Masquerade (5 page)

Bastian turned to face her and began dancing sideways again. Orelia recognised this part of the dance as the z-figure she had practised over and over that afternoon. She danced sideways in the opposite direction to Bastian, as though they were forming the top and bottom of the letter z.

They crossed diagonally in the middle of the ballroom, passing by each other to the right. As their shoulders brushed, Bastian whispered, ‘See, you can dance. I’m sure there are lots of other things I could teach you.’

Orelia let out an unimpressed huff, although she didn’t mean it to be quite so loud. Bastian seemed not to notice. His eyes were fixed on her, as if he could see through the multiple layers of her clothing. His gaze lingered upon her long after they had swapped corners.

The next time they crossed, Bastian took her right hand in his and began to turn in a slow circle. ‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked.

In that moment, Orelia understood the power of a mask. She didn’t have to answer as Orelia; she could be anybody. What would Veronica say?

‘I think I’ve seen you by il Molo. You must be a fisherman,’ she answered eventually.

Bastian shook his head, the golden tendrils of his mane shaking, too. ‘The things I fish for do not have fins or scales.’

‘A priest?’

‘I think you know exactly who I am,’ he whispered. ‘So the question is: What is
your
name?’

To Orelia’s relief, they finished the circle. She attempted to separate from Bastian, but she found she was caught, or more precisely the draping lace of her sleeve was caught on a button of Bastian’s jacket.

Bastian looked to where her eyes were fixed and laughed. ‘Keep dancing,’ he said, while his fingers worked to untangle his button. ‘This happens quite often.’

Orelia studied his face while he attempted to untangle them. In the flurry of activity, she had not really looked closely at him. But now, with only a few inches between them and a disobedient button keeping them together, she could see that he was infuriatingly handsome. He had an aquiline nose, straight white teeth and dancing blue eyes. She did not trust herself to let her eyes wander to his bare chest painted gold beneath his open dress-coat.

‘Don’t make me beg for your name, bella,’ he whispered, looking up at her.

Orelia couldn’t tell if the button was tangled badly or if he was purposely taking his time untangling it. ‘Orelia,’ she answered, flatly.

Bastian repeated her name, playing with each syllable. Before he could say another word, Orelia felt the tension on her sleeve release and it fell away from Bastian’s dress-coat. Without hesitation, she moved away as quick as she could manage.

As they danced to opposite sides of the ballroom, Orelia could feel Bastian’s eyes on her, but she could not bring herself to look at him. She felt as if mere moments had passed before she was flung back into his waiting arms. He took both her hands, bringing their bodies close together and making it difficult for Orelia to avoid his eyes.

‘Where are you from?’ Bastian whispered, even though no one would possibly hear them from where they were, and with the overzealous orchestra playing.

‘Rome,’ Orelia answered. It seemed that no matter how many times she answered that question, it did not become easier or more natural.

She had been awake all night replaying her uncle’s words in her head. She hadn’t been so naive to think she would arrive in Venice and find what she was looking for immediately.

If nothing else, her uncle’s refusal to talk about her mother’s past proved that Orelia was right to have come to Venice. Her mother’s secret was not something she had invented as a ten-year-old. When she had walked away from her uncle’s library on the day of her arrival, she had been angry with him and his secrecy, but when she had woken up a day later, her anger was gone. Her uncle was caring and had given her a home. That was enough for now. She would keep her promise, however hard it may be.

‘I’ve never liked Rome,’ said Bastian, interrupting her thoughts. ‘The people there are so stiff.’

Orelia suddenly felt hot under the hundreds of candles burning in the multiple chandeliers. ‘Perhaps I should ask you a question, Signor Donato. What compels a man to enter a room full of respectable people bare-chested?’

‘It is part of my costume,’ Bastian replied with a shrug. ‘I am Saint Mark, the patron saint of Venice. His symbol is a winged lion.’

‘I’m sure you’re as much like a saint as an oyster is like a beard.’

‘Isn’t that the point of a costume, to hide who we truly are?’

Orelia was considering this when a flash of green caught her eye and she saw a woman streaking across the ballroom floor. She was dressed as a courtesan.

‘Who is this puttana?’ she spat when she reached them, raising a hand as if to slap Orelia.

Both they and the music stopped, though Orelia could not say which happened first. She was not quite sure of anything at that moment.

Bastian grabbed the woman’s arm before she could strike Orelia and silenced her with a look. ‘Mi dispiace,’ he said to Orelia. ‘I have to leave.’

The woman snatched her arm free and stormed off, as if without any doubt that Bastian would follow her. And he did. Though his winged back was turned from Orelia for less than a second before he spun around. Grabbing her hand, he bent down low to lay a kiss upon it. His eyes looked up at her. ‘We will meet again. You know what they say about the first dance.’

