Shadows choked the damp and silent Antwerp street as the young widow Beatrice de Luna, moving stiffly under the weight of an edifice of gold-stitched black satin, climbed the steps of her mansion. It was very late, and she'd just returned from her audience with Queen Marie of Burgundy, Regent of the Low Countries and sister to Charles V of the Holy Roman Empire. Although she felt relieved that the interview she had postponed so many times was at last over, she already regretted having lost her temper.

When she crossed the threshold, to be met by a bevy of servants, she drew her first easy breath of the evening. Within these walls, Beatrice de Luna, forcibly converted New Christian and court favorite in this year of 1543, no longer existed. She shed the name as easily as her fur-lined cloak and became once more Gracia Nasi, of the house of Hebrew princes.

Gracia waved the servants off to bed, all except for the old nurse who had come with her from Portugal, barely escaping the Inquisition. Once upstairs and wrapped in a woolen dressing robe, Gracia asked Esther to bring wine. “And if Reyna and my sister are still awake, ask them to join me.”

Candlestick in hand, Gracia paced her rooms, measuring their length and width. The outer chamber was spacious, anchored by heavy dark furniture. Shadows, like dampness made visible, clung to the corners. Esther had lit a fire in the sleeping chamber, and the embers gave off a lingering glow. To one side lay an odd little room, small and windowless, the reason Gracia had chosen these chambers for herself, rather than the larger ones her sister used. She lowered the candlestick to a table of ebony inlaid with ivory, one of the few personal treasures she'd salvaged from Lisbon. She could easily have replaced it; her late husband had left her in charge of a spice-trading empire that spanned half of Europe. But the table had belonged to Gracia's mother and to her grandmother before her.

With a gentle tap, the door swung open. Esther entered, carrying a silver goblet. Behind her came Brianda, swathed in sable-lined wool, and Reyna. Reyna looked very young, braids tousled and cheeks still flushed with sleep, yet graceful as a willow. She took the goblet from Esther and held it chest-high, advancing with measured steps. “I bid you good Sabbath, Mother.”

Esther's eyes glinted in her lined face, strong and brown like well-loved leather. With a fleeting smile, she closed the door behind her. She would stand guard in the hallway until Gracia released her.

Brianda went straight to the fireplace and held out her hands. The Low Country winters troubled her more than they did Gracia; some days, she said, she could never get warm. “You're back late,” she said to Gracia. “And our nephew, João?”

“Stayed to dice with Maximilian,” Gracia replied, accepting the goblet from Reyna. “You wouldn't have enjoyed the evening. It wasn't like the court in Brussels. As I expected, what Mary wanted was Reyna's hand for old Don Francisco.”

“That decrepit old wastrel!” Brianda said. “I'll wager he and the Emperor have already decided how they'll carve up Reyna's estate between them!”

“Mother…” The word came half a whisper, half a cry of pain.

She's like sun on water, Gracia thought. One moment as solemn as a priestess, the next a mere child.

“I put them off once again,” Gracia said with deceptive mildness. What she'd actually told the Queen Regent was that she'd rather see her daughter dead than married to Don Francisco. Harsh words but true, and in these times, bordering on perilous. The rack waited but a breath away.

“But these troubles will not be resolved tonight,” Gracia continued, “or if they could be, others would soon arise to take their place. For now, let us welcome the Sabbath.”

If any men had been present, Gracia, as the woman of the household, would have used the usual form of the blessing and lit ordinary candles with a taper from the fireplace. Now, though, the three women came together, each holding her cupped hands in front of her. Softly they breathed the ancient words, summoning the feminine aspect of the divine, “Brukha ya Shekhinah, elohaynu malkat ha-olam…”

With each phrase, the air in the little room quivered. The space between Reyna's hands glowed softly, then that between Gracia's, then Brianda's. As Gracia watched, a feeling rose up in her, not any emotion she could name aloud but a stirring in her innermost heart. Her breath caught in her throat. The light kindled into flame; she could feel it streaming through her, through her daughter's child-soft fingers, from a past that no longer existed to a future she could not imagine.

Yet this Light must remain hidden, passed from mother to daughter in an unbroken chain. Her own mother called it Miriam's Gift, after the prophetess sister of Moses. She'd spoken of other powers, too, of the balance of the ancient forces of Fire and Water, of mastery over storm and wave.

Brightness swelled to fill the room. Of the three, Reyna's burned the clearest, molten white gold, Brianda's a delicate pink, like the petals of an exotic rose. Gracia searched the depths of her own fire and saw only layers of amber light. For a moment, she glimpsed a shape, a flickering shadow. It looked like someone in a short cloak, his face a blur as he moved toward her.

Suddenly Reyna gasped. The image vanished and the flames died.

“What did you see?” Gracia asked.

“A man without a face.”

