Belladonna

twenty-four

Cass stayed crouched in the back corner of the nave for several minutes. The other members of the Order at last began to file out of the church, murmuring to each other as they made their way down the aisle.

The temperature seemed to have dropped several degrees. She gathered the oversized cloak tightly around her as she continued to piece together everything she had heard, as she struggled to believe it. Piero had saved her life. If it weren’t for him . . .

If it weren’t for him, my blood would have been wasted, she thought. A puddle on the stone doorstep in front of this very church. Clearly it was her blood he had saved from the dogs, not her.

She swallowed back the taste of bile. She thought of the party at Palazzo della Notte where she had first laid eyes on Piero. He wasn’t the one who had lured Hortensa upstairs. Signor Mafei, perhaps? How many other men were doing Belladonna’s evil deeds? How many other women had fallen prey to the scheme, enticed by promises of seduction only to be drugged and bled without their knowledge? Perhaps all of the women who found themselves on the drowning platform had been victims of the Order. It was perfectly horrible.

But it was perfect.

Cass realized the church was almost empty. Just a handful of black-robed figures still clustered around the baptismal pool, clawing at the remaining minuscule spots of blood. The wispy smoke from the scarlet candles faded into the gloom. She remembered how the doors had been locked the night of her attack. The last thing she wanted was to end up trapped inside. She rose quickly from her hiding spot, but her legs wobbled beneath her, and she sank back to the floor.

Tears stung her eyes. Her arm didn’t hurt, not too much. It was her heart, her whole being that ached. The realization that her parents might have accepted—supported, even—something so depraved sliced through her.

Willing away the surge of darkness that threatened to overcome her, she tried once more to stand. Slowly, with one hand on the back pew for balance, she struggled to her feet and returned to the entrance hall. She flung open the heavy door and let the rush of air pull her out into the night. The door slammed shut behind her.

She glanced across the vast field to where the outline of Belladonna’s villa loomed. She wasn’t going back there. Not ever. She needed to return to Florence, to Madalena and Siena. But she was at least a couple of miles from Palazzo Alioni, with no real guarantee that she’d be able to find it even if she did walk all the way to the city.

A chuffing sound made her turn her head. There were still two carriages parked on the road along the side of the church, undoubtedly belonging to the Order members who were still lingering inside. Cass crept toward them. Both drivers stood in front of the lead carriage, passing a silver flask back and forth.

She quickly circled behind the second carriage. It had a rack on top for supplies as well as a deep wooden compartment built into the back. Were the owners going into Florence? Probably, but there was no guarantee. She opened the door to the compartment and peered into the black space. It was big enough for a pair of trunks.

Or a person.

Cass glanced back toward the front of the church. The wooden door was swinging open. There was no time to think. She used her good arm to pull herself up and into the compartment, gathering her cloak around her to protect her skin from the rough wood. Folding her knees up toward her chest, she pulled the door shut from inside, tucking the hem of her cloak in the latch to prevent it from engaging and trapping her inside.

Santo cielo! What had she done? What if these people lived farther away from Florence than Belladonna? What if they decided to shuck off their cloaks and tuck them into the luggage compartment? They might think she was a robber and stab her.

But Cass couldn’t change her mind now. If she tried to slip out, she would be discovered. Besides, almost any destination would be preferable to Villa Briani. She struggled to make out the sound of approaching footsteps, but her blood was drumming in her ears and her heart was rattling beneath her breastbone, blocking all noises from the outside until the door to the riding compartment opened with a rusty groan. She held her breath.

Voices sounded. A man and a woman. Their words were muffled, but Cass didn’t think she recognized either speaker.

Seconds later, the horse whinnied and the wheels beneath Cass began to roll. It took all of her concentration to hold her body still and keep from crying out each time the carriage hit a bump or a rock. She cradled her injured arm against her chest, trying to protect it from the compartment’s hard angles.

Each time the carriage turned, Cass tried to decipher whether she was headed toward Florence, but all the bouncing around had left her hopelessly dizzy, and the darkness threatened to smother her. All she could do was hope for the best.