Orelia’s heart beat quickly as she watched him go. She’d only ever experienced this sensation alongside panic but she suddenly felt she was not quite sure of anything any more.

Veronica loved her sister more than anyone, but sometimes she wanted to slap her across the face. There in the ballroom of Ca’ D’Este was one of those times.

‘How could she?’ said Angelique. ‘She knew how much the first dance meant to me.’

‘You’re being ridiculous,’ snapped Veronica. Throughout the entire dance, she had endured Angelique’s whining. Veronica had only managed to restrain herself from doing something regrettable by gripping her fan tightly and speaking to Angelique as if she were capable of rational thought. ‘It’s not Orelia’s fault. Bastian dragged her out there.’

A sulky look came over Angelique’s face.

Veronica saw Orelia coming towards them. She looked as exhausted as if she had been dancing all night, rather than just one dance. ‘Be nice,’ Veronica whispered, but Angelique was already rushing to Orelia’s side.

‘You were fabulous out there,’ said Angelique, squeezing Orelia’s arm.

Veronica shook her head. It never ceased to amaze her how Angelique could switch personas at the click of a finger.

‘You’re not angry with me?’ said Orelia, her voice breathless and shaky.

‘Of course not,’ said Angelique. ‘It’s not your fault, and besides, at least Claudia didn’t get the first dance. It’s such a shame it was interrupted. Who was that woman? What did she want?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Orelia. ‘She was very angry. Bastian didn’t seem pleased to see her.’

Angelique smiled. ‘Did he say where he was going? Did you see where he went?’

‘No, it all happened so fast.’

‘Enough questions about Bastian, please,’ said Veronica with a sigh.

‘Well, then I’m going to look for him and see if he is all right.’

Veronica let her go. It couldn’t hurt to let Angelique look. There was a small chance she would find him, and an even smaller chance that if she did, he would not be entwined in another woman’s arms. Part of Veronica hoped that Angelique would find him, so she would see the true Bastian Donato. Some things had to be learnt the hard way.

Veronica’s eyes travelled around the ballroom, searching for something . . . interesting. She didn’t detest balls quite as much as she made out. She found them to be good opportunities to observe behaviour. People tended to be less guarded with their secrets when they had a mask on. A few things she had witnessed at balls had found their way onto her canvas.

Looking past the dancing couple, Veronica spied a very interesting man standing directly opposite her on the other side of the ballroom. His face was covered with a mask, but the roundness of his stomach and an arrogance to his stance gave away his identity. Bertuccio Aldoldo. He was looking in her direction while the man at his side chattered away using enthusiastic hand gestures.

Veronica had no doubt that Signor Aldoldo recognised her, since she was not wearing a mask but a headdress. The question was, had he seen the painting yet? There was only one way to know. Veronica flicked open her fan, which she herself had painted with hunting scenes in the style of ancient Egyptian papyrus paintings. With her left hand, she lifted it to her face.

‘Are you hot?’ asked Orelia.

‘No,’ answered Veronica. ‘I’m sending a message to a man across the room. You’ll soon learn the language of fans.’

‘What are you telling him?’ asked Orelia.

‘That I desire his acquaintance.’ Veronica moved the fan to cover her left ear. Now her fan was saying something entirely different:
Do not betray our secret.

Veronica watched as Signor Aldoldo stumbled backwards into the wall. Then righting himself, he fled through the nearest door.

‘I don’t think he quite got your message,’ said Orelia.

Veronica shut her fan. ‘Oh, he understood perfectly.’ She looked around with a triumphant smile, but the sight of a particular woman coming towards them promptly took the smile from her face.

‘What’s wrong?’ said Orelia, sounding appropriately concerned.

‘Prepare yourself to meet out host, Signora D’Este,’ whispered Veronica, moments before the woman came to stand in front of them. Signora D’Este’s black hair hung straight and loose around her shoulders. She wore a red gown with dyed-red ostrich feathers fanning out around her neck. As Veronica pondered if there were now any ostriches left in the world, she also realised the significance of the costume.

The phoenix.

Indeed, Signora D’Este had risen from the ashes. A few years ago, her husband had gambled away their family’s entire fortune. The only thing they had not lost was their palazzo. The Signora had taken charge and had managed to recover through means that were as suspicious as they were varied. Rumours speculated that she was now trying to raise 100,000 ducats to buy her family’s name into the Golden Book, the list of families that belonged to the aristocracy.

‘How are you enjoying my ball?’ Signora D’Este asked, her bright red lips spreading into a smile.

‘It’s wonderful,’ answered Veronica in a voice she reserved for pretentious conversations. ‘The perfect start to Carnevale.’

‘Molto bene,’ said Signora D’Este. She turned to look at Orelia as one would look at a piece of jewellery around a rival’s neck. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’

Orelia introduced herself softly.