“Perhaps your future husband,” Brianda laughed. “I saw water and rows of beautiful colored lights floating above it. It means a voyage, I expect, or some kind of merrymaking on a lake or river.”

“Mother? What was yours?”

“I'm not sure.” Gracia tried to picture the wavering figure, but it slipped from her mind.

Gracia recited the blessing over the wine, sipped it, and passed it on. Reyna's vision could mean anything, she told herself, from the hand of the Inquisition to a child's uncertain fears. But no, Reyna's power was the strongest of any of them.

Gracia pressed her lips together, thinking. She'd thought to remain in Antwerp a while longer, while she continued liquidating the family assets and transferring them by circuitous routes, gradually moving eastward, beyond the reach of Christendom. Now her own impulsive words to the Queen had cost her precious time.

Brianda took a second gulp of wine and wiped the back of her mouth with one hand. “Well, that's done with. Good Sabbath, both of you. It's too cold for me here; I'm going back to bed.”

Reyna lingered after Brianda left. When Gracia held out one hand to her daughter, Reyna rushed into her arms. Gracia, enfolding her, inhaled the faint orange-blossom scent of Reyna's hair. Under the layers of lace and wool, the child's body quivered.

“They shall not have you,” Gracia murmured. “I promise it.”

Reyna pulled away, eyes huge in the candlelight. Tears beaded her lashes. “What will we do?”

“What we have always done.” How could she say more? All her life had been like this, evasions and subterfuge, running, hiding from one threat after another. Yet always the Light endured, the place the outer world could not reach. She remembered asking her own mother, even as Reyna asked her now, “Why call the Light when it cannot save us?”

“We do it to remember,” Gracia repeated the answer.

“Sometimes I wish we could forget,” said Reyna.

“Don't worry, preciosa,” Gracia said, putting an arm around Reyna and leading her to where Esther waited to escort her back to bed. “We will find a way.”

The next morning, Gracia breakfasted in her sitting room, wrapped in a fur blanket. Outside, a sleeting rain fell in gusts, tapping against the thick, dimpled windows.

Brianda joined her, still in a pique over not being invited to last night's audience. She picked at her sweet bun, her mouth drawn down and brows pulled into a straight line. The pastry was yesterday's baking.

Gracia pushed away a dish of apple peelings. “We'll have to leave Antwerp sooner than we planned.”

“Where will we go?” Brianda made a pretty moue. She'd hated the move from Lisbon to London and then Antwerp.

“Venice. I've received word that our assets have arrived safely.” Gracia's stomach twisted and she caught a whiff of something salty and rotting-sweet. It was an aftermath of last night, she hoped, and not another bout of bilious indigestion.

“Oh! Venice!” Brianda's cheeks flushed. “La Serenissima Dominante!” She clapped her hands together. “It's my vision of lights on the water! The festivals, the regattas, the gala balls! But we won't have to live in that awful Foundry area, what do they call it, il gheto, will we?”

“Of course not.” They could not afford the slightest public lapse, for to appear to be other than devout Christians would be admitting apostasy. No place lay beyond the hand of the Inquisition. Not Spain, where their family had lived for centuries; not Portugal, where Gracia's husband was now buried. Not even here in the north.

Before Brianda could chatter on, their nephew, João Miguez, came in. He'd stayed behind last night, drinking and gaming with the Imperial heir, and the frenzied glamour of the court still hung about him. But when Gracia called him by his Hebrew name, Joseph, a tension seemed to lift from him; his shoulders rose and then fell. He sat down facing her as he had on so many other mornings when she'd taught him the family business.

“I shall remain here to do what I can,” he agreed. “Have you decided how you will get out of the city?”

“I thought to go first to Aix-la-Chapelle, under the pretext of taking the waters for another bout of stomach illness which I believe will strike me soon, then to Lyons instead of Augsburg, the usual route.” She went on, ignoring Brianda's aggrieved sigh. “You must be careful, Joseph. Once Charles learns I am gone, he will almost certainly charge me with Judaizing.”

“To give him the grounds to confiscate whatever property he can.” Joseph nodded.

“You must argue that the prosecution is illegal because we are not subjects of the Holy Roman Empire but foreign merchants, free to travel as we wish,” Gracia said, ticking off points on her fingers, “that we are exemplary Christians, that the business belongs to Reyna and to Brianda's daughter, la Chica, while she and I have only our own small dowries.”

“Much too small!” Brianda said pointedly. Her face reddened at this reminder that her husband had named Gracia the administrator of his half of the business, thus giving the elder sister control of the entire trading empire.

“Some of the coffers that Charles will likely seize are in the custody of German merchants here who themselves have property in Venice, which I will petition the Doge to sequester by way of compensation,” Gracia said.

“Perhaps the offer of a substantial loan will put Charles off for a while,” Joseph said. “We've already lent him a hundred thousand livres.”

