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Authors: Michelle Lovric

Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #General

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BOOK: The Mourning Emporium
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The distant honking of the lonely monk seals brought her back to the present.

“Poor seals,” she thought, “swept away from everything they know.”

And that was the moment when Teo had looked down and seen the red gills and the winking eye of the Vampire Eel, and known for certain that Venice herself, and not just the unfortunate seals, now stood in the loneliest and most terrifying kind of danger.

Under her knitted cap, the cold suddenly gripped her, as if wrenching the hair off her scalp. She whispered, “Oh, Renzo! Where are you?”

Renzo carried the bucket into the dark house and threw its contents over the terra-cotta floor his mother had always polished to a shine. Each pailful loosened a little more of the stinking mud that slimed up to his ankles. Renzo’s mind was blank, but his feet automatically followed the path to and from the well in the courtyard. His numb hands sent the bucket plummeting down through the ice. Then his aching arms lifted the dripping pail and carried it into the ruined kitchen.

Upstairs, his mother’s body had been laid out on her bed by two kind neighbors. The funeral gondolas were busy with dozens of victims of the ice flood. The rich and noble were buried first. Renzo’s mother had to wait her turn. In this raw cold, the bodies of the dead remained perfectly preserved. Renzo’s pretty mother looked as if she had fallen asleep. There was only a small cut under her hairline to show where the iceberg had struck as the swiftly rising waters lifted her up. Unconscious, she had drowned while Renzo flailed through the black water, screaming her name.

After every hundredth bucket, Renzo allowed himself to warm his hands by the brazier for the count of twenty, and to climb to his mother’s bedroom and stroke her hair, pick another strand of wet tinsel from it and clasp her hand. Then he returned to sluicing out their home.

Against his will, a sweetly sad image invaded Renzo’s mind: the cemetery on the island of San Michele. He saw the cypresses pointing to the heavens over the pink brick walls, just across the water from the cavern under the House of the Spirits, where the mermaids dwelled. Yes, he would bury his mother alongside his father, who had been taken from them by bronchitis. His friend Teo’s real parents were buried at San Michele too. During this last hot summer—the mere thought of warmth comforted Renzo for a moment—he and Teo had rowed across in the gondola to take daisies to his father’s grave and roses to her parents’. Then they had shared a ferociously spicy piri-piri pea pie with the mermaids.

“We’re both orphans now, Teo and I,” Renzo realized.

Bajamonte Tiepolo, Orphan-Maker.

The words brushed across Renzo’s brain for a second. Then he exclaimed, “No! I won’t even think it. We got rid of him!”

But memory throbbed painfully in his ribs, two of which had been broken in single-handed combat with Bajamonte Tiepolo eighteen months before. And with that memory came questions: How had the mermaids fared in the ice flood? Was Teo with them now?

The latest bucket of water had dislodged a tinkling object from the mud. Renzo knelt to pick it up. He cradled the small china money-box against his chest, even though it was clotted with dirt.

One corner had been smashed, and all the money had washed out. Renzo ignored the coins scattered underfoot. Tenderly, he wiped the mud off one side of the money-box, revealing A PRESENT FROM LONDON stamped beneath an etching of Tower Bridge’s Gothic ramparts. The money-box had been a gift from his father, a souvenir of a short visit to London made with Renzo’s Uncle Tommaso, just after the splendid new bridge had opened on the Thames.

“I’ll take you to London, for your thirteenth birthday,” his father had promised six-year-old Renzo, handing him the china box. “You can use this to save your pocket-money for that trip!” And he had gone on to talk of London’s narrow cobbled streets, the quaint bookshops in Paternoster Row and the graceful gray cupola of St. Paul’s.

“And the Londoners!” Renzo’s father had enthused. “Fuller of purpose than an egg is full of goodness!” But he coughed the last word. The coughing soon got worse.

Last summer Renzo and Teo had argued about London. Renzo couldn’t wait to go there and was saving hard.

“Imagine,” Renzo said dreamily, “the attics full of scribbling poets, the historic London rain beating softly on their roofs—”

“Rain is not historic, Renzo,” Teo had interrupted.

“And the picturesque London urchins …”

“You mean poor children, Renzo?”

Renzo continued, “The cozy Inns of Court, where white-wigged lawyers …”

“Strip people of their inheritances, according to Mr. Dickens,” Teo pointed out.