It seemed like an eternity before the wheels slowed beneath her and the carriage came to a stop. The door opened and Cass heard the passengers alight. She strained to hear their animated voices, wishing she could make out what they were saying. Their footsteps receded, and she was just about to open the compartment when she heard another voice. The horse chuffed and stamped its feet. The driver must be unhooking it to stable it for the evening.

Cass waited until she heard the horse plod away. Then she waited some more, just in case. Her eyes had begun to adjust to the blackness of the compartment, and she could make out the tight walls of the cramped space. Her knees were still folded up against her torso. It would feel good to stretch her legs.

She opened the compartment a crack and peeked out. More darkness, with just the faintest hint of moonlight streaming through a high window. She opened the door the rest of the way and slid her body out of the carriage. She was in the stable of a private palazzo. She crept out onto the street and was relieved to see what appeared to be Florence.

But where exactly in Florence? Cass wasn’t sure. She twisted her neck from side to side and stretched her arm over her head. She knew she should be scared, that walking the streets alone was dangerous, but she was just relieved to be away from Villa Briani.

She picked a street and continued straight along it, hoping she might hit the banks of the Arno or find something she recognized. Each time she saw the tall spike of a church steeple in the distance, she hurried forward, hopeful it would be the Campanile, and next to it the beautiful Duomo, Santa Maria del Fiore.

A scratching sound rose suddenly from the silence behind her, but when she whirled around to see who was following her, she came face-to-face with the discarded paper wrapping from someone’s buy at the market, blowing and twisting its way down the path. She shook her head. Would she ever stop jumping at shadows?

Just as despair threatened to overcome her, Cass saw something familiar: a wooden sign shaped like a wine goblet swinging back and forth in the breeze. I Setti Dolori. The taverna she had gone to with Falco.

Cass retraced that path they had taken when they left, hurrying quickly past the spot where they’d kissed. She crossed the Piazza del Mercato Vecchio, which was quiet except for a single homeless man who was fast asleep on the steps outside of the church. As she approached Palazzo Alioni from behind, Cass realized she had another problem. No one was expecting her. The servants would all be asleep and the door would be locked. She would have to sleep in the stable.

She didn’t mind. Slipping inside the darkened enclosure, Cass barely noticed the stink of manure or the roughness of the hay she lay down in. Her eyes were drawn to the gaudy pair of unicorns painted on Palazzo Alioni’s carriage. She was finally safe.

But she had failed.

The Book of the Eternal Rose was gone, and Luca’s execution was just over a week away.

Light filtering through the high stable windows woke her in the early morning. Plucking a few bits of hay from her hair, she smoothed her oversized cloak and knocked gingerly on the front door of Palazzo Alioni. The butler looked bleary-eyed as he opened the front door.

“Bongiorno.” Cass headed straight for the stairs before he could even reply. She felt stronger on her feet than she had in days. Just getting away from Villa Briani seemed to have improved her condition. She slipped into her little room and hurriedly closed the door behind her. Almost without thinking, she dropped the dead bolt into place. She had never been so happy to see the stark walls and dusty painting of the Virgin.

She went to her trunk and flipped open the leather top, relieved to see the bundle of parchment about the Order, along with her journal.

Cass grabbed the journal and pulled the little chair over to the washing table. Her quill was still right where she had left it almost two weeks earlier. Sadly, the ink had dried up. She flung the journal back into her trunk with a sigh. Thumbing through the papers from the tomb, Cass took note of each mention of the Book of the Eternal Rose. Cass felt certain she had discovered the book’s hiding place in the armoire with the broken lock, but who had taken it? And what would Belladonna do when she found out?

Cass understood, now, how Joseph Dubois was connected to the Order, and why Angelo de Gradi was in Florence. Dubois had financed some of the Order’s depraved research before starting his own sister chapter in Venice. De Gradi was there to make sure that the Frenchman’s generosity wasn’t forgotten, and also to glean information from Belladonna about alternative strategies for producing the fifth humor.

