Dark Shimmer (31 page)

For an instant, guilt transfixes Agnola. Dolce is off to prison for a crime she didn't commit. But the instant passes, for, after all, Bianca lives. Pietro has taken Agnola to visit her. The dear girl lives. She even thrives. And if Dolce were free, she'd go after Bianca again. There's no question.

Dolce must be stopped. And the Dolce Agnola once knew, the Dolce who is gone forever, would want it this way. Agnola believes that. She has to believe that.

Agnola looks Dolce in the eye. “Bianca,” she says.

P
ietro stands in the bleak, narrow corridor. Bars cross the window between us horizontally and vertically. “I can't fit my head through,” I say, “but my hand goes easily. Is that why you're standing so far back? Are you afraid of me?”

“I've come with news.”

“News before dawn? Come a little closer; it's hard to see you in this murky place.” I try to sound encouraging.

“Agnola wanted you to know. Before we left.”

“Agnola's leaving?” I grab the bars with both hands and press my face into an opening. Marin will come home to find everyone he loved so dearly gone. “She can't go, Pietro. She can't. Marin needs her.”

“You're not in charge.”

“Don't let her go. Marin is a good man. Tell her to remember that and behave accordingly.”

“You're not making any sense. But I don't care. I'm just the messenger.” Pietro's arms are crossed. He rocks a little on his heels. “We're going to the mainland. We'll be gone a week. To a wedding.”

I'm half elated. “You and Agnola? You're getting married?”

“If she wants that. But that's a question for later. We're going to Biancaneve's wedding.”

“Biancaneve?”

“That's what she calls herself these days. To celebrate her new life, and her past.”

Snow White. My heart flutters. “So she did die? And then she lived?”

“She's different now. She doesn't want city life anymore. She's in love.”

I let go and drop to the damp wood floor. She's alive.
Thank you.

Pietro's voice comes through the window above me. “We'll dance at her wedding today.”

“Bianca…” My voice is weak. “Biancaneve…she should wait for her father to return. He'll want to give away his daughter.”

“I told you: you're not in charge.”

“Have another ceremony when he returns. Everyone can dance then.”

“I bear messages only from Agnola to you. She believes this information will soothe some part of you, and knowing that helps her sleep. Guilt weighs on her.”

“Yes….Deception is contrary to her nature. Tell her, these last few weeks, my world is no longer black. Dark shimmers at the edges whenever it wants, but sometimes I can see the center again. Tell her in those moments I know she did the right thing. Tell her I'm…grateful. And…” The dark encroaches. I try to push it back, but it swings across my face, smothers me. “Tell her I'll be dead…in weeks.”

“Weeks? They haven't even set the date for a trial yet.”

It's not the Republic who will kill me. It's my illness. I'm nearly dead already. “Do you know what they do to me to try to get me to tell them something that I cannot tell them? To reveal to them the name of someone who doesn't exist?”

“I've delivered Agnola's message.”

“And she thinks that absolves her? Giordano knows I told the truth. I recognized him. I could call upon him if I wanted to!” I'm shouting, frothing at the mouth.

“Agnola knew you'd be like this. She said you even told her when you were at the baths together—you said, ‘It will never be all right.' She wishes it were different. But it can't be. You're sick—and that makes you dangerous.

“Agnola has a giant heart, but, me, all I can think is, good riddance. We'll be dancing as you die. And the men who took care of Biancaneve this winter, they'll dance at the wedding. And they'll dance when she has children and whenever beautiful things happen to her. They'll know her forever. Sebastiano has given them the cabin to live in for as long as they want. So die, go ahead and die. Let this evil end with you.” I hear his footfalls fade.

The darkness retreats.

My parting message to Agnola almost had dignity…it almost conveyed the best of me…until I ruined it.

There has to still be a best of me. Please, Lord.

Dangerous.

Something crawls up the front of my leg. I squash it through my skirt. Something else bites my foot. I pull off my battered boot and stocking and rub at the stinging spot. I have so many bites, all up my legs, my back, my chest, my head. My neck is lumpy. I cough all the time. I'm covered with weeping sores.

The woman to my left, the one who is always watching me, stands and comes over. She towers above me. “I can piss on your foot if you want. It takes away the sting. And it's hot, for a moment at least.”

I point at the oozing gash on her ankle. “Piss on yourself,” I say.

Some of the other women laugh. But no one laughs hard. No one has the energy. We are a withered lot. The food is too disgusting to eat.

A key clanks in the lock. “You.” The guard points at me. “Come.”

I pick up my boot and stocking and walk past the guard, who locks the door once I'm out. The stone floor of the corridor is cold on my bare foot. Something to focus on.

Biancaneve weds today. Biancaneve of the birds. Biancaneve the beauty.

I walk ahead of the guard to the end of the passage, to the room I know well. My interrogator awaits me. “Is it sunny out, Torture-Monger?”

“Too early to tell.”

“I used to love the sun, you know. Now it sears my eyes.”

Torture-Monger indicates a stool. “Sit, Signora.”

“Is it a proper day for a wedding?”

“Any day is a proper day for a wedding if the man and woman choose each other.”

“Well, aren't you a renegade.”

“Signora, once more, I recommend that you cooperate. You look revolting, you smell revolting, your legs wobble as you walk.”

“Are you blind? You may be right about my odor and my wobble. But I am beautiful still. Somewhere that other me exists yet—the beautiful one—the one Marin loves. And not just him. Agnola, too, and Bianca—Biancaneve, that is.”