‘Well, Orelia, you seem to have made quite an impression on Signor Donato. You both had the ballroom mesmerised.’ The icy tone of Signora D’Este’s voice suggested she was not among those who had been mesmerised.

‘I did not know what I was doing,’ said Orelia, a blush creeping down her slender neck.

Signora D’Este snorted. ‘Of course you didn’t because, you see, Bastian was meant to dance the first dance with my daughter, Claudia. I’m sure you’ll remember that in the future. I would love for you to meet Claudia, but I’m afraid she has disappeared. Have you seen her recently? She is dressed as the sun.’

Veronica lifted a hand to her mouth to hide her smirk. She’d seen many ridiculous costumes that evening, but none so ridiculous as the sun. And how exactly does one dress as the sun?

‘No,’ answered Veronica, ‘but if we see her we’ll be sure to let her know you’re looking for her.’

‘Please do. Enjoy the evening. And, Orelia, be careful who you’re seen dancing with. You don’t want to make enemies so quickly.’ Signora D’Este finished her threat with a smile filled with all the warmth of a lump of wax, then turned and walked away.

‘Charming woman,’ said Orelia, flatly.

Veronica laughed. Maybe Orelia wasn’t all nerves and apologies. ‘Let’s get some fresh air.’ Veronica led Orelia to a door that opened onto the balcony. Unlike the multiple small balconies of Ca’ Contarini, this single balcony spanned the length of the palazzo.

Veronica walked up to the white stone balustrade and leant against it. ‘It’s always strange to see the Canal Grande from this side of the Ponte di Rialto.’

‘Have you always lived on the Canal Grande?’ asked Orelia, joining Veronica.

‘Si, my family has owned the palazzo for over three centuries. Do you miss Rome?’

Before Orelia could respond, the sound of an explosion filled the air, followed by a burst of gold in the sky.

Veronica felt Orelia jump. ‘Do you not have fireworks in Rome?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘No, I mean, si,’ said Orelia, fiddling with the position of her mask.

Veronica wanted to know more about this girl who now shared their home. Why had they never heard from her until now? What was she so clearly hiding? But Orelia had been through enough that night already; Veronica would save her questions for another time.

The next few minutes were passed watching the sky light up in shades of gold, pink, green and blue. The sound of the cellos and violins floated through the open door. Glancing at Orelia’s face, lit up with innocent wonder, Veronica was certain they were the first fireworks the girl had ever seen.

‘Here you are!’ cried Angelique from behind them.

‘Did you find him?’ Veronica asked her sister.

‘No, I heard in the sitting room that he had to leave suddenly because his manservant is very ill. Bastian is such a caring man. While we are here, we might as well enjoy ourselves. I’m going back in to pretend I am the runaway bride of a Russian Tsar.’

‘People will believe you?’ said Orelia.

‘Of course,’ said Angelique. ‘It’s splendid fun. You can pretend to be my half-sister who is searching for the father of her child, captured in these waters by pirates.’

‘Go ahead, you two,’ said Veronica. ‘I’ll just be a moment longer.’

‘Take as long as you wish,’ said Angelique. ‘I know how much you hate these things.’

Turning back to the fireworks, Veronica felt herself relax briefly before she was interrupted again.

‘Veronica Contarini?’ said a voice.

Turning her head, Veronica saw a man walking towards her from the other end of the balcony. ‘That depends,’ said Veronica. ‘Who are you?’

The man stepped into the light spilling through the doorway. He was dressed as a Roman soldier in a loose white shirt, red tunic and armour. He lifted the helmet off his head, revealing short dark hair in disarray. A scar cut across his left cheek, but otherwise his skin was flawless.

‘I am Luca Boccassio.’

Veronica knew who Luca was; everyone knew who Luca was. He was the son of a member of The Council of Ten. He had been educated at the university in Padua with distinction in all subjects. He was considered to be the shining example of a perfect Venetian young man. Yet, despite knowing all this, his name sounded familiar for another reason she could not recall.

‘What brings you out here?’ he asked, leaning over the balcony and staring up at the sky as she was.

‘Oh, I’m just looking for the sun,’ she answered, casually.

‘Look no further,’ he said, pointing at the moon.

Pausing for a second before catching on, Veronica pressed her hands to her cheeks as Angelique did when something amazed her and cried, ‘Ah, the sun in all its golden brilliance.’

Luca’s brow furrowed. ‘The sun? Are you crazy? That is the moon in all its silvery splendour.’

Moving her hands to her hips, Veronica’s face returned to one of its more natural expressions: distaste. ‘It is the sun, if I say it is.’

‘But was I not the first of us to say it is the sun? Therefore it is what
I
say it is,’ said Luca, smiling from the corner of his mouth.

Veronica clenched her jaw. Who did he think he was? One thing was for certain, she was not going to let him get the better of her.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

Veronica stopped in the doorway and spun around. ‘I think I’ve had enough of the sun for one night!’