Masquerade (4 page)

Darkness had come early that night, as if nature herself were conspiring with the Venetians to usher in the first night of Carnevale as quickly as possible.

Anna looked out over the Canal Grande where a great number of gondolas were converging on various palazzi. The black vessels would not have been visible if it were not for the orange glow of their lanterns. That was not all the gondolas carried. Their cargo were the rich and richer, the young and old, the moral and immoral, all heading towards a night of masked fun and frivolity.

It was this scene Anna viewed from the window of her fifth-storey bedroom that evening. Every part of her body ached to be a part of it; to be surrounded by glittering silk and jewels; to be ferried like someone important.

Closing her eyes, she released this ache in the only way she knew how – by opening her mouth and singing. Her voice started out low and began to rise, gaining greater intensity until she felt as though she could lift off the ground and float out the window into the life she knew she was made for.

Few people had ever heard her sing, but those who had said her voice was as clear and faultless as Murano glass. It made perfect sense to Anna that someone with a voice like hers should enjoy a lofty position in society, such as on a grand stage in front of a crowd of hundreds all there to see
her
. Her voice dropped to a low hum, as she realised that this was not her future. She would always be a servant.

From behind the soft sounds of her voice, there came another sound. Anna stopped singing and turned away from the window. A small body was curled up in the bed, which filled up most of the cramped bedroom. Two brown eyes looked at her though the darkness.

‘Mi dispiace, did I wake you?’ said Anna, moving across the room and sitting down upon the edge of the bed.

‘No,’ whispered Emilia. ‘I love to hear you sing.’

Anna smiled down at her sister. It was like looking into a mirror. They shared the same high forehead, small round mouth, big eyes, wispy brown hair and the same birthday. But there was one big difference between the two. Most days, Emilia did not get out of bed.

It had been a month since Anna had discovered her sister outside the land entrance of Ca’ Contarini, tearful and confused. Somehow, on that autumn afternoon, Anna had managed to get Emilia inside the palazzo and up to her fifth-storey bedroom without being seen. There had been no other option; they couldn’t go to their father, not that beast. Nor could she have taken her back to the noble family whom her sister had served at Ca’ Basilio, for Emilia was in no state to work. There was no one else,
nowhere
else.

If anyone in the household discovered that Anna was hiding her sister in the palazzo, she would lose her job. They would both be out on the calle. Word travelled quickly in Venice and transformed as it travelled. The story of a devoted sister hiding her sick twin would morph into the story of two spies going by one identity. No family would hire her. Anna shivered just thinking about it.

Emilia believed that she had been cursed. She said that a witch had stolen her soul and left her empty. Anna did not believe in witches and curses. In her opinion, Emilia was sick. The problem was that she could not bring a doctor to the palazzo, nor could she take Emilia to a doctor, since she could not be coaxed out of bed. Anna had tried everything else she could think of, including Teriaca, a medicine for all sicknesses, which she had obtained from a barber. But even this Venetian specialty made up of over seventy ingredients, including a root from Zanzibar and snake flesh, had not altered her sister’s condition. And so they lived hiding a terrible secret. Anna knew one thing about secrets: they didn’t stay hidden forever.

‘There’s a new girl come to live in the palazzo. Her name is Orelia. She is Signor Contarini’s goddaughter from Rome. You would like her, she’s sweet,’ said Anna, keeping her voice low in case Maria had come up to her own room, which was separated from Anna’s by a thin wall.

‘She’s beautiful, too. I’ve never seen hair so vibrant as hers. Or eyes so bright without the aid of belladonna drops.’

It was like most of their conversations, one-sided. But Anna didn’t mind, she loved having someone to talk to. Some days, Anna found herself hoping that Emilia would never recover. She hated herself for thinking this. Their father had always said that Anna was born with a black heart. She had come to believe it herself. How else could she explain her thoughts, however rare, wishing her sister sick, their father dead and a different life for herself?

Bending forward, Anna kissed her sister’s forehead. Then she quickly looked away, ashamed of how she overcompensated for the darkness within her.

