Dark Shimmer (29 page)

“What are you talking about?”

“Don't you know?”

“Of course I know. Baffi belonged to the Barbaro family, Giallino to the Dandolo family, and Alvise to the Orseolo family.”

“And Giallino has been with you only this winter, right? He came most recently, right?”

“Right. But what has that to do with anything?”

“The last tiny mirror Dolce gave was to the Dandolo family. Oh, Giordano, she made mirrors for the families you belonged to. All who were slaves, she set free.”

“I don't understand.”

“How could you? I'm only beginning to.”

Giordano's cheeks slowly sag, eyes wide and sad. “She worked with the quicksilver all along.” He shakes his head. “She must have known she'd get sick. She saw it happen to Venerio. The beginnings, at least—when his hands shook and he'd fall all the time.”

“Venerio, the mirror maker. Bini told me about him.”

“He went mad, then died. Dolce did that…for us…and after the way everyone treated her…Only her mother was good to her.”

When Mamma told that story about the woman and child, Biancaneve said the woman didn't love her child. Biancaneve had hurt her. Fiercely. She trembles. “I told you. She's mad, not wicked.”

“You're right. There is no Wicked One.”

Biancaneve can't think about this any longer or she will go mad herself. She didn't mean to hurt Mamma, to be her enemy. She breathes hard. This is not her fault. She sinks onto a stool. “This half of the apple is poisoned, Giordano.”

“Probably.” He sets it on the floor.

Biancaneve leans forward to look closely at the little bits of orange pulp that sparkle and smell so odd…but it's a familiar smell. A fish smell. Shellfish?

At the same moment Giordano stomps on the apple.

Spray flies into Biancaneve's face. She snaps her mouth shut in surprise, but she doesn't swallow. She mustn't swallow! She rushes for the wine, sloshes it around her mouth, spits it out the window.

Giordano is at her side. “Good God, what do you feel?”

“Nothing.”

“I'll get rid of the damn thing. Bury it.” Giordano wipes the squashed mess into a cloth and carries it outside.

Biancaneve sits on a stool and waits. She can't think of what else to do.

It begins as a burning around the opening of her nostrils, then her lips. Tingling in her face, arms, legs. She observes it happening as though it's someone else dying, not her. Now her head hurts. She staggers to a bed, dizzy, nauseated. She feels like she has no body, no weight, as though she's a feather floating in a current of air. And this air that she knows is frigid feels so very hot.

She can hardly hear Giordano's calls. She can't lift her head. She can't move. She can't breathe.

“
P
ietro!” Agnola runs to him. She takes his hands. “What's the matter?”

What can he say to her? Pietro's eyes meet Antonin's. The man's gaze moves pointedly to Pietro's hands within Agnola's. Antonin turns his head to the painting hanging on the wall. Pietro should pull away, but he's glad Agnola's holding on to him. He's glad her attachment to him makes her oblivious to Antonin. He is so much in love with this woman. How is it that he's gotten into the unbearable position of not being able to tell her all the things that have been going on? It's a wicked twist of fate.

“I need to see the signora,” says Pietro.

“Why? What's happened?”

“I…” He has to tell the truth as much as he can. “A friend has died.”

“I'm so sorry. Someone dear to you?”

“She's become dear.” Pietro hadn't realized that before, but it's true. In his visits to the cabin in the woods, he has come to know Bianca…or Neve….She was not the vapid thing he'd thought her to be. Not at all. She was strong.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“No.”

Agnola looks bewildered. “But you want to see Dolce?”

“I need her help.”

Agnola shakes her head. “Her help but not mine?”

“It's a matter of money.”

“Money?”

“Please, Agnola. I need to talk with the signora.”

She bends forward and speaks softly. “Every day she's worse.”

Good. The world will be better without her. “I won't make her worse.” In fact, she'll probably rally at the news. She's finally succeeded.

Agnola nods to Antonin. “Please announce our visitor. Pietro and I will wait in the music room.”

“You don't have to accompany me.” Pietro walks ahead. “I know the way. I'll wait alone.” He goes quickly into the music room.

