Matteo de Gama loved Venice passionately, but he despised Carnivale for its noise, crowds, foreign visitors, and the mess it left behind. He sought solace where he could, in the drunken English lords who couldn’t refuse a bet, and in the tender beauties who lost their inhibitions while hiding behind their masks.
This night, however, he had to contemplate leaving his fair city, if only for a time. How long until Signore DelAmicio realized that Gia had been no more a virgin in Matteo’s bed than he himself had been? Matteo thought of Gia and her sultry eyes as she begged him to marry her, and how they’d narrowed in rage when she’d threatened her father’s wrath if he refused.
Well, it seemed she’d meant it, enough to play the mistook virgin to her powerful, protective papa.
Matteo ran a hand through his hair and considered his options. He would need to visit his casino before leaving Venice, to gather clothing, monies, and to make certain his landlady had all her rents paid for the next year. He would be back in Venice in a few months; Gia was far too lusty a young woman to go long without a lover. She would find another man, and her father’s anger would be redirected.
As he sailed, he heard a female voice calling out to him from a bridge. A delay, but one he would gladly make time for.
He had his burchiello pulled beneath it where Mariuccia, the daughter of the butcher, leaned down to him, the high curves of her breasts the only exposed flesh available for his viewing.
“You never come to see me anymore,” she pouted.
Because her mother and father were good people, he thought, and their daughter was their treasure. But he did not say that. “I am a busy man.”
“Busy, busy man. And while you are so busy, I am an abandoned flower, wilting on the vine.”
“Your father would shoot me if I were the one to pluck you, my delightful angel. He wants you properly wed, and a son-in-law to pass his trade to.”
“Matteo, you are wicked to worry about my papa when I tell you I am so forlorn.” She shifted her posture and changed tactics. “I read your satire, and I hope you would bring me aboard your burchiello so we might discuss it. Unless you think I am too young….”
“Youth is such a charming flaw,” Matteo replied softly. His burchiello drifted beneath his feet, the stars shone overhead, and before him a maid dipped down low so he could view her soft breasts. He would not seduce her, no matter how tempting, but as a man who enjoyed life’s pleasures, he did not suffer her flirtation.
A scream rent the air, destroying the peace and sending shivers down Matteo’s spine. He looked around and saw nothing out of the ordinary. He lifted his gaze back up to Mariuccia. “Did you hear that?”
She shrugged, obviously restless to be on his burchiello or on her way. “Do I charm you, Matteo?”
Matteo smiled softly, dismissing the sounds he’d heard. Probably a domestic dispute of some sort, or a lover’s quarrel.
“Many things charm me, Mariuccia. Do you hope to be amongst them?”
The scream came again, this time full of such rage that Matteo felt his blood grow cold. It was a rare thing to hear something so primal, and curiosity, as it so often did, decided the matter for Matteo.
Without another word to Mariuccia, he called out to his boatmen and applied himself alongside them to the task of moving the burchiello. The vessel was low-slung, heavy in the center, and made to move with the wind, so it was with great effort that they pushed the oars into the water and heaved the craft into motion. Another sound reached them, this one the grunt of a man being injured, as if by a jab or kick, and the noises were growing closer.
Soon enough he saw them, a struggling woman in the grip of a man. Matteo could make out the sounds of her distress, muffled by the grip of his hand over her mask.
Matteo wasn’t the sort of man who got involved in others’ problems, but neither was he a man who would calmly sail by as a woman was assaulted.
He pulled two pistols from his belt and leveled them both on the man. His voice rang out, “Let the woman go.”
They both stopped, long enough to look around. The man kept a grip on the woman, as if trying to fend her off. The woman began to fight in earnest once more.
Matteo cocked both pistols. “Let her go,” he said again. And then, realizing how many visitors littered the city, said it again in French, and once more in English. “Let her go, or I will kill you.”
As the man struggled with the woman he called out, “Go away. This is a private matter.”
“Three seconds, and your brains feed the fish.”
The man, seeming resigned, let her go.
Just as he released her, the woman swung around, and losing her balance, toppled over the side of the bank and fell into the water with a splash.
The two men looked at the water in horror, and then at each other.
“I can’t swim,” the Englishman said from behind his mask.
And then, Matteo de Gama, who thought he’d seen the very bottom of human indecency, watched as the man turned and hurried away, leaving them both behind.
The water filled Kieran’s mask, saturated her many layers of clothes, and sucked her to the bottom. She kicked and thrashed, but could not force her way to the top.
The dark water dragged her down, cold and unfeeling; the only sound, bubbles rising from her mask. It would not take long, she knew, for death to come. Only minutes, and then it would be over.
In her mind’s eye, Kieran saw her mother’s face, stained with tears.
And then another image appeared, this one of the years that stretched in front of Kieran, loveless, lonely, and tainted with memory.
In all the time that had passed, nothing had taken away the shame and pain of that night. Why should she fight the one thing that would most assuredly wipe it all away?
Kieran stopped struggling and let the water take her into its silent darkness.
2
Matteo could not give chase and leave the girl to drown. He tossed his pistols to the deck and yanked off his cloak before diving into the canal. The water was murky and dark, and he held his breath until his lungs burned for air, his outstretched arms feeling around for her. He felt the touch of fabric, grabbed a fistful, yanked, and began swimming upward, desperate for air.
When he broke the surface, Matteo grasped her around the middle and swam back, careful to keep her masked face above water. Once alongside his burchiello, he handed her up to his boatmen and then climbed aboard to collapse on the deck.
Matteo’s manservant rushed over. “What is happening?”
“Help me bring her inside.”
Together the men made to lift the woman to her feet, but she whirled and yanked herself from their grasp.
“Do not touch me,” she hissed.
Matteo waved his manservant away. Maintaining a distance from the frightened woman, he gestured to the doors of the large cabin. He spoke in English, as she had. “There are blankets and dry cloaks inside.”
She glanced around wildly, her mask and wig still in place, though her hat was gone. Her cloak and gown must be heavy, Matteo thought, sodden as they were with water. Something in her posture, however, spoke of desperation, and Matteo felt a prickling on his skin that had nothing to do with the cold water.
“I will not hurt you,” he assured her.
Her face snapped around,