Julietta gave the two excited children a small smile and turned her attention to the wide canal before her. The Doge had not yet appeared, but there was no lack of spectacle even so. Barges and gondolas lined the inky water, black and gold and white, sparkling like an emperor’s jewel case in the sun. Each craft was decorated with copious amounts of flowers and brightly coloured ribbon streamers. Music played from a few of the larger vessels, lively dance tunes from lutes and viols, mingling with all the laughter.
It had been many years since Julietta came to Venice; many times she had seen this pageant play out. Yet somehow it always awakened something deep inside her, her own laughter, her own mirth. It tumbled around in her heart like some unruly butterfly, reminding her of days when she was a young, carefree girl and longed for nothing so much as a fine festival, a dance, a song of courtly love. She never gave in to that wildness now, but it was still hidden there.
And she did like this day, the bright hope of it, the life that filled every corner, driving out death and decay even if only for a moment. Part of her high mood, she had to admit, had something to do with the thought of the evening to come, when she would see him again—Il leone, Marc Antonio Velazquez, whatever he wanted to call himself. She would see him, dance with him, and it filled her with an odd warmth she had no desire to analyse. It was dangerous, she knew that. He was a man of many secrets. Yet today she found it hard to take care, as she always should.
Thanatos was hidden by the crowd, the sunlight. Only Eros remained, full of mischievous romance. Or perhaps Dionysus, she thought, as she watched one of the courtesan’s young swains reel drunkenly, saved from toppling into the canal when one of his friends grabbed on to his fine satin doublet and hauled him back on to terra firma. The woman and her admirers fell into great peals of merriment, leaning against each other, passing around a bottle that was sure to cause more such scenes as the day went on.
“Signora Bassano! Such a rare pleasure.”
Julietta’s smile faded, wiped away as if it had never been as she heard those words. A smooth, charming, elegantly accented voice, hailing her from the water just below her perch, dimming the brilliant day. She could have vowed that a gray cloud eclipsed the sun, but when she glanced up at the sky it was as cerulean and flawless as before.
She tightened her grip on the wooden pole and stared down at the canal, feeling Bianca press closer to her side. Count Ermano Grattiano—just as she feared. His grand gondola, glossy black edged with copious frostings of glittering giltwork and sprays of black-and-gold plumes, had come to a halt only feet away. The velvet curtains of the felze were drawn back, leaving its occupants revealed to view.
As always, Count Ermano was as gloriously caparisoned as his vehicle, in a doublet of gold satin edged in ermine and gold braid, his hose striped white and gold, his sleeveless coat lined with more of the rare white fur. A diamond the size of an egg winked and dazzled in his cloth-of-gold hat, mocking her with its glitter.
The gem was well matched to its owner, Julietta thought wryly. Though her senior by many years, Count Ermano was still a very handsome man, with thick white hair and a neatly trimmed white beard, cold green eyes bright and shrewd in a lined, chiselled lean face. He had a quick, wide smile, an easy air that belied the power and ruthlessness below the sparkling surface. He had made a great fortune in the Veneto, by means rumoured to be both fair and foul. He held an important position in the Doge’s court, as a member of the Savio ai Cerimoniali, the committee which arranged state visits of foreign rulers, ministers, and ambassadors—the committee that had seen many of its members, including Signor Landucci, die so unfortunately of late. His home, Ca Grattiano, was one of the most glorious in the city. He had been married four times, all of them ladies of impeccable lineage, fortune and beauty, who passed away sadly before their time.
Now, he seemed to want to add Julietta’s small villa and farm on the mainland—the settlement she had received from her husband’s family when she left Milan—to his kingdom. Perhaps he even wanted to add Julietta herself, though she could not fathom why. He had every young, full-bosomed courtesan in the city at his beck and call, he did not need her tall, thin, dark self. Whatever he truly desired, he had been most persistent in seeking it. He came to her shop, sent small gifts, invited her to gatherings at his palace, ever since the day they met in San Marco.
Now he was even interrupting her jovial feast day.
But she had hesitated too long in answering his greetings. The people around her were beginning to stare in puzzlement, obviously wondering why she ignored such a very important man. Even the loud hum of laughter and talk had faded to a low buzz.
Julietta stared directly, boldly down at the count, who watched her with a narrow, patient smile on his finely drawn lips. Beside him, half hidden in the shadows of the felze, was his son, Balthazar, watching the proceedings with a scowl on his narrow, youthful face, arms crossed over his white velvet doublet. Balthazar was the heir to the Grattiano kingdom, Ermano’s only child, yet he always seemed to behave like an unhappy prince, filled with some half-hidden, seething anger. But he was a handsome youth, with fine, high cheekbones, mossy green eyes and dark, silken straight hair falling to his shoulders. There was something odd about him today, something familiar she had never sensed in him before…
“Good day, Count Ermano,” she called, giving a tiny curtsy of acknowledgement.
“Indeed, it is a good day, now that I have seen you, Signora Bassano,” he answered. His words and demeanour were all that was courtly and correct, yet a mocking note lurked in his voice, as it always did. He seemed to sense the disquiet he awakened in her, and revelled in it. “Forgive me for not calling in your shop sooner. I have been visiting my estates on the mainland.”
Ah, so that was it, Julietta thought wryly. And here she had thought her spell of repellence worked. Drat it all. “I trust all is well there.”
“Impeccably so, of course.” The count leaned over the side of the gondola, peering up at her with his bright emerald gaze. “Signora, would you care to join us for the procession? There is more than enough space for you and your maid.”
Julietta’s chest constricted at the thought of being confined with the Grattianos on that suffocatingly luxurious craft, and she clutched at the pole until splinters pressed into her palm. For an instant, darkness pressed in on the edges of her sight, and she wasn’t sure if she was still standing by the canal or caught in a dream-vision. Surely that was no ordinary gondola, propelled by a mortal boatman, but a craft of Charon, waiting to ferry her to the Underworld.
She heard Bianca gasp, felt the maid clutch again at her sleeve. Those prosaic things brought her back to earth again, and her vision cleared. The count watched her closely, as if to compel her to agree. Such strange eyes he possessed…
“No, I thank you…” she began.
“Ah, Signora Bassano, you cannot refuse me.” The count laid one beringed hand over his heart. “We are a lonely vessel of men, as you see, and ask only to be graced by your lovely presence for a brief while. I can offer you a fine view of the ceremony.”
Before Julietta could answer—could refuse—a great cry went up around them, drowning out whatever Ermano said next. The Doge appeared in his great ceremonial barge called the Buccintoro, gliding into place at the head of the procession. Andrea Gritti, the Doge himself, was resplendent in a robe of cloth-of-gold and ermine, much like Count Ermano’s own colour scheme. As the Buccintoro moved out to the lagoon itself, the other vessels followed. Music grew louder around them, growing to a celebratory denouement; flowers rained down in a shower of colour and scent. And standing just behind the Doge was—No! It could not be.
She peered closer, clinging to the pole, and saw that it was, indeed, Marc Velazquez, clad in rich blue velvet, jewelled cap in hand as he stared out to sea. His thick, dark hair tangled in the breeze, making him look like a pirate even as he stood