She sat on the side of the bed and ran a hand through her tangled hair. There had to be a way to save Luca that didn’t involve the Book of the Eternal Rose.

“Signorina Cass?” Siena called to her from the hallway. The doorknob jiggled. “Are you all right? Why is the door locked?”

Because no one in Florence can be trusted. Cass slid out of bed, undid the bolt, and opened the door.

“Signorina Cass! It’s true. You’re here!” Siena’s face lit up.

Cass smiled too. “I can honestly say, I have never been so happy to see you.” She fought the urge to wrap her handmaid in a one-armed embrace.

Siena turned from the doorway. “I’m going to get my sister and Signora Madalena,” she called over her shoulder, her face flushed with excitement.

“It’s still early.” Cass yawned. “You don’t have to wake them.”

“Wake whom?” Madalena glided into the room, fully dressed, her hair impeccably braided and pinned high on top of her head. Her smile was dazzling; she looked as happy to see Cass as she had looked on her wedding day. “The butler informed me of your return as soon as I opened my eyes.”

Feliciana entered behind her, carrying a tray of fruit and bread. “Look who’s back.” Her lips formed a perfect heart-shaped smile. She set the tray on the washing table and stepped back to scrutinize Cass. “You look so thin. Have they been starving you?”

“I felt quite ill for several days,” Cass said, happy to see that Feliciana, for her part, was starting to look less emaciated. Her skin and lips were completely healed, and her hair even looked like it might be starting to grow back, just slightly. “But I’m ready to make up for it.”

She realized all three of them were staring at her, undoubtedly waiting for her to explain why she had returned home at the break of dawn without telling anyone of her plans. She took a deep breath. “Close the door, Feliciana,” she said. “I have something to tell you. All of you.” She began to describe the events of the past night, starting with the fight between her and Falco.

Siena’s eyes grew wide, and she crossed herself when Cass got to the part about Belladonna stripping naked in front of the crowd.

“And you’re certain the book has been stolen?” Mada asked. Her fingers fiddled with the crucifix that dangled from her belt.

Cass nodded soberly. “And without it, Luca will almost certainly be executed.”

Siena’s eyes filled with tears. She fled from the room and Feliciana went after her.

Mada reached out and wrapped Cass in a loose hug. “Don’t give up,” she said. “Luca is one of the most honorable men I know. He can’t die. The Lord will intervene.”

Cass couldn’t answer her. Why would God spare Luca if he hadn’t spared Tatiana de Borello? Perhaps Hortensa Zanotta had committed other crimes besides falsely accusing Luca of heresy. Perhaps she had deserved her punishment. But Tatiana had been young, innocent. Like Liviana, she had died before she even had a chance to live.

Cass could not put her faith in a God that allowed the Order of the Eternal Rose to flourish. If there was the slightest chance that Luca could be saved, it would be she who had to make it happen.

“I’m returning home immediately. I’ll inform Siena and Feliciana of our pending departure,” Cass said, a bit of the heaviness seeming to clear from her limbs. “Unless you think your aunt might consent to keep Feliciana on for a while. There’s no reason for you and Marco to hurry back with us. I know you were planning to stay on.”

“Nonsense,” Mada answered immediately. “I’m sure Stella will hire on Feliciana, at least for the summer. And I want to return with you to Venice, to be there if . . . you need me,” she finished.

Cass shook her head, her throat thick. “I’d feel better if you stayed here. You could make sure Feliciana stays safe. Perhaps you could even continue investigating the Order of the Eternal Rose for me.” Would Cass still care about the Order if Luca were executed? Yes. She wanted to know exactly who her parents had been, to what end they had forsaken her for evil. Had they ever created a successful elixir? Was that why Belladonna looked so young? Or was she maintaining her perfect skin by bathing in human blood? How many people were involved? How many supporters of the Order knew of its true purpose? How wide was its influence? Cass needed these questions to be answered.