Agnola follows. “Don't you want me with you?”

“No.”

“But why not? Pietro, you don't have to be embarrassed about money around me. How much are you looking for?”

“More than you have.”

Agnola's mouth opens in surprise. She sinks onto a chair, clearly overcome. Nevertheless, she didn't sink onto the closest chair, the nicest one; she leaves that for Dolce. Pietro loves Agnola so much. He stands right in front of her. It would be easy to kiss her now. They just look at each other.

At last Agnola finds her voice: “What do you need it for?”

“Need?” It's Dolce.

Though Pietro knows now that she is crazy, he still feels disgust at the sight of Dolce. After all, what's the difference between illness and wickedness when it causes such evil?

She stands in the doorway with Antonin a moment, then lets go of his arm and takes her place in the best chair. “Who needs what? And, welcome, Pietro.”

Her face looks happy. But it's coated with a thick layer of cosmetics. She's in disguise…again. Covering decay. The illness consumes her, like fire.

Dolce and Agnola are both looking at him.

Pietro makes a slight bow to Agnola. He hopes she'll take it as an apology. “If you'll permit me, I need to speak with the signora alone.”

“I won't permit you. I'm not going anywhere.”

“This doesn't concern you.” Which is a lie. Pietro wishes he could take it back.

“Anything that concerns you concerns me.”

Pietro grits his teeth. “I'm begging you to leave us, Agnola.”

“Did you not hear me? I'm not going anywhere. I am your ally, Pietro. If anyone has sway with Dolce these days, it's me.”

Dolce shakes her head. “Enough of this.”

Maybe Agnola is right to stay; maybe she can help. Pietro just has to be careful, very careful, how he words things. He bows again, in acquiescence. “If I may, Signora, I've come to ask a favor.”

Dolce looks at him, then turns one hand palm up and bends the fingers repeatedly, as though beckoning, to hurry him along. Her eyes radiate contentment. Pietro is not a violent man, yet in this moment he can understand crimes of passion.

“A friend of mine died last night.”

“For certain?”

Agnola gasps. “Dolce, what kind of a response is that!”

“Forgive me. Is there more to say?”

“She needs a casket,” says Pietro. “Immediately.”

“Oh, Pietro.” Agnola jumps to her feet. “I have enough money for that.”

“A special casket,” says Pietro. “An expensive one.”

Agnola frowns and sits again. “Is this a noblewoman?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if she's married or widowed, she should be buried in her husband's tomb, if he was a decent sort and provided for her. She was married, wasn't she?”

“No.”

Agnola stiffens. “Then she should be in her family crypt. This is a family affair.”

“The situation is complex. The family is…scattered. I am begging you, both of you, to treat her as you would your own family.”

Dolce leans forward. “It is impossible to bury her in our family crypt.”

“I'm asking for a casket. That's all.”

“And you want a fancy one,” muses Dolce, a gloved finger resting on her cheek. Her face grows solemn. “Yes, I will give you the money for that.”

Agnola reaches across and touches her sister-in-law's shoulder. “You're very kind, Dolce.”

Pietro's hands ball into fists. He has to clasp them behind his waist and breathe slowly and deeply to overcome his anger. “We don't want wood.”

Dolce tilts her head. “We?”

“Her friends.”

“Her friends? So you've come to me for what? A sarcophagus of alabaster? One white as snow?”

Pietro's eyes dart toward Agnola, but she is looking only at Dolce.

“Something much more precious,” says Pietro. “Glass.”

Now Dolce and Agnola both stare at him.

“Murano's best. White crystalline. Perfectly transparent. She loved it. She said she adored it.”

“And she did,” says Dolce.

Agnola tilts her head. “What do you mean by that?”

“Who doesn't adore white crystalline?” Dolce taps her gloved fingers together. She seems pensive. “A glass-topped casket. Like Sant'Eliodoro. I used to look through the casket at him when I was a child.”

“Saints' coffins are gruesome.” Agnola wrings her hands. “Why would anyone ask for such a thing? Did this woman die a martyr?”

