?”

Agnola shrugs. “Carnevale, for one.”

“Does anyone really care about Carnevale?”

“Of course they do.” Agnola inspects her hands. “The students at the university, for instance.”

“Oh?”

“You didn't listen when Pietro came yesterday?”

“He appreciates your company more than mine. I sit with you only to maintain the necessary propriety.” Dolce yawns.

That's another thing Dolce does too much of: sleep. But they all do, even the servants. “That's thoughtful of you. Thank you. Well, let me tell you the news about the students in Padova.”

“If you must.”

“The university faculty decided that Carnevale was frivolous—a waste of time. It's not a liturgical necessity, after all. It's only tradition. So they declared that they would continue lectures all through the Carnevale season. No break. They said they'd be saving the students from folly. The students went wild.”

“What does that mean? They barked and growled? Defecated on the floor?”

“They did the student equivalent. They smashed classroom benches. One tutor lectured on Aristotle—some philosopher in Greece long ago—and they beat him. Another dared to lecture on Galen—a great physician in Rome long ago. You've heard of him, I know you have, because Marin likes to talk about him. Remember? Anyway, they beat that tutor, too.”

“Absurd,” says Dolce.

“But understandable. Carnevale is a time of breaking rules. People need it. We can't be good all the time.”

“That's the truth.”

“Right. The university faculty can't be as smart as they think they are if they don't understand that much about human nature.”

“I don't like human nature,” says Dolce. “Not really.”

“What a sad and terrible thing to say.”

Dolce protrudes her lips in thought. “I guess you're right. But it's true. We'll do anything to satisfy our needs. We'll ruin the lives of the ones we love.”

Agnola rushes to Dolce and kneels at her feet. She takes Dolce's hands in her own. “Don't think like that. Forgive Bianca. She didn't mean to ruin our lives. Whatever she did, however much it wounded us, that wasn't her intention.”

Dolce blinks. Her face is all surprise. She does that a lot. She seems not to be in the same world that everyone else is. Agnola can't bear seeing Dolce so undone anymore. It's not possible that Bianca committed suicide. It's not! “Sweetest Dolce, let me help you.” Pietro told Agnola not to repeat his words to anyone. But Dolce is suffering so. Agnola kisses Dolce's hand. “Bianca is not dead.”

Dolce's face goes flat. “What?”

“She's alive.”

Dolce grabs Agnola by both wrists so tight, Agnola can't hold in a yelp. “How do you know this?”

“I believe it. It helps me. When I can't think anymore, when my head is so heavy I can't hold it up, I remember those words. Bianca, our dear Bianca, she lives.”

Dolce lets go of Agnola's wrists. “Oh.” Her head falls back against the chair. “You can believe what you choose to believe.”

“You can believe it, too. I can tell you that every day. I can whisper it in your ear whenever you need me to. We can sit in the music room and pretend we're listening to Bianca at the harp.”

Dolce shakes her head.

“Why not? Please, Dolce. They never found her body.”

“Of course not. She sank to the bottom because of her dress. That's what the authorities say.”

“But they don't know. They can't know for sure. Bianca's alive.”

Dolce shakes her head harder.

Agnola reaches up and holds Dolce's head still between her hands. “Listen to the words. They will help you. Really. They help me when Pietro says them.”

“Pietro says them?”

Agnola nods.

“What does he say?” Dolce sits up again. She pushes Agnola's hands away. “What does he say exactly?”

“He says, ‘Bianca is not dead.' He says, ‘Trust me.' And I do. It helps.”

Dolce looks at Agnola. “I need to speak with Pietro.”

Agnola smiles. “Of course. I'll send for him.”

“Send for him now. Hurry.”

Agnola gets to her feet.

Dolce grabs her hand. “And tell Lucia La Rotonda that I need to see her. Immediately.”

“That's a good idea. Let's have her make a fine dinner tonight. Let's grow fat before Lent comes.” Agnola moves quickly down the stairs.

Antonin is dispatched in moments. And the cook is right where she's supposed to be. Lucia La Rotonda follows Agnola up the stairs, to the library.

“Yes, Signora?”

“Liver and lungs,” says Dolce.

“Excuse me, Signora?”

Agnola goes to stand beside Dolce. She shakes her head in warning at Lucia La Rotonda. “She just needs a moment to think more clearly.” She leans over Dolce. “You don't want liver and lungs, Dolce….You want—”

“Hush!” Dolce points a finger at Lucia La Rotonda. “You boiled me liver and lungs two months ago. Do you remember?”

“Of course, Signora. With salt, just as you requested.”

“Did you recognize the animal they came from?”

Lucia La Rotonda looks offended. “I have been the cook of this family for eighteen years, Signora. I recognize all meats.”

“And what animal was it?”

“A pig, of course.”

Dolce puts her hands in her hair. “Where did the pig come from?”

“Now that I think of it, it was probably a wild boar. The liver wasn't all caked with fat, like with domesticated animals.”

“And where did the wild boar come from?”

“I'd say on the mainland, just the other side of the lagoon.”

“You can tell that just from looking at the organs?”

“It's not advisable to transport fresh meat far, Signora, even in cold weather.”

Dolce points a finger at Agnola now. “Tell Pietro to come immediately!”

“Antonin is already fetching him.”

Dolce stands. “Get out of here, both of you!”

Lucia La Rotonda bows and runs.

Agnola's eyes burn. She walks into the hall and closes the library door behind her. She leans back against it. Her heart pounds. What's going on? The liver and lungs of a boar can't have anything to do with anything. But Dolce changed in an instant. She acted angry. Who is she enraged at? Agnola chews on her knuckles. Why, oh why, did she say that about Bianca being alive, especially when Pietro has always admonished her not to talk of it? What has she done?