“Sometimes I think you are crazy. Other times I'm sure. But, Signora, oh, Signora, those cells—the well, as we call them—are not the right place for a person of your social standing. Cooperate. Give us the name of the thief. The one who stole Murano's mirror-making secrets. The traitor to the Republic.”

“I know no such person.”

“One name, and you will be moved to the cells on the top floor. They are cleaner, less crowded, without infestation.”

“Colder, too, I hear.”

“Lead roofs make them icy in winter, steamy in summer. But it's almost spring. You'll be brought to trial in spring. And if you cooperate now, you are likely to be seen as the victim of a scoundrel. A noblewoman, taken advantage of.”

“But I'm not, you see.” I look around the room. It's empty but for two stools and a table. “No instruments of mutilation today?”

“You don't know what instruments of mutilation are, Signora. What you've experienced thus far is like a father disciplining a child.”

“You can't frighten me.” I spit into my hand and hold it out toward him. Two molars sit there in a puddle of blood.

He draws back and gapes at me. Then he leans toward me. “Treason is punishable by the gallows.”

“I am innocent of treason, but guilty of worse.”

“Nothing is worse than treason.”

“Blind and stupid, that's what you are.”

“Let's take a walk.” He half lifts me by the elbow, and leads me into a room.

Iron contraptions hang from the walls. If I looked, I might be able to guess what they're for. But I don't look.

“All right, lunatic, give me a smile, and I'll let you choose your method.” He opens his hands and spreads them wide. “Boot or cuff?”

“I don't understand the question.” I don't understand anything.

“Iron shoes or iron wristbands.”

“Boot.”

“Bad choice. You'll never walk again.”

“I can hardly walk now.”

“Spikes or fire? These boots”—he holds them up—“spikes poke in as I tighten the vise. These others, I heat them in the coals.”

Along one wall is a fireplace. The coals spill out in a half circle and glow. There will be a great fire at the wedding. There will be roasted meat. “Who will eat the liver and lungs?”

“You will, Dolce.”

Am I hallucinating? I haven't heard Marin's voice this whole time in prison. I turn around slowly, as slowly as I can, so as not to scare off whatever phantom might stand there.

“Excuse me, Signore,” says Torture-Monger. “No one is allowed in this chamber.”

Marin stands there. Real as the dank of this prison. “Messer Sanudo let me in. I am Messer Cornaro; the prisoner is my wife. Please extend us the courtesy of speaking in private. Messer Sanudo will be here soon, to give you instructions.” Marin holds out a purse.

Torture-Monger takes it and leaves.

Marin looks at me with a ghastly pale face. His hair has grayed.

“The Russian winter has faded you, my husband.”

“I am less ravaged than you.”

I see myself in his eyes. Hideous. I turn my back on him again and sink to a squat, as small as I can. “Have you come to save me or witness my death?”

“I believe you were about to be tortured, not killed.”

“Marin, speak to me.”

“I hardly know what to say.”

I keep my eyes on my feet. “Did you just happen home in time for the wedding?”

“Yes.”

I look up at him. Could the Lord have bestowed this one mercy?

“And no. A messenger made it through the mountain passes to tell me that my daughter needed me. He set out in February, the most treacherous month. So I came back as fast as I could. I arrived two days ago, just by chance in time for a wedding I knew nothing of.” He puts both hands to his forehead and rocks on his heels. “When I left, you were sick, but still loving. My daughter was safe. My sister was respectable.”

“Agnola is still respectable.”

“She has…Pietro.” He drops his hands. “He puts her outside Venetian society.”

“You've never really cared about Venetian society, Marin. You proved that when you married me. She's happy with him.”

“I hope you're right. It's all…My heart is breaking.”

“Our daughter…is safe.”

“Agnola told me you tried to kill her.”

“Four times.”

“You tried to kill our daughter.” He is crying loudly.

My head rests heavy on my knees.

“Can you tell me why?” he asks. I shake my head. “Do you know why?”

I love Biancaneve. I love Marin. I love Agnola. Some days my mind seems to be reviving. I know what I have done. I know everything. I will never understand, but I know. My head rolls with tiny balls of iron that clink against each other all day, all night. That was me who did all that. That other me. “I went mad. Everything still…” I stop.

“So my wife is insane. That's what they all say.”

“Why are you here, Marin?”

“When they told me what had happened and that you were in prison, I thought you were behind bars for attempted murder. Only this morning did Agnola confess to me.”

“Why?”

“I found out she had sent Pietro here to tell you about the wedding, and I asked her why….It all spilled out.”

“And so…you rushed here to save me.”

“I didn't rush anywhere.”

“Of course not. Nothing can save me. The only ones who can give testimony about my mirror making on Torcello are Giordano and Bini and Tommaso. And their word would mean nothing to Messer Sanudo.”

“My word would mean something to him. I can say you made them here in Venezia.”

“Is that what you decided to do?”

“Not at first. Rage can win over grief. But then Bianca…Biancaneve…prevailed upon me. She wants you at her wedding. She pleaded. She said the world is too full of madness and despair. She wants no more mistakes. She begs that cruelty give way to kindness, charity, and love. Most of all, love. That's what our daughter said.”

I hear her voice in those words. I could go to the wedding. I could see my daughter lit up with love. I could watch Agnola at Pietro's side, brave against the cold tide of Venezia. I could even lean on Marin. It would be balm for my ragged soul.