“Having an emperor so deeply in your debt can cut both ways.” Gracia frowned. “Such people are uncomfortable owing money they cannot repay.” In the past, powerful men had slaughtered whole communities of Jews to cancel their debts.

Joseph's eyes flashed, reminding her of how he’d looked when jousting with young Maximilian. “Let me suggest an additional touch, a diversion. We will put about a rumor that Reyna and I have eloped to Venice, with you in pursuit.”

Brianda clapped her hands, her mood shifting like quicksilver. “It's so romantic!”

Gracia smiled wryly. “It will certainly give Don Francisco something to think about. But we must be careful. We'd better make sure we're seen attending Mass tomorrow.”

Brianda excused herself, on the pretext of looking after the infant, la Chica, but actually, Gracia suspected, to inspect her wardrobe with an eye to what might be suitable for the elegance of Venice.

Venice, La Serenissima Dominante, Queen of the Adriatic, had already passed her prime as the dominant trading power of Europe. Gracia and her household settled in a small palace in the fashionable Zeppa district. Winged cherubs, dancing nymphs, and sea creatures adorned the painted ceilings. They acquired their own gondola, with cushions embroidered with swans and hearts. They rode in it or walked, for horses were forbidden within the city.

Gracia's rooms looked east, past the triple arched windows that reminded her of Moorish Iberia, past the lacework of canals, the arching bridges, and the iron lamp posts in the shape of dragons. East, to Turkey. Already her agents had arrived in Constantinople, preparing the way for her eventual arrival. She tried to imagine what it would be like to live openly, without this constant miasma of intrigue and subterfuge.

The Emperor Charles had brought the predicted charges of apostasy against Gracia, charges that Joseph answered with certificates of unimpeachable Christian observance, interminable legal pleadings, and judicious gifts.

Although Gracia's house in Venice had become a center for the community of Marranos, “hidden Jews,” she dared not associate in public with any who openly practiced the faith.

The new year brought another round of festivals, saints' days, and Carnival, the ten days of gaiety that preceded Lent. Not even Brianda, in her wildest dreams, had anticipated the explosion of revelry. Everywhere, strolling musicians played their lutes and vihuelas, gondolas sprouted ribbons and the carved heads of griffins and bare-breasted sea maids. On the streets, people went masked, transformed by their costumes into gorgeous birds or figures out of legend, concoctions of feathers and spangled silk. The whole household was soon caught up in the festivities, with invitations to one party after another.

The Doge's gala took place on the lagoon on a series of huge floating platforms hung with paper lanterns in fanciful shapes. The Doge himself held court in the costume of Neptune, with a trident tipped with sapphires and blue topazes. Fireworks arced through the night sky, while servants liveried in red and silver handed out goblets of fruited ice. The Doge had commissioned a piece of music in the new style called madrigale especially for the occasion.

Gracia had chosen a mask of peacock feathers rimmed with golden beads. Here on the carpeted deck of the Doge's barge, as on the streets, she found the Carnival regalia bestowed an unexpected freedom, as if in hiding their faces, people felt freer to reveal themselves. In recent years, a custom had grown up of addressing a fellow reveler as “Sior Maschera,” without regard to rank or sex.

And here we are, she thought as she tasted her lime ice, Old Christians and New, true and false, Venetian and foreigner, with only the thickness of a mask between us.

Then, as if the water itself had turned treacherous, the barge shifted beneath Gracia's feet, sending her stumbling into the man behind her.

His tallness caught her by surprise; she could see nothing whatever of his face or form, he was so completely swathed in black and white. Even the hands holding the precisely folded lace handkerchief were gloved. The black bautà covering his head and shoulders and the short tabarro cloak were of silk, which only nobility might wear. Behind the flaring white mask, she caught the gleam of eyes.

He bowed to her, an exaggerated gesture as if he were a performer with the commedia dell’arte, and called her “Madonna Maschera.” His voice was deep, with a strange resonance, but that might have been due to the mask.

Before Gracia could reply, a pair of revelers capered between them. When she looked again, the man in black had disappeared. He might have been a liquid shadow.

“Who was that?” Brianda's voice beside her asked.

Gracia shivered. “I don't know.”

Brianda's mask hung by its cord around her neck, and her cheeks had gone blood dark in the light from the paper lanterns. She prattled on, talking too fast, about the ices, the French wine, the commedia performers. It seemed to Gracia that her sister, usually so confident and gay, was gasping, feverish.

“You must not take ill from these night vapors,” Gracia said, slipping her arm through Brianda's. “Come now, we'll go home and I'll summon my physician.”

“What do you mean, go home?” Brianda jerked free. “It's not even midnight! I for one intend to stay and enjoy myself!” She jerked her mask back over her face, slightly askew. Her voice rose in pitch. “You think you can rule everyone, just like you do the business. But the firm isn't yours, half of it belongs to la Chica, and should be mine to run!”