“No.” Dolce hits her hand on the arm of the chair with a thud. “Let's not talk about martyrdom. Death is dramatic enough.” She turns her head and gazes out the window on the canal. “A white crystalline coffin lid.” Her shoulders give a little shake.

“Not a lid. The entire casket. All six sides must be perfectly transparent.”

“Who ever heard of an all-glass casket?”

“I have, actually.” Agnola nods. “I just remembered. Simonetta of the Vespucci family. She was a noblewoman, from the kingdom of Genova. She married a noble from Firenze, and died young. Your age, Dolce. Twenty-two. She had consumption. They made a glass coffin and carried her through the streets of Firenze to the burial ground at the church. Thousands followed the procession. Everyone was in love with her.”

“Why glass?”

“To see her. She was famous. She was the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“It's not true.”

“What's not true, Dolce?”

“She was not the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Agnola's mouth twists. “Maybe at her time she was.”

Dolce seems to relax back into her chair. “Maybe so.” She looks at Pietro. “Is this why her friends want the coffin to be glass? So that they can look upon her beauty still?”

“Not her beauty. Her presence.”

“Hmm. You realize, of course, that she'll change rapidly. Skin white as snow will grow ashen. Lips red as blood will dry up. Hair black as ebony will fade.”

“White skin, red lips, black hair.” Agnola's voice is thin. “You speak as though you know her.”

“I do. We all do.”

A little shriek of pain escapes Agnola.

Pietro feels suspended. What is Dolce doing?

“The perfect beauty is someone we all dream about.” Dolce stands. “I will not pay for a glass casket just so you can watch this girl's beauty rot….”

“Who said she's a girl?” asks Agnola.

“Girl, woman…you do her a disservice.” Dolce leaves.

Pietro's eyes are on Agnola. Her face has transformed. He shivers.

Agnola stands. “Take the glass chest-bench. I'll tell Antonin and Carlo to carry it down for you.” She follows Dolce.

“Wait, Agnola. Please.”

She turns around. “Oh, Pietro.” She just looks at him. “How could you?”

“I didn't do anything wrong.”

“Whatever you did, it has destroyed us.”

S
ebastiano checks the sum in the ledger one last time, closes it, and pushes the ledger to the corner of the desk so it squares up properly. There's nothing left to do before traveling. He's used his time well these past couple of weeks. His bag is even packed already. So he might as well go. In fact, he could leave this afternoon. What's to stop him?

He's going to Firenze, to have a little pleasure. That's what he agreed upon when he talked with the girl in the cabin. She was so sensible. She made him recognize his own needs. And she listened to him. Not out of politeness—she was hardly polite. And not out of wanting anything from him. She was just a good listener.

And a good talker, too. Her voice plays in his head. Not too low—she's a girl yet. Besides, she talked about her stepmother in the way younger people do. She's under the woman's power. But definitely not a child.

A young woman living with dwarfs. She could be very little, like them.

What color is her hair?

Sebastiano walks down the stairs to the kitchen. It's empty. Of people, that is. The table is covered with the carcasses of little birds. Quails and crows. The servants must be planning a feast in his absence. Everyone has parties during Carnevale. Sebastiano should have suggested a party himself. And when he didn't, his housekeeper should have brought it up.

Everyone has left him pretty much to his own devices since Papà's death. Probably out of respect for his mourning. But Sebastiano's mourning has to come to an end. He should go grab his travel bag and take off for Firenze. Instead, he walks empty-handed out the door and to the stable.

What color is the girl's skin?

What color are her lips?

Sebastiano saddles and bridles Luminoso. This is foolish, what he is about to do. But the idea of being foolish makes him happy. And maybe it isn't that foolish, really. He talked with the girl long enough to get a sense of her…longer than most men get to talk with a girl before they marry. And all he wanted was to keep talking, to know more. Everything about her. Why shouldn't they talk again?

He mounts and is halfway to the cabin when he realizes he should have gone hunting first. Arriving with a pot of roasted venison smothered in some delicious sauce would have been perfect. And that's what he promised her.