“Teo, do try to understand. Remember how you felt about Venice before you even saw her? Well, that’s how I feel about London. Just from seeing them in books, you loved the palaces and canals of Venice. Well, I already love the Houses of Parliament on the Thames, the flowerbeds of Kew Gardens …”

Flowers! Renzo thrust the broken money-box into his pocket. How and where, in this deadly cold, would he find flowers for his mother’s funeral? She loved violets. He had to salvage and wash her best dress for her to wear in the coffin. He must remind the priest of her favorite hymn. And above all, he had to clean the floor. His mother would have been horrified to see their spotless little house in such a filthy state.

What would happen to Renzo himself did not concern him at all. He seized the bucket and ran back to the well.

Unfortunately, just at that moment, someone else had Renzo’s destiny right at the forefront of his not notably excellent mind.

The Mayor of Venice wriggled toes clad in silk socks in front of a cozy fire. His sumptuous second-floor office was cheerfully lit by a four-hundred-year-old candy-colored chandelier burning fifty candles at once. He dipped an almond biscuit into a glass of sweet Malvasia wine. You would never have guessed that a city lay broken and suffering outside his sparkling windows.

While Venice struggled with the flood’s aftermath, the Mayor had passed happy hours designing a new form in triplicate for anyone who was homeless or needed blankets and food. That was when he wasn’t on the streets, elbowing the firemen and policemen out of the way when photographs were taken.

For the Mayor of Venice had just two ambitions: to bring more rich tourists to the town, and to get himself photographed in a smart top hat for as many newspapers as possible. True, the ice flood was a sore setback to tourism, but it had allowed the Mayor more photographic opportunities than ever. He’d already kissed a dozen muddy babies for the cameras that very day, making them cry with his stiffly greased mustache.

And now, by the glitter of his chandelier, the Mayor of Venice was signing a document that bore the name Lorenzo Antonello at the top. The Mayor’s mustache twitched as he handed the paper to one of the police officers who always protected him. Since June 1899, when he’d misled the world about certain dangerous events in the town, the Mayor had not been the most popular person in Venice.

“See that it’s done immediately!” the Mayor ordered Officer Gianni.

The officer read his orders and a queasy expression came over his face.

As the policeman went trudging down the stairs, an officer of the Carabinieri—the policeman’s cousin, as it happened—hurtled past him toward the Mayor’s luxurious office. Pausing, he panted, “Gianni, there’s been a kidnap! The Lagoon Museum Director and his wife—snatched! Too clever for their own good, that pair. Knew too much about underwater loco-moco-thingy-you-know. Now they’ve got press-ganged into service for a foreign power, that’s what they’re saying!”

Officer Gianni showed his cousin the document he’d to deliver to Renzo. The water officer raised his eyebrows. “Did the Mayor eat an extra bowl of stupid this morning? Lorenzo Antonello? Isn’t that the gondolier’s widow’s kid? Signora Antonello’s on the drowned list—che tragedia, that was one sweet woman. Now, to send the boy away to a floating orphanage …!”

Officer Gianni stammered, “The—the Scilla’s a kind place. They look after the boys, don’t they just?”

His cousin growled, “That old crock, in this weather? Have you seen the sky? Have you looked at the barometer?”

Gianni pulled his collar up and wrapped his scarf tightly around his neck. But he stopped in the act of donning his hat: “Those scientists kidnapped from the Lagoon Museum—don’t they have a daughter? Adopted, wasn’t she?”

Teo had been born in Venice. When her real family died in a mysterious shipwreck, only the infant Teo had survived, the Undrowned Child of an old Venetian Prophecy. The Mayor had not wanted journalists poking around, asking questions about why nine Venetian lives had been lost in the lagoon waters. For the Mayor, it would have been more convenient if the entire family had vanished without a trace. So he had the baby Teodora Gasperin sent away for adoption in a city in the south. For eleven years, Teo had lived in Naples without knowing who she really was.

Then the kind scientists who adopted Teo had brought her to a symposium in Venice. She had found The Key to the Secret City—or rather, the magical book had found her, by falling on her head. And Teo had gone “between-the-Linings,” becoming invisible to all but ghosts, magical beings and other children. The book had led her to Renzo, the Studious Son of the same prophecy that named her the Undrowned Child. Together, they’d befriended the Venetian mermaids, and the Incogniti, the Unknown Ones, a secret society that protected Venice from baddened magic. Teo’s real parents had been members. It had cost them their lives.