“If you want me to stay here,” Madalena said, “I won’t fight you on it. But I’m not like you, Cass. I’m not as brave or as smart. I may not be able to find your book, even with Marco’s help.”

Cass smiled tightly. “I’m going to get my things together,” she said. “Would your father be able to assist me in arranging passage back to Venice? I suppose tomorrow is the earliest I can leave.”

“We’ll make the necessary arrangements.” Madalena patted Cass’s hand, not unlike the way Agnese sometimes did. Her voice was low, soft. It was the voice of someone who knew there was no hope. “I’ll see to it immediately. Let me know if there’s anything else that you need.” Her skirts swished as she crossed the room to the door.

Too overwhelmed, for the moment, to even think about packing, Cass took refuge on her bed, resting her injured arm gently at her side, tunneling her face into her pillow. A twinge of pain moved through her biceps, nothing compared with the wound that tore her chest open. Would she ever lay eyes on her fiancé again? Would she carry his death around with her like she carried the death of her parents?

Cass tried to imagine Luca gone, but couldn’t. Even when he had been in France studying, he had always lingered in the back of her mind, his letters arriving with almost mechanical regularity. Even though Cass had spent most of her life away from him, she couldn’t fathom being completely and utterly without him. He was her future, a promise left to her by her parents: a life that was safe, steady, dependable.

Falco had stormed away from her after their fight. Luca would never do that. If she told him to go, as she had told Falco, he might quietly take his leave, but not without letting her know that he would still be there—always—when she needed him.

Cass had always viewed Luca’s differences from Falco as weaknesses, but she was starting to realize she’d been wrong. Falco was passionate, but he was also volatile and opinionated, so quick to get angry or frustrated. Luca was simply different, so staid and calm, except when the situation truly called for it. He had spent years away from her, but he understood the woman she was becoming. That was why he hadn’t pressured her about the wedding. He knew she needed time for the decision to become her own.

Madalena came to find her for dinner. Cass debated skipping it—she didn’t want to face anyone else, to see their pained eyes and piteous expressions—but she hadn’t eaten breakfast and she was starving. At Mada’s urging, she reluctantly took her seat in the dining room. It turned out to be a mistake. While Cass was packing, Madalena had taken it upon herself to inform the rest of the household of Cass’s immediate return to Florence because of Luca’s impending demise.

Cass didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t even want to think about it, but everyone else did. Marco and Signor Rambaldo took turns first arguing about the injustice in denying a man a trial and then assuring Cass that the Senate would come to its senses, that this was merely a ploy to get Luca to confess. Mada nodded along with them, reminding Cass that Luca was good and God was good and everything would work out. Cass knew they meant well, but each time one of them said Luca’s name, she could almost see him dangling from the tarnished chandelier, his neck purple, his throat crushed.

She tried to distract herself by staring at her lap, counting the tiny, uneven X-shaped stitches that made up the fleur-de-lis on her napkin. Seeing those Xs made her think of Mariabella, the dead courtesan she’d found strangled to death and slashed with an X in her friend Livi’s tomb. And thinking of Mariabella also made her think of Cristian. Cass folded her napkin and looked at the wall instead.

Also no help. A giant mural depicting Judith holding a sword to Holofernes’s neck was painted on the wall opposite her seat. Drops of blood were just beginning to fall from her silvery blade. The painting appeared to be as old as the palazzo. Cass wondered about Signor Alioni’s ancestors. Why would they have wanted such a gory picture in their dining room?

After what felt like two lifetimes, the servants cleared the bowls of soup and brought plates of roasted duck and herbed potatoes. It was without a doubt the most delicious-looking food Cass had seen come up from the kitchen at Palazzo Alioni. She felt as if she were the one who had been condemned, enjoying a last meal on Signora Alioni’s finest, only slightly chipped, gold-rimmed porcelain.

Across the table, Marco and Signor Rambaldo were still debating. “If Luca confesses to this trumped-up charge, the Senate will reconsider the sentence,” Signor Rambaldo said.

“What if he doesn’t confess?” Marco asked.