But he can't turn back now. He will not allow reason to prevail. He needs to hear that girl's voice as soon as possible. He needs to find out her name. He's gone over their conversation perhaps a hundred times. She said her father went off to Russia to get books for his library. She said she traveled with him when she was a small girl. She said her mother died when she was little. The only girl he ever heard of who traveled with her father was the daughter of a recent widower who was building a library. A friend of his father's. They traveled together once—the four of them. His memory isn't able to bring up the man's name. Sebastiano is almost sure that was the only time he met the man. But he remembers the feisty daughter's name because it contrasted starkly with her black hair—Bianca.

He doesn't believe the girl in the cabin is the same girl. Coincidences like that happen only in stories. But the whole thing gives him an excuse to return and find out her name so that he can attach it to her voice. And he must see her. He must. So this time he will stay till the men show up. This time the door will open. This time their eyes will meet.

The old poet Dante wrote, “
Lo viso mostra lo color del core
—the face shows the color of the heart.” Sebastiano understands those words. The eyes are like a window into someone's soul. He's been asking himself the color of this girl's hair and skin and lips, but what he wants to know most of all is the color of this girl's heart. He needs to know it.

He urges Luminoso on faster. The dog cages appear. And, at last, the little cabin beyond. And what's that?

Luminoso slows to a walk. Sebastiano halts him beside a glass box. Someone lies inside it. His breath quickens. What's going on? He slips from the saddle and secures the reins loosely so that Luminoso can graze.

The box isn't just glass, it's the finest crystal, perfectly transparent. Inside is a girl. Her eyes are closed. Is it the girl from the cabin? Who else could it be? He raps on the lid. “Hello, hello in there.”

No change. He looks for a way to open the box. No latch.

“Get back!” A dwarf comes out of the cabin, holding an ax high. “Don't bother her!”

Sebastiano stands tall. He has no weapon. But he will not step back from this girl. “I am Messer Simoli.”

“I know who you are. Just stay away from—”

“Excuse him, please, Messer Simoli.” Another dwarf pushes the one with the ax aside. It's Alvise, the one Sebastiano's father dealt with. He's their leader, and the only one whose name Sebastiano knows.

The others crowd out of the cabin now. Sebastiano counts: eight. That's one more than there's supposed to be. No women among them.

Alvise bows. “We're in mourning. So we may not be on our best behavior with respect to guests.”

Mourning. Sebastiano feels a great pressure behind his eyes. He must talk slowly. He must not rush to conclusions. “I am not a guest on my own land.”

“Of course not. I meant ‘visitor.' ”

“I am not a visitor on my own land.”

The old gray-haired one steps forward. “Alvise can bumble sometimes. I am Giordano.” He bows. “As Alvise said, we're in mourning. Ricci didn't mean to be rude. He just feels protective. We all do.”

“In mourning”—Sebastiano looks at the glass box—“for her?” His skin turns to gooseflesh. He remembers the girl's parting words, about opening the door and dying.

“Neve,” says the blond one.

“Bianca,” says another. “That's her real name.” He's the best dressed. Like a noble's servant.

Bianca! The little girl's name, long ago. Sebastiano's eyes go back to that fine nose, peaked lips, high cheekbones. Maybe he does recognize her. “She doesn't look dead. She's…lovely.”

“Skin white as snow, lips red as blood, hair black as ebony.” It's the well-dressed one. “She could have been a fine wife. To you, Messer Simoli.”

“He's too old for her,” says another.

“He's exactly the right age, Tommaso. And he would have protected her.”

“Stop it, Pietro,” says Alvise. “We did the best we could. It was your idea to bring her here anyway.”

Sebastiano puts up his hands. “You, Pietro, you brought her here? So you know her family? Who are they?”

“She's dead now. Does it matter?”

“To those she left behind it does. She deserves a proper burial.”

“Only her father would give her that. Until he comes, the glass coffin is where she'll stay.”

“No.” Tommaso grabs Pietro's arm. “You're not going to let her father take her away, are you? That's not right. She should be here, where we can see her.”

“He won't be back till spring, Tommaso. We have her for now. He'll need a chance to say goodbye. He'll need to bury her in the family crypt. You'd want that for a father, wouldn't you?”