“Be still! Such things should be discussed in private!” Gracia shook, whether with fury or terror, she could not at that moment tell. Whatever had possessed Brianda's tongue?

“Go on home! Nobody wants you here!” Brianda's laugh burst from her like the raucous cry of a gull. She whirled and plunged back into the throng of merrymakers.

Gracia trembled as she wrestled her temper under control. She was angry enough to go home alone and yet she could not simply abandon her sister. Around her, the music shifted to a minor key, and the masks took on a subtly altered character. The barge's lights looked pale and tinny, the surrounding water immeasurably deep. Were the eyes behind the bulging forehead of Dottore, or the hooked nose of Pantalone, truly human? Or had they taken on some quality from the sea-depths, the hidden shadows?

Gracia had seen shadows before—in Antwerp, and before that in Lisbon. Sometimes it felt as if she had been hiding from them all her life. Yet the next time she gathered Reyna to kindle the Light, she felt a difference, as if something dark and brooding had seeped into the waters along with the tide.

Brianda slept for the better part of two days, dosed with poppy elixir and attar of roses. Gracia had just finished her morning's correspondence when Esther came into the sunlit conservatory and said there was a gentleman to see her.

“A Count dell'Sarto. He says you've met before, at the Doge's gala.”

The half-written letter to Joseph fluttered to the carpet. Gracia found herself on her feet, with no memory of having risen.

She recognized him by his tallness, although not much else resembled the masked reveler. When he bowed, he removed any possible doubt. He wore a high-necked doublet of Oriental brocade trimmed with velvet, slightly padded in peasecod style above Venetian breeches. His hair was clipped as short as an Englishman's, his face clean-shaven. She was surprised to find him slightly homely.

“You are even more beautiful without your mask,” he said in that strangely resonant voice.

She stepped behind the chair and ran her hands over its back, tracing the stylized wave pattern. “Signore, you presume upon an imagined introduction. I thought it the Venetian custom that neither words nor actions survive the night of masks. As for your flattering words,” she raised one eyebrow, keeping her tone light, “I am a widow, and surely my beauty is no concern of yours.”

“Speaking frankly, madonna, I am here to court your daughter.”

“My Reyna?” Gracia's breath caught in her throat. Her skin prickled. “Your pardon, signore, the notion took me by surprise. Whatever makes you think I am looking for a husband for her?”

He gestured, shaking back the frothy lace at his wrist. Gracia noticed that the skin of his hand was unnaturally pale and smooth, as if stretched too tight. “It is I who am looking for a wife.”

“Then you have made this visit in vain.”

“I am well aware she has been sought after by others. But I care nothing for her fortune. You can keep that, give it to the poor, whatever you wish.” He sounded impatient now. “I want the girl.”

The wooden waves dug into Gracia's palms. Her knuckles went white. Just then, the Campanile in the nearby Piazza San Marco chimed, signaling the end of morning.

The count stepped back, as if repulsed by the sound. Gracia swept around the chair. “I wish you a pleasant day, then, and greater profit elsewhere. Esther, please escort the count to the door.”

Dell'Sarto glared at her, eyes rimmed with red-veined white. “You are a rash and foolish woman. I warn you, the time will come when you will give her to me, and gladly.” He departed in a swirl of sable-trimmed cape.

Shortly after Joseph concluded his affairs and joined Gracia's household in Venice, invitations arrived for the upcoming festivities of Martedi Grasso and the Festa della Sensa, Ascension Day, celebrated by the Marriage with the Sea. Haunted by a growing sense of unease, Gracia demurred. The more she hesitated, however, the more determined Brianda became. Reyna, too, complained when at the last moment, Gracia said she felt ill and desired them all to stay at home.

“All my friends will be going!” Reyna whined, sounding very much like her aunt. “And Joseph, too, so it will all be proper! If you don't feel well, you can stay at home with Esther.” The three women were sitting in Gracia's rooms upstairs, with the sunlight slanting on the white walls and the wind from the Adriatic blowing softly through the lace curtains.

Gracia considered, saying nothing for the moment. She'd used her fragile health as an excuse so many times she could not always be sure if she imagined the gnawing pain in her stomach. Besides, Venice was one of the few cities where women could attend such events without hindrance. What harm could there be in Reyna and Brianda enjoying themselves?

Brianda's brows knotted together, and her lips went sharp. “If I had proper control of my half of the business—la Chica's half, I mean—then we would have no need to argue over this. We could go to all the parties we want. Why should Gracia be the one to dictate what we can and cannot do?”

The answer that leapt to Gracia's tongue—that Brianda's husband had good reason to leave her in charge of the business and not his own wife—died unspoken. What purpose would be served by throwing that in Brianda's face? Instead, she said, “We already live a freer, more luxurious life than ever before. All our reasonable needs are met. And you have your dowry for your private use.”

“My dowry! A pittance, while you command an empire!”