After a few minutes of silence, Anna could hold back no longer and she began to tell Emilia everything about Orelia and the costumes the girls were wearing.

On this night, Emilia spoke back. ‘It is the first night of Carnevale, isn’t it?’ Her voice was weak.

Anna nodded.

‘Go out. Please don’t let me stop you.’

‘It’s not you stopping me, it’s me,’ replied Anna with a weak laugh.

‘Wear a mask; no one will know who you are.’

Anna sighed. Many servants and other members of the popolani were able to put on a mask and go out as if rank did not exist, and in many ways during Carnevale it didn’t. But Anna wanted more than just a night of being someone else. ‘I don’t need a mask. No one knows who I am. That’s the problem.’

‘They will. One day.’ The corner of Emilia’s mouth flickered for a moment, but there was no smile.

‘You are the only person who believes in me.’

‘Can you do something for me?’

‘Anything,’ said Anna, stroking her sister’s forehead.

‘I need you to find a way to remove the curse. I don’t know how much longer I can live this way.’ Tears streamed down Emilia’s face.

‘I’ll find a way,’ said Anna, her own tears mingling with her sister’s. ‘I promise.’

Anna curled up against Emilia in the small bed, thinking about her promise and how only someone with a black heart would make a promise they were unable to fulfil.

Her last thought before falling asleep was not about her promise or the darkness that threatened to consume her, but rather about how she and her sister were like two pieces of broken glass that somehow, when they came together, made something whole.

Orelia breathed in the salty air that wafted up to the balcony and she felt her body relax. It had been a busy afternoon. When they arrived back from the mascherari’s shop, Angelique had insisted on teaching Orelia the basic steps of the minuet, even though Orelia had been equally insistent that she would not be dancing at the ball. Angelique had won, and two hours later Orelia had sunk into a bath scented with musk and myrrh to soak her weary body. Her enjoyment of the warm water had come to an early end when Maria had appeared, armed with hairpins and face powder.

Orelia’s only comfort had been that Anna, the lady’s maid, had helped her to dress. She could only imagine how much she would have suffered if Maria had been the one to lace up her stays.

When Angelique had said ‘masquerade ball’, Orelia had thought their only costume would be a mask. And she now owned a lot of masks, more than a dozen of Signor Zafoni’s creations. She soon learnt that masks were not all that went into creating their costumes.

Angelique had suggested Orelia go as a courtesan, since that would be the costume of choice for most women, young and old, because it gave them licence to wear all their finest things without any fear of the sumptuary laws. But Orelia could not, would not, even though Angelique tried to explain that courtesans were not common prostitutes, but were intelligent and influential members of Venetian society.

Veronica had then suggested that Orelia go as the seventeenth-century French female pirate, Jacquotte Delahaye. According to Veronica, Jacquotte had become a pirate when her father had been killed. Later, she faked her own death to escape her pursuers and took on an alias for many years. When she returned to piracy, she became known as ‘back from the dead red’ because of her vibrant red hair. Angelique had clapped her hands in agreement, saying Orelia’s hair was the perfect colour for such a disguise.

Before Orelia could protest, Veronica, who considered herself quite the artist, had quickly put together a ‘Jacquotte’ costume, which consisted of a burgundy gown, black tricorne hat and a black, sequined columbina mask. Angelique, who considered herself quite the fashion expert, had swapped the gown Veronica had selected for a ruby one, refusing to allow Orelia to be seen in a ‘last season’ colour. The gown, known as a robe à l’anglaise because of its fitted back and closed bodice, belonged to Angelique. It was a slightly too big for Orelia, but Anna had fixed that with a few pins.

Orelia looked down at her dress then up at the sky. How would she ever get used to a life where ‘seasons’ were not defined by the colour of the leaves, but by the colours of gowns? Even the stars, though fewer, seemed to shine brighter in Venice than back in her quiet home town.

In truth, there was very little that was pirate-like about her costume, but that was fine with Orelia. Apart from being unsettled by the similarities between Jacquotte’s life and her own, it felt strange to her to wear a costume of the sea when her heart was with the land. Until a few days ago, she had not even seen the sea.

