Marc Antonio Velazquez could do that. She sensed it, knew it. There was something hidden about him, concealed behind his good looks and fine clothes, his polished manners. Only one cloaked soul could recognise another. He was a complication she did not need. Her life was good now. Settled. Safe.
As safe as she could ever make it.
Men such as Il leone had no place in her world. She had to make sure of that.
Julietta shut the window and latched it before taking up her dressing gown. As she slipped it over her chemise, she left her chamber on careful, silent feet. Bianca snored softly on her truckle bed in the corridor, but Julietta just crept past her, down the narrow stairs to the darkened shop. The shutters were drawn tightly over the windows, the door solidly locked and barred; no one could possibly be spying on her here. Still, she glanced carefully over every inch of the room, every vial and jar, before creeping over to the hidden panel set in the wall.
Her fingertips quickly found the tiny knot of wood and pressed hard. The panels slid apart to form a fissure just large enough for her to move through. She lit a branch of candles before shutting the secret door behind her again, closing herself into her own private world.
There were no windows or skylights in her hideyhole; the only light came from the soft flicker of the candles. It was a small chamber, yet held all she could need. Long, narrow tables were pushed against two of the walls, laden with scales, beakers, silver bowls, a mortar and pestle and a variety of spoons and knives. The other two walls held shelves piled with books: ancient volumes she had painstakingly and at great expense collected over the past three years or had inherited from her mother and grandmother. There were also several covered baskets and pottery bowls, rows of stoppered bottles. Suspended from the dark wood rafters were bunches of dried herbs along with other, stranger materials. Ones she would never want the patrons of the perfumery just beyond the wall to see.
Never.
Julietta quickly went to work, for the night was half gone already. She spread out her materials—a beaker filled with clear liquid, small scissors, the mortar and pestle—and lit a small bowl of oil. Narrowing her eyes, she gazed up at the herbs, gauging which ones suited her purposes tonight. Angelica, yes; nettle, rue, and marjoram—all of them held great powers of protection and wisdom. Using the little silver scissors, she snipped a sprig from each and put them in the silver bowl.
Her herbs gathered, she knelt beside the table, hands tightly clasped and eyes shut. “Oh, Great One,” she whispered. “I pray that the mysteries will be revealed to me this night, and my place in the world restored. Help me to see the truth. Guide me in my actions. Protect me.”
And help me to divine what this Signor Velazquez seeks here in Venice, she added silently.
“Amen.” Julietta crossed herself, and stood up to reach for the herbs she had chosen, the mortar and pestle. These hours, deep in the secret cloak of night, belonged only to her, to the lessons she had learned so long ago from her poor mother, from her grandmother. They had to belong only to her—or they could mean her very death.
Yet somehow, despite the dangers she knew all too well, she was compelled to this. Compelled to use her knowledge to help other women whenever possible. Women like Cosima Landucci—women like herself. Not even the threat of the stake could stop that.
And not even a sorcerer’s turquoise eyes could turn her purpose. It was set—and done.
Chapter Five
“Madonna!”
Bianca’s voice, echoing amid the crates and boxes of the store-room, startled Julietta, nearly causing her to bash her head on the case she was unpacking. As it was, she stumbled backwards, a jar of oil clutched in each hand. She had been counting the new arrivals, completing the shop’s inventory, but really, her thoughts were far away, drifting inexorably to the experiment that bubbled and fermented quietly in the secret room.
And trying not to drift to Il leone.
“Yes, Bianca, what is it?” she said, placing the jars carefully back into the padded case. “Do you need my help in the shop?”
Bianca closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, covering her mouth with her handkerchief amid a flood of giggles. “He is here.”
Julietta knew immediately the he that Bianca meant. She turned away from the maid to hide her suddenly warm cheeks, busying her hands with tidying the inventory ledgers on the floor beside her. She had to compose herself, to stop this absurdity immediately, or she would soon find herself giggling away, just like her silly maidservant!
This was business. That was all.
“Signor Velazquez?” she said.
“Sì. And looking even more lovely than before.”
“Well, then, Bianca, the perfume he ordered is behind the counter, in the purple glass bottle. You can package it up for the ‘lovely’ gentleman.” Yes, that was it—send the man on his way without even seeing him.
But life could never be so simple. “Oh, no, madonna. He is asking to see you especially.”
Asking to see her, was he? Why should that be? If she had time to puzzle it over now she would, but that would have to wait for later, when he was gone and she was alone in her room. Right now, though, she had a business to run, and he was a very important customer.
An important customer who wished to see her. Especially.
Julietta pushed herself to her feet, removing her apron and brushing the dust of the store-room from her black skirts. A strange, cold apprehension fluttered in her stomach, but she ignored it and strode past Bianca, opening the door to the shop. Bianca slammed the door back into place as soon as Julietta was past her, leaving her alone in the shop.
Or rather, not quite alone.
They had been busy in the morning; so many people wanted their new scents for Carnival, and customers had crowded the shop to claim their purchases and hear the latest gossip of the Landucci death and the doings of Il leone. Now there was an early afternoon lull, and Marc Antonio Velazquez was the only person in the room.
He was half turned away from her, examining a display of the new French oil burners, which gave her a moment to examine him. She had begun to think that surely her mind had exaggerated his charms, painted him as taller than he was, stronger, darker, a figure of poetic fantasy. But, no—he was everything she remembered. He wore green today, dark forest-green velvet as subtle and rich as his red garb of two days ago, trimmed only with silver-edged slashings on the sleeves and a pale silver fox lining to his short cloak. He held his green velvet cap in one hand, turning it lazily in his long fingers, and the fall of his glossy dark hair gleamed in the sunlight.
The pearl still dangled from his earlobe, emphasising the strong, clean line of his jaw. A small frown creased his brow as he stared at the burners, yet she sensed that he did not see them at all, that his mind was very far away.
Just as hers had been these past two days.
She wondered what he thought of, what dwelled behind the façade of the elegant hero, the brave sea captain all Venice lauded. No, not just wondered— longed to know. Her chest ached with the need, a need she had thought long dead and buried, a need to understand another human, to know she was not alone.
Yet why should that be, with this man, this stranger? For that was all he was, a stranger she had glimpsed only briefly and now fancied such dramas over. She was surely blinded by his beauty, as every woman in Venice was these days. She heard little else in her shop except the doings of Il leone, the ladies he danced with at balls, the honours the Doge showered on him. Julietta would have thought herself sick of him—if she had not so eagerly