Sebastiano rubs his mouth, trying not to weep. Bianca's cheeks look fresh—he reaches to touch one. His hand hits the glass and his neck and face go hot.

“It's all right,” says old Giordano. “We know. She looks alive. Nothing about her has changed.”

“How long has it been?”

“She died last night. We put her in the casket not an hour ago.”

“And you plan to leave her out here till her father returns in the spring?”

“Inside might be too warm,” says Giordano. “The cold helps…to keep her like she was.”

“Animals will come,” says Sebastiano.

“Why should they?” It's the mustached one. “There's no smell.”

“It'll seep out eventually,” says Sebastiano.

Giordano shakes his head. “The glass top fits right.”

Sebastiano looks at Bianca's hands folded on her chest. He wants to hold one. What a morbid desire. His nose flares in disgust at himself. But she looks so very alive. “Animals will see her. They can come up and look right in. They'll attack.”

“That's a stupid thing to say.” It's the rude one, Ricci. “What animal pays attention to something that doesn't move and gives off no smell?”

“Any passing stranger could…bother her.”

“Out here?” says Ricci. “What passing strangers?”

Sebastiano stands tall. He puts a hand possessively on top of the coffin. “I'm taking her.”

“What!” Ricci steps forward. “No you're not.”

“I have a courtyard. It's protected from everything. You can come visit her every day. She'll be safe there.”

“She's safe with us,” says Tommaso.

“Pietro even said it,” says Sebastiano. “I can protect her better. She might still be alive if Pietro had brought her to me in the first place.”

“I didn't mean that,” says Pietro. He looks around at the others. “I shouldn't have said that. No one could have saved her. Her stepmother is too smart.”

“I knew her father,” says Sebastiano. “My father was friends with him.”

They all stare at him.

Then Ricci lifts a lip. “What's her father's name, then?”

“I don't remember. But I met him once.”

“You just said you knew him.”

“I was only a child. We traveled together—Bianca and me and our fathers—to a monastery to find books for her father's library.”

Pietro lets out a loud sigh. “Ah, yes.”

Alvise comes forward. “You can't have her, Messer Simoli. We protected her—or tried to. It's our right to watch over her coffin.”

His words make sense. But Sebastiano can't keep his hands from opening and closing. A frenzy holds him taut. “You hunted on my land.”

“What are you talking about?” says Alvise.

“You shot a stag. Two weeks ago. You left him for the crows.”

“Who told you that?”

“Bianca…Neve…she told me.”

“When?” It's Ricci.

“The day after you did it. I could bring all of you to justice. And I will, if you don't let me take the girl.”

“You don't care about the stag.” Ricci stomps in a circle around Sebastiano and the glass coffin. “You're smitten. Admit it.”

Smitten. Is that what he is?

“Come and visit her,” says Giordano kindly. “She's not going anywhere.”

Sebastiano looks around desperately. “Is this the best spot for her? Do you think she might be better off on the other side of the cabin, where the dog cages are? That way if anyone came along at night and disturbed the coffin, the dogs would howl.”

“Neve wouldn't want to be near the dogs,” says the blond one.

“What are you saying?” says the mustached one. “She loved the dogs.”

“Sure,” says the blond, “but she didn't like them to lick her. She said their breath stank.”

Sebastiano's heart leaps. He looks at Ricci. “Good Lord, man, you're right; I'm completely smitten. What kind of fool am I? But I am convinced, totally and utterly, that this girl should have been the one I married and built a family with and grew old with. I feel I've lost everything.” Tears run down his cheeks. He's a blubbering idiot. He puts both hands on the coffin lid and leans till his face is just inches from the girl's. “I would have cherished you all my life.”

“Listen,” says Giordano in a thick voice. “Maybe the signore is right. Maybe Neve should be moved closer to the cabin.”

“She liked the hens,” says the mustached man. “We could place her near the coop.”

Alvise and Ricci take one end of the coffin. Sebastiano and Pietro take the other. The five other men walk beside them. Sebastiano can't take his eyes from the girl's face. What? Did her eyelids quiver? Stunned, he drops his corner of the coffin.