Gracia shifted uneasily on her divan. “The money is not mine to spend,” she said carefully. “I hold it in trust.” And not just for our daughters, the thought came to her. She blinked, and it was gone. In its place came the vision of the hundreds of her people trapped on the Lisbon piers, without food or water, forbidden to set foot on the waiting ships without submitting to conversion.

Brianda stood up, shoulders back, chin thrust out. Her eyes, which had always been dark, seemed all pupil, like pits of blackness. “I will go to the Festa,” she said in clipped syllables, “and I will have what is rightfully mine. And if you try to stop me, sister or not, you will regret it!” With a swishing of full skirts, she swept from the room.

There followed a long moment of silence, during which Reyna twisted her lace handkerchief in her lap. “I didn't realize—”

“Your aunt is uneasy in her mind, that is all,” Gracia said with a certainty she did not feel.

“I wish I were like you, so patient and sure.” Reyna sighed. “Sometimes everything is clear, I know what I want and who I am. The next moment—tía Brianda says one thing or my friends say another, and I don't know what to think!”

“Hush, preciosa. No one expects you to be wise all of a sudden. You will have years to learn about such things, as well as good advisors, just as I had my husband Samuel and his brother Francisco, and now your cousin Joseph.”

“But right now I want so much to see the Doge go out in his gilded bucintoro and throw a wedding ring into the sea!” The girl's eyes shone with anticipation. “It isn't wrong to want that, is it?”

“No, of course not, although I think we had better not let Brianda go alone. The pleasures of the world are not evil in themselves, but they can blind you to other things. Do you remember that night in Antwerp when you asked me why we call the Light?”

“Yes, mama. And you said we do it to remember. And I said there were some things I'd rather forget. That's the danger, isn't it? And that's why we…” Reyna's sweet voice hushed. Her chin lifted, and her eyes seemed to see beyond the years. “Why the Light shines through us.”

“We must hold on,” Gracia said with a fierceness which surprised her. “We must remember.”

On Ascension Day, the sky over the Piazzo San Marco turned white. The water of the lagoon took on a strange, opaque brilliance, masking whatever hid beneath its surface. The Piazza thronged with the fair that had opened the day before and would continue for a fortnight; traders from all over Europe displayed their wares in wooden booths garlanded with flowers and ribbons. Gracia remained behind on the pier with Esther as the Doge's elaborately decorated boat pulled away, trailing a flotilla of followers, city luminaries, foreign ambassadors, even the papal nuncio. She did not think Brianda could get into any difficulty alone on a gondola with Reyna and Joseph.

Gracia strolled by the ranks of stalls, her gaze skimming the fine brocades, the incense, carved ivory, clumps of myrrh, polished amber, and jade, the piles of grapefruits, pomegranates, and local vegetables from Sant'Erasmo. She remembered how Reyna had smiled when Joseph helped her on board the gondola. Joseph's charm was undeniable. And he was clearly fond of his young cousin, he knew almost as much as Gracia about the family business, and there would be no question of Reyna being lost to the faith…

“You cannot keep her from me, you know,” said a resonant voice at her shoulder.

Gracia startled, caught herself. Today he was wearing white satin trimmed with gold. There was something mocking in the way he swept off his plumed hat and bowed to her.

“We have already said everything we have to say to one another. Buon' giorno, signore.”

“I think not.” He put out one hand, palm up. His fingers curled, first the index finger, then the others, one after the next, in a fluid ripple, like a slow ingathering of tentacles. Gracia's feet froze on the paving. Her nostrils flared at the smell of something rotten, like dead fish. The sea breeze turned sour. Beside her, Esther looked away, eyes filmy, smiling at the capering of a masked performer.

Gracia's heart fluttered against her ribs like a caged bird. She saw for the first time how tightly the skin over his mouth was stretched, as if his face itself were a mask. She could almost trace the outline of his teeth through his lips.

What does he want with her?

“Even now,” he whispered. “Even now I can bring them back, the things I have set in motion. It is not too late. Speak. Give me what I need. I am not vengeful.”

Anger, hot and bright, shot through Gracia. What you need! Always it comes down to needs—blood, lies, money most of all! She thought of the families waiting on the Lisbon pier, starved and beaten on the roads, the thousands more trapped in the iron cauldron of Iberia. She thought of all the gold that had poured through her fingers over those years, the gifts, the bribes, the imperial loans that would never be repaid. She saw the flames leaping between her daughter's hands, the pure and ancient Light.

“Look!” a voice behind her cried out. “The Marriage with the Sea!”

Trumpets blared out from the pier. Gracia strained her eyes against the brilliance of the water. The flotilla blurred, motes of shadow against the diamond surface. She could not tell which gondola held Reyna. Such a fragile thing, that little boat, to stand between her daughter and the dark beneath the waves.

A figure stood at the prow of the foremost boat, arms raised, then tossing something into the water—a wreath tied to a golden ring.