And until today, she had not worn face powder or had her torso cinched by stays. The whole ordeal had left Orelia feeling like a handful of sand that had been heated, pounded and shaped into something that bore no resemblance to its former state, as only the Venetian glassblowers knew how.

The only part of her left vaguely recognisable was her hair, twisted into a chignon and pinned at the nape of her neck to accommodate the hat.

Why had she agreed to go along to the ball? Her uncle had offered her a perfectly reasonable excuse and she had rejected it to please Angelique. Orelia ran her finger over the small stone lion sitting on top of the balustrade. She felt like a mouse in a city of lions.

‘Orelia,’ called Angelique from inside her bedroom.

Taking one last look at the endless sky, Orelia turned around and walked back inside. She had preferred being out on the balcony, because it meant that she didn’t have to be inside the room that had once belonged to her mother. No one had told her so, she just knew. She could feel her mother’s presence in the room. There were still clothes in the chest of drawers and books on the table, like life suspended in a painting. Even if it was the perfect place to start looking for answers, Orelia was not yet ready for that.

‘You’d gone so quiet, I thought you had fallen over the balcony,’ said Angelique. She stood in front of a gold-framed mirror and bent forward as if she was about to kiss her reflection.

She was wearing a style of dress called a robe à la française made of white silk taffeta with rows of neatly arranged bows called échelle on the stomacher. The box pleats that flowed from the shoulders to the floor created a slight train and gave Angelique a soft, light quality.

On her face, she wore a white columbina mask that turned up suggestively at the sides like a wink. A plume of white feathers added such height to Angelique that there was no way she could go unnoticed, if that was ever a possibility. Angelique had explained that the swan was the epitome of elegance and beauty.

‘I need your opinion.’ Angelique pointed to a small black beauty spot at the side of her nose. ‘This position is called sfrontata to convey boldness,’ she said before peeling off the felt patch and placing it in the corner of her eye. ‘This is appassionata, meaning passionate, of course, or . . .’ she moved the spot to above her lip, ‘there is coquette for flirtatious. Which do you think?’

Orelia blinked. ‘Um . . . where you have it now.’

Angelique inspected her reflection. ‘You’re right. We’re going to have so much fun tonight.’

‘Are you sure I won’t be an imposition tonight? I wasn’t invited.’

‘Of course not, no one is really invited as such. And who can tell who is who with all the masks and costumes? Now where is Veronica? Claudia will get the first dance with Bastian if we don’t leave soon.’

‘Who is Claudia?’

‘She is the most detestable creature. Somehow she always gets the first dance with Bastian. But not this time.’

Orelia opened her mouth, but Angelique spoke first.

‘Bastian is the Doge’s son. The Doge is the highest elected leader in the city. Bastian is the most handsome man in all of Venice. Everyone wants to marry him. Well, everyone except my sister whose desire for love is as deep as a puddle.’

‘Why is the first dance so important?’

‘It shows whom Bastian’s heart sings to.’

Veronica arrived in the doorway and scoffed. ‘Bastian Donato does not have a heart and if he did, it certainly would not sing.’

Orelia’s eyes grew wide and Angelique was unusually silent as they stared at Veronica. She wore a burnt yellow gown with a low neckline exceeded only in magnificence by her elaborate headdress, with strings of red, green, blue, pink and turquoise beads streaming down the length of her face. She looked like a princess of the East.

‘Of course. Cleopatra,’ said Angelique in an unimpressed voice. ‘You’re becoming rather predictable, dear sister. But I am glad you’re not dressed in gold again. You almost got sent to prison last season.’ Angelique turned to face Orelia. ‘Gold is the Doge’s colour; no one else is allowed to wear it.’

Veronica smiled mischievously.

Orelia felt somewhat jealous as she looked at Veronica. She had been told that she
must
wear her hair up, but Veronica’s long dark hair hung over her shoulders. She had also been told that she
must
wear a pannier, an uncomfortable wooden frame around her waist that increased her width threefold, but Veronica’s waist, though accentuated by the gathered material, was pannier-free.