That baddened magic had been wielded by the spirit of Bajamonte Tiepolo, a noble Venetian who conspired to seize power in 1310. After his plot failed, he was secretly strangled by a state assassin. For nearly six hundred years, the restless spirit of Il Traditore—“the Traitor,” as he was known—had simmered hate and revenge. Finally, the summer before last, his ghost had grown strong enough to turn that hatred into deeds.

Had he but known it, the Mayor had every reason to be grateful to Teo and Renzo. The two of them had joined with the mermaids, raising an army of ghosts and good creatures against Bajamonte Tiepolo. Renzo had taken on Il Traditore’s own savage spirit in a fierce battle of wills. And finally, Teo, using ancient skills born into her family, had used his own Spell Almanac to curse Bajamonte Tiepolo back to death. A deep whirlpool in the lagoon had sucked him away.

That is, Teo had cursed him almost to death. To oblivion, anyway. There had been one last, unspeakably horrible imprecation that she’d not been able to force herself to utter.

Of course, the human population of Venice had remained entirely unaware of the true danger. Adults—including tender-hearted policemen and stupid, vain Mayors—simply could not see ghosts, mermaids or supernatural creatures.

The four-hundredth bucket came up with more ice than water.

Over the clatter of mop and bucket, Renzo did not hear Officer Gianni tapping at the open door. Nor did he see the stricken look on Gianni’s face as he took in the boy’s pitiful attempt at clean clothes, the chipped cups and saucers he had carefully washed and placed back on the dresser, his mother’s best dress rinsed and fluttering in the thin column of warm air above the brazier. Tears came to the policeman’s eyes when he saw the damp Christmas wrappings already carefully folded, the ruins of a cake lying in a bowl of mud, and a bunch of violets carved out of wood, Renzo’s last present to his mother. The purple paint had not yet dried.

“What a Christmas for the lad!” Officer Gianni thought. “What a Christmas for Venice!”

At that moment, Renzo was thinking about Teo. Where was she? Surely she would know that his mother was among the drowned: new lists were fixed hourly to every wall in town. He could hardly bear to walk down the street, forced on every corner to confront his mother’s name next to the word “dead.” And below it, he’d just seen the name Tommaso Antonello, his beloved and only uncle. Renzo’s classmate Augusto was also listed, next to “missing, presumed drowned,” like dozens of other boys and girls.

So why had Teo still not come? Wasn’t she supposed to be his best friend?

Renzo longed to see her, but he dreaded it as well. He had very bad news; the worst, in fact. There’d been another victim of the flood: his most precious possession, apart from the money-box. And it wasn’t even really his: technically, it was merely on loan from Teo. Now that Renzo had sluiced the entire house, he had to admit it was true: there was no trace of The Key to the Secret City. It must have floated out of the house along with all the other books in Renzo’s collection.

“Lorenzo Antonello?” The policeman’s voice was gentle.

Renzo spun around.

The officer repeated, “Lorenzo Antonello, I’m hereby ordered to conduct you to the Scilla, where you shall be apprenticed for a sailor.”

“My mother …” Renzo’s voice was as blank as his face. “She’s not buried yet.”

“That will be taken care of. The Mayor has already arranged it.”

At the mention of the Mayor’s name, Renzo scowled ferociously. “So you’re that foot-licker’s henchman? I’ll have nothing to do with you.”

“Boy has a cheek!” Officer Gianni marveled. He could not but sympathize, nevertheless. It was despicable to drag a grieving boy away from home without letting him attend to his dead mother.

“But orders is orders,” Gianni thought regretfully. He reminded himself that he was lucky to have a safe job in these hard times.

He said, “It’s out of your hands, son. You ain’t of legal age. You’re a ward of the state and you’ve got to go where the Mayor tells you. Come, put your things together, boy. The Scilla’s not bad. Not for an old warship, anyways. She’s a proper boat, lad, painted wood and canvas sails! Your family’s menfolk have been gondoliers and sailors for generations, haven’t they? Sea’s in your blood.”

“Lorenzo! Dearest chap! I just heard!” a melodious voice fluted from outside the door. A strikingly handsome man with piercing blue eyes hurried in. He gathered Renzo in a powerful hug that smelled of warm hay and lemons. “My precious boy, my poor, poor child. Are you hurt, yourself? How’s every rib in your dear body?”

BOOK: The Mourning Emporium
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