“Aaah…” A low cry reached Gracia's ears, more like raw animal pain than any human emotion. Despair mingled with defiance, quickly choked as the wreath disappeared beneath the waves. What a strange reaction to the ancient ritual! She turned, wondering, toward the count. But although she searched the crowd of merrymakers, she saw no sign of him.

Masked, she wandered through il gheto nuovo, gazing up at the unadorned facades. It seemed to her like a moated prison, damp and dark, unbearably crowded. The gates, she'd heard, were locked every night. People thronged the narrow streets, Gentiles as well as Jews, many come to do business at the banking establishments or to consult with physicians. She heard the songs of children, the polyglot of languages, Ladino and Yiddish as well as Italian, the chanting from the synagogue. She could feel the vibrancy, the richness of the life around her.

One word, and it would all be gone. Even as she thought it, an icy shiver touched her. She raised one hand to the mask she would take off at the end of the day and the one she would not.

Emotions swept through her, fear and sorrow and more she could not tell. She went home to her sunlit palace and was silent for a long time.

One morning, when Reyna and la Chica were visiting friends, Brianda stormed into Gracia's private rooms. Gracia had just refused to pay for an opulent supper-party that Brianda proposed.

“You have made me the laughing stock of Venice!” Brianda cried. “Living on my sister's charity, with hardly two coins of my own to rub together. Do you know what people say about me? That my husband wouldn't trust me with my own money so he left his half to you! You, already richer than five kings put together! You're never satisfied, are you? You must have it all!”

Gracia drew back. Her sister's face was distorted almost past recognition, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy with reflected light. Even her voice sounded strained, barely human. She'd known Brianda would not be happy, but the vehemence of her sister's words took her by surprise.

“Samuel and Francisco trusted me with good reason!” A tight, poisonous shimmer caught in the back of Gracia's throat. Once she'd begun, the words came boiling out of her, all the things she'd kept back over the years. “Do you think they would have given you custody of a single pin, you flighty, thoughtless woman? When have you given the least thought to running the business, to trade markets or travel routes, exchanges or loan rates? Your head is like an old stocking, stuffed with parties and gowns, who has the biggest jewels and how close you are seated to the Doge's table! Have you ever for a single moment thought of anything or anyone besides yourself?”

“That is enough!” Brianda scrambled to her feet. “How dare you say those things to me!”

“How dare you say such things to me?” Gracia could not remember getting up. For an instant, she caught the faint smell of a dead sea creature. Then it was gone and she a mere fleck on the surging tide of her fury.

“—Ungrateful whore!—” “—shrew, harpy!—” “—scheming, greedy—” “—betrayer!—” “—thief—”

Brianda ran weeping from the room. Gracia sank back into her own chair. Her temples throbbed and under her fingers her face felt hot and dry. She wondered if she were going to be ill, truly ill. She glanced up at the ceiling and her heart stuttered. Surely there had been winged putti, playing their sunlit harps among the painted clouds.

And that great gray sea beast, that half-seen Leviathan, rising through the spumy waters, where had it come from? Why had she never noticed it before?

Over the next few weeks, life assumed the semblance of normality, with the exception that Brianda took all her meals in her rooms and avoided Gracia's presence. One morning, the household awoke to find she had disappeared, along with her most valuable personal belongings. Gracia calmed the children and began a search. Quickly she discovered that Brianda had established herself in a small but elegant house, far beyond the means of her modest dowry, near the Ponte di Rialto. Brianda refused all overtures from Gracia, even to meet with her in public, and Gracia's agents soon discovered why. By then it was too late.

Surrounded by witnesses of unimpeachable anti-Jewish sentiment, Brianda appeared before the Venetian courts and charged Gracia with apostasy.

Beatrice de Luna, also known as Gracia Nasi, had only pretended to convert to the true faith, her sister avowed. Her real motive in coming to Venice was to prepare the way to Turkey, where she would once more revert to the ways of her ancestors. The move would place the souls of her niece and daughter, as well as their considerable fortune, beyond the reaches of Christendom.

This was the speech Joseph reported to Gracia. She herself had no part in the proceedings, for persons so accused were forbidden to speak in their own behalf. She set aside her own emotions and began her defense, preparing testimony regarding her meticulous observance of Christian rites, strategic gifts, and all the intrigues she had mastered in Antwerp. Before she could set these plans in motion, however, the Venetian authorities stepped in, arrested her, and confiscated her assets. As if this were not enough, the next day, the papal nuncio assumed guardianship of Reyna and la Chica and placed them in a nunnery, “to ensure the purity of their spiritual upbringing.”