“Perhaps we should speak of something else.” Mada dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “I hear the cook has prepared some sort of pastry for dessert.”

Another course to suffer through. Cass sipped her wine, wondering whether she should plead illness and flee to her room.

Signor Rambaldo swallowed hard. “Luca da Peraga is no fool,” he said, spearing another bite of potato with his fork. “He isn’t stubborn enough to die. He has his mother to think about, and Signorina Cassandra.”

“Cass.” Mada tried again to change the subject. “Did Stella tell you she’d be delighted to keep Feliciana in her employ for the time being?”

Cass felt a momentary rush of relief. Feliciana would be safe. She nodded at Signora Alioni. “Thank you for your kindness.”

Signora Alioni nodded in return. “She’s a fine worker, though I fear she may distract some of the boys.” She smiled and arched an eyebrow.

Marco barreled on. “Yes, Signore, but even if Luca confesses, there is no guarantee that he’ll ever go free.”

Madalena cleared her throat loudly and shot a meaningful glance at her new husband. “I received a message from Prudentia today,” she said.

“Who?” Cass asked.

“I don’t believe you’ve met her. She’s married to Marco’s cousin.”

“Right,” Marco said. He finally seemed to have understood that Cass could not bear to sit through any more discussion of Luca’s fate. “Teodor’s wife. They were planning to spend some of the summer in France, were they not?”

France. Luca had studied in France. Cass had to stop thinking of Luca or she would go mad. She forced herself to concentrate on Madalena’s face. “Is that right?” she mustered. “I’ve heard France is lovely.”

“Yes. She and her husband have been exploring Paris.” Mada smiled. “Her letter goes on and on about the Notre Dame cathedral. Apparently it has the most breathtaking stained-glass windows.”

“Notre Dame,” Marco mused. “Have you seen it, Signore?” He turned to Madalena’s father.

“I have, indeed,” Signor Rambaldo said. “A stunning piece of architecture. Though to be fair, Venice has her share of beautiful structures as well.”

“Is it true,” Marco went on, “that there are catacombs beneath Notre Dame’s courtyard? Ruins of the original settlement built by the Celts?”

“I have heard that. Crumbling walls, broken swords, perhaps some ghosts trolling the place looking for their bones.” Signor Rambaldo rubbed his beard thoughtfully.

Madalena flung down her fork. “Both of you ought to be ashamed,” she cried out. “I’ve been trying to distract Cass from morbid thoughts, and you two turn a lovely conversation about Paris into a ghost story.”

“It’s all right, Mada,” Cass said. Her heart was going fast in her chest. The story had reminded her of something Belladonna had said at tea, the day she and Cass first met. Bella had spoken of Venice being rife with eerie specters that snuck in with the tides and stayed to haunt the city’s dank lower levels.

At the time, Cass had been surprised at how superstitious Belladonna had seemed. Now, however, she knew it was all an act, and a different aspect of the story struck her: the part about sneaking in.

Perhaps there was a way to save Luca. Could Cass sneak into the Doge’s dungeons like the ghosts and the tides? It was highly unlikely. Even if she could gain entry, she didn’t know if she’d be able to find Luca. And if she found him, she didn’t know if she’d be able to free him.

All she knew was that if she did nothing, he’d be executed in just over a week.

As a child, Cass had taken Liviana to play near the canals, and the contessa had accidentally fallen into the fetid water. Even though it was years later that Livi became ill, Cass had always partially blamed herself for Liviana’s death.

And when Cass’s parents had gone off on a research trip, Cass had written them letter after letter, begging them to return home early so that she might spend Christmas with them. They had attempted to make the journey back during a rough, stormy December, and had died somewhere along the way. Cass didn’t know if it had been her fault, if they might have survived had they stayed away until spring, but she blamed herself anyway.

Luca had returned to Venice to protect Cass from his half brother Cristian. If he died, it would be partially because of her. Cass’s conscience was heavy with the blood of others. She would not add to that burden. She would save Luca, or die trying.