Angelique walked over to the mirror and moved the beauty spot to the side of her nose. Coquette? Or was it sfrontata? Orelia could not remember.

‘Father and Aunt Portia are waiting downstairs,’ said Veronica, tapping her fan.

Still looking into the mirror, Angelique said, ‘Please tell me he is not dressed as Pantalone.’

‘He is.’

Angelique groaned. ‘Even more reason to put as much distance between he and us when we enter the ballroom.’

‘Who’s Pantalone?’ asked Orelia.

‘A character from the Commedia dell’Arte, an old man in every detail. You’ll see,’ answered Angelique.

‘Let’s get this over with, shall we?’ said Veronica.

Orelia couldn’t agree more.

When Orelia stepped into the ballroom of Ca’ D’Este, she began to see the truth in her uncle’s words. It was very much like a stage. The ballroom was immense, or at least it seemed that way with its soaring ceilings and the large gilt mirrors that multiplied the number of people in the room. The walls were frescoed with Roman scenes, the perfect imitation of a stage backdrop. Numerous doors lined the walls, as if made for players’ entrances and exits.

But it was the costumes and masks that really made Orelia feel as if she had entered a theatre and not a ballroom. There were Moors and turbaned dervishes, plague doctors and feathered Indians, and everything in-between.

No one was dancing, yet. Instead, people gathered around the edges of the ballroom. The sound of cellos and violins mixed with laughter and gossip.

Angelique gasped.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Orelia.

Angelique didn’t answer. Her gaze was fixed on something or someone on the other side of the ballroom. ‘He’s not wearing the mask,’ she muttered.

Before Orelia could question her, Angelique stepped out of the doorway and hurried along the wall. Orelia tried to keep up, but she was not used to walking in heeled slippers on polished surfaces.

The material of her gown somewhat cushioned her fall, but there was nothing to cushion the embarrassment. Those nearby stepped away from Orelia, leaving an open space around, allowing the entire ballroom to witness her humiliation. Every eye turned her way. A hush fell over the crowd. Varying expressions of shock and amusement were fixed on those faces not entirely hidden by a mask.

Orelia could hear Angelique’s voice, but it was not Angelique or Veronica who dropped to her side. It was an angel, or so the image swimming before her eyes appeared to be. When the multiple images settled into one, she saw that it was not an angel, but a strangely dressed man. He wore tight-fitting black breeches and a red dress-coat, but that was where the normalcy ended. Orelia did not know where to begin in assessing the rest of him. Perhaps with the pair of large gold wings, forcing the crowd to step back? Or maybe his bare chest painted in gold beneath his open dress-coat? Or the headdress that framed his face like a mane? No, he was not an angel, Orelia realised. He was a winged lion.

With a wicked smile, he took Orelia’s right hand and lifted her to her feet, sweeping her straight across the ballroom, as a path cleared for them.

‘You certainly know how to make an entrance,’ he said, as he led her to the centre of the shiny floor.

Suddenly, it all made sense to Orelia. This was Bastian Donato. She pulled away, but her hand was firmly grasped in his. ‘I’m not familiar with this dance,’ she protested.

‘It’s a simple minuet. Just follow me.’ He waited for the music, and then he bowed and danced forward, rising and falling on the balls of his feet. Orelia had no choice, but to hold his hand and follow, trying desperately to remember the steps and timing Angelique had taught her.

She tried not to take notice of the women staring icily over the tops of fans that hid their whispering lips or the men who stared in a different way that made her just as uncomfortable. It seemed as if the entire ballroom had stopped to watch. But of all the scrutinising faces, the last face she wanted to find was Angelique’s.

Orelia felt Bastian let go of her hand and she watched him dance away from her to the side. Remembering some of Angelique’s instruction from earlier, she danced in the other direction, noticing her legs fall into the rhythm of bends and rises, while her arms remained out, awkward and stiff.

When they were a few metres apart, Bastian danced forward. It took Orelia a few moments to adjust, but just when she thought she had caught up, Bastian shook his head and with his chin indicated that she should be travelling backwards. Orelia closed her eyes and wanted to disappear, though somehow her body keep moving.