“Prison” seemed too harsh a term for Gracia's new quarters, and yet not harsh enough. It was not an underground cellar, dank and lightless, with chains on the walls and moldy straw for a mattress, but a suite of sparse, airy rooms with barred windows. The building had once been a nunnery, and Gracia had apparently inherited the Mother Superior's quarters. The outer room was furnished with a chair and a large, hideously realistic, wooden crucifix. The smaller room had a cot, a washstand with a cracked ewer, a chamber pot, and another, somewhat smaller cross.

Clearly, Gracia thought as she inspected the rooms, I am meant to pray for my sins. A smile hovered over her lips as she unpacked the trunks Esther had sent after her, clothing, linens, brushes, mirrors, soap, candles, and, more precious, books and writing materials.

A priest was sent to hear her confession, which she dutifully gave. But as she recited the litany of minor transgressions, her heart felt as if it were being squeezed in a vice.

Work steadied her over the following weeks, as it always did. But as she sat at her own desk, in her own chair, thoughts weighed on her mind. Greed was a volatile thing—once aroused, it could flare up like tinder, whole families consumed, Brianda herself and la Chica, too, the entire Marrano community at risk, the Jews in il gheto nuovo as well. The Inquisition waited but an accusation away. Brianda might be flighty and short-sighted, but she was not an utter fool. She knew these dangers, for she'd lived with them all her life. Why had she risked such a thing?

Joseph brought news of how Brianda had been caught in her own trap. Her agent in Lyons had demanded a portion of the proceeds and when she refused, had turned on her, denouncing her. The French king, scenting unanticipated gains, seized their property, thus freezing the very monies Brianda had counted on for her own.

“But we have allies,” he told Gracia. “I have appealed to the Sultan of Turkey, describing your plight, the harshness of your treatment here, and the fate of Reyna and la Chica.”

Gracia paused, considering. With her trading empire in decline, Venice lived on sufferance from her powerful Eastern neighbor. The Sultan was well-known for his religious tolerance.

“He has already dispatched his chaus to negotiate terms,” Joseph said. “I suggested in turn that Reyna might make a fitting match for the son of the Jewish court physician.”

Gracia's eyes widened minutely.

A muscle in his jaw leapt to hardness beneath his clipped beard. “Reyna and I have discussed matters before. She understands that certain”—his eyes went dark, hidden—“sacrifices must be made for the sake of the family.”

“That may be.” Gracia rose to her feet. “But they will not be made by my daughter.”

He bowed his head. Something in the movement reminded Gracia of the earnest young man she had taken into her Antwerp house, taught and nurtured, the boy he'd been before Maximilian and all the scheming that had come since then. She touched his hand.

“We will speak no more of it. Besides, I know the Doge. He is no fool. He will take the hint the first time.”

Gracia sat up in her narrow prison cot, gasping from a dream of half-glimpsed spectral figures. Beneath the fine lawn of her night dress, her heart hammered against her ribs. She slid her feet to the floor, shivering in the humid air. From the lagoon came the tolling of the marker buoys. Only the faintest moonlight penetrated the window bars, yet the crucifix cast a blurred shadow, its arms no longer quite straight, as if melting under its own weight. As she watched, the dim light took on a greenish hue.

Moving by feel instead of sight, she circled the rooms. The peephole in the outer door was shut, the hallway beyond, silent. Shadows pressed in on her from every corner.

Gracia strode back into the bedroom and pulled the embroidered silk screen across the doorway. Cupping her hands in front of her, she whispered the ancient words, “Blessed be thou, O Creator of the Universe, Sustainer…”

The air between her fingers glowed. For a moment, she saw nothing in the flickering light and she wondered if her vision, never as great as Reyna's, had failed her. Then a shape of white and gold wavered into clarity. The flames darkened, streaked now with ashen tones of burnt gold and umber. Once again she caught the outline of a man in a short tabarro cloak, moving toward her, one hand outstretched, grasping—

“Dell'Sarto!”

The light flared up, filling half the room. The figure swelled also, to stand within it as large as life. The bright mist fell away and she saw his face.

Gracia raised one hand and smothered a cry. Surely such a creature had never walked the earth. The eyes that met hers were white and bulging, without pupils, blind as if from staring too long into the lightless depths. Skin stretched tight as a drumhead across bones like convoluted shells. There were no lashes, no brows, the ears mere dimples, the nose a doubled slit. The lipless mouth covered rows of serrated teeth, and along the sinuous neck, blood-red gills pulsated.

A stench rose up to gag her, of rotten sea-creature and something else, a perfume seductive and ancient.

Gracia spied the band of gold encircling the neck like a slave's collar, half-hidden by the gills. Above it, the mouth twisted once, twice, then a sound issued forth, rusty as sea-chains or boats creaking in the night.

“Free me, I beg of you!” The creature raised limbs trailing glabrous seaweed to paw at the golden ring. “Free me from this Earth that holds me fast. Use your Fire to melt it away!”

In the echoes, Gracia caught a hint of familiar resonance. Her skin crawled. She'd felt a presence from the moment she'd set foot in Venice, lurking in the fluid dark beneath the canals. Now she understood. Chained to the sea by the ancient Festa ceremony, it needed a balancing power of Fire to free itself. Reyna, strong and clear…and inexperienced, malleable. Reyna, now hidden behind the convent walls.

It could not reach Reyna. Now it wanted her.

It's what you really want to do, whispered through Gracia's mind. Peace, find peace in the sea. Give in…

“No!” Gracia pressed her lips together and lifted her chin. The brightness surged in response, white and brilliant purples in kaleidoscoping patterns. Sparks leapt and a smell like burned kelp seared the air, a puff of greasy blue smoke.

“Let us discuss this reasonably, madonna,” the creature said. “I mean you no harm.”

Gracia could not tell if it were pleading or threatening, so subtle and shifting were its tones.

“And I can be a loyal friend. What can you do alone, here in man's prison, your gold in the hands of your enemies, your daughter locked away with the she-priests? Could you not benefit from a powerful ally?”

She felt an inner tug, an aching desire to agree to those suave words. Oh, Brianda, is this what happened to you?

“Consider the scope of my dominion,” the sea creature continued in its soft, beguiling voice. “The oceans run deep and far, even unto the ends of the earth. With a word, I can drown your enemies, flood their fields, destroy their mighty navies. Consider what we might accomplish together once you have freed me…”

Gracia shook her head. She would bargain her wealth for safety or freedom; she would not bargain with Miriam's Gift.

“You cannot win, O woman. For a time your strength will hold, but then, ah then! it will fail you. Mortal flesh always fails. Only the sea never tires.”

Gracia felt a strange fluttering, then a tightness in her chest, a cramping in her belly as if the illnesses that she pretended over the years had come to pass in reality. Her breath caught in her throat. Her vision blurred.

Suddenly the creature made a quick, lunging thrust toward her. She brought her hands up and flames shot from her fingers. It screamed, writhing its long, scaled tail.

“Mortal!” The syllables distorted, merged into a sound like the roar of a sea storm. The creature reared up, claws reaching for her. “Defy me at your peril! I will take—”

“You will take nothing!” Gracia's temper flared up like a sword, whetted and ready to her hand. Fire raged though her. She quivered with its power. “I have had enough with taking, enough with bargaining! Unclean beast, begone! Take yourself from my sight! Rot in hell or the bowels of the sea, I care not—but come not to me or mine ever again!”

The air between her hands, ignited by her fury, shimmered, incandescent. Its brightness pierced her, filled her. The ring around the creature's neck glowed as if molten.

The sea creature shuddered, wavering. For an instant, it seemed to bow down before her, and she thought it might be summoning what powers it possessed against her. But it could not wrest the Light from her; only she could choose to wield it.

And I choose! For my Reyna and for my people, I choose!

“S-s-sooner or later,” came its fading whisper, “your power will be mine!”

Gracia blinked, startled. Then she laughed aloud. “O creature of the deep, do you think this power comes from me? Do you think it mine?”

O Shekhinah, Mystery of Mysteries!

She dropped her hands, surrendering the Light to its source. As the brightness faded, so did the image within it.

“Go where you will, to the very ends of the earth,” creaked the rusted-iron voice, growing thinner with each syllable. “I will be waiting…”

The voice failed. For a long moment Gracia stood listening to the silence.

The creature was right. There was no corner of the earth, not Lisbon, not Antwerp, not the Sublime Porte of Constantinople, no human kingdom that could shelter her, nowhere she could hide.

Hide… echoed through her mind.

Gradually her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness. A pale illumination cast twisted shadows from the crucifix. Gracia walked over to it. It was not fastened to the wall, but hung from a row of nails. It was heavier than she expected. She took hold of the bars of the cross with both hands and turned it away from her, toward the wall.

“Let this be an end to lies.” Her voice, at first a whisper, grew stronger and more triumphant. “From this moment onward, I will no longer hide what I am.”

As if touched by prophetic vision, she saw her people huddled on the Lisbon pier, in il gheto, in a thousand darkened prisons. She saw them lift their heads, arise, follow. Like Miriam of old, she would go forth. Her dreams would become a bridge, her Light a beacon. And never again would she wear a mask.

The old woman stood at her balcony, looking out over the water. Warm and clear in the Turkish sun, the bay sparkled on the surface and turned blue as sapphires below. Yet always she felt the darkness in the shadows, the brooding hunger. She felt it here in Constantinople and she felt it in Tiberias, in Palestine beside the Sea of Galilee, where even now her agents were building the settlement that was the first step toward a Jewish homeland. She would not live to see the completion of that work; the years held her too tightly in their grasp, even as the sea creature had warned. Yet she smiled as she turned away from the water, wandered through the rooms filled with books printed in Hebrew under her patronage, watched Reyna play with her young daughter. The shadow might be ever with them, but now the Light burned bright and free.