Sunlight sparkles off the Canal Grande, and I can enjoy this beautiful day, for I have no headache, no cough, and no itchiness, and my vision is clear. I listen to Bianca playing dress-up in the music room behind me. She traipses around in old costumes from masked balls, then goes up and down the grand hall, stopping to talk with imaginary people. I laugh.
An exceptionally long gondola rounds the bend. I recognize the iron on the front: Contarini.
I hurry down the stairs to the docking area. Signora Laura climbs out with the help of her servant Manfredo. We kiss each other on the cheeks and she darts past me up the stairs. I haven’t seen her since the garden party a week ago.
Antonin intercepts her. “Shall I announce your presence, Signora?” He bows low.
“I’ll surprise him. Is he in the map room?”
Agnola comes up beside Antonin. She smiles. “Marin loves his new library.”
“That’s obvious. He might be a lunatic.” Signora Laura sweeps past Agnola into the library.
Agnola and I watch from the doorway. Antonin pretends to be busy adjusting a painting, but he stays within earshot too.
Marin wipes dust off his nose and smiles limply. “Signora, what a pleasant surprise.”
“I’ve come to take Dolce away.” She turns to me. “Gather your belongings.”
I stare at her, then look at Marin. His eyes question me, but I know nothing. A frozen lump forms in my chest. I shake my head vehemently. I’m so stupid; I thought I had won her over.
“I don’t understand,” Marin says.
“She is of marriageable age. Fifteen is on the young side, but it’s acceptable. Letting her stay in this house threatens her reputation.”
“She shares a room with me,” says Agnola.
“Which is fine if she’s your younger sister or Bianca’s older one.” She turns back to Marin. “Dolce will live with us until a suitable marriage can be arranged.”
“I intend to marry her,” says Marin. He looks at me.
He said it. And in front of others. I can be his bride! I rush toward him, but Signora Laura catches my arm. “That’s all good and well. The tradition, then, is for you to negotiate with her father.”
“My father is dead,” I say. “You know that.”
“Which is why Messer Contarini will negotiate on your behalf.” She turns to Marin again. “He’ll meet with you in the cathedral of San Marco and—”
“Negotiate?” says Marin. “Dolce has nothing. I presume Messer Contarini does not have an extra 1,750 ducats lying around to furnish a dowry.”
“Of course he doesn’t. But he will speak for Dolce’s well-being.”
“I will care well for her. You know that.”
“All right, then. I suppose you’re right. In a few months, come by our palace and you can seal the agreement. You can touch her hand or give her a ring, and you’ll be wed.”
“A few months? Don’t be absurd! If you take her today, I’ll come tomorrow morning.”
Signora Laura tsks. “You’re acting like a boy, not a widower with a child. What’s the rush? I come to take her away and you can’t bear it?”
“Exactly. I’ll come tomorrow.”
Signora Laura sighs. “All right, all right. We can set a transfer date for changing homes. Perhaps in spring.”
“Spring!” shouts Marin.
“Eight months is proper,” says Signora Laura.
“It will be day after tomorrow,” says Marin.
“Impossible,” says Signora Laura. “That’s a Wednesday. No one transfers homes on a Wednesday. It is a day of abstinence. Wednesday and Friday. Surely you intend to observe abstinence rules.”
Marin’s face goes red.
“Please,” I say. “Will someone explain?”
“Really, Dolce. Sometimes you behave as though you’ve been living under the sea. Transfer—like in every marriage. Marin will come with his gondola and bring you and all your belongings to this house to live.”
“My belongings are already here.”
“We’re taking them to my home now. This is how it’s done, Dolce. Hush. Everything must be done correctly. You will be transferred here on…” She pauses.
“Thursday,” says Marin.
“Sunday.” Signora Laura brings her hands together in a loud clap. “No one works on Sunday. That guarantees the greatest audience for the transfer. I will lend Dolce an old chest for her possessions. A giant one so her audience can see she is a person of substance.”
“We don’t need an audience,” says Marin. “And keep your old chest. All we want is each other.” He looks at me. “Am I right, Dolce?”
His face is as open as a flower. I want to breathe him in.
“Don’t answer him,” says Signora Laura. “Talk to him through me. And believe me, you want an audience. You must be recognized in Venetian society as a proper wife for Marin. Proper, do you understand? For Bianca’s sake. You want everyone to see you. We’ll have to rush on getting a new gown. You can borrow some of my jewelry.”
“I will buy her jewelry,” says Marin. “And she will choose it. She will decide what it means to be proper.”
“Then…”
“Signora Laura, please stop,” I say. “Am I to be loaded into Marin’s gondola like a sack of fruit?”
She smiles. “Not at all. Like spices. Pepper and cloves and cinnamon and ginger—exotic spices from India and the far islands and China. Everything wonderful from anywhere else comes through Venezia. You need to be recognized as something different from us, but just as good. Better, perhaps.
“Listen, Dolce. As Marin knows, there’s been talk lately about changing the rules of who is a member of the nobility. Right now it’s entirely patrilineal. Through the father. But they might change it so that the mother’s origin matters too. It may take a year or more before they vote, but I’m betting they will pass a new law. What will become of your children if Venetian society doesn’t recognize you as noble?”
“I have no idea.”
“You don’t want to find out.”
“None of us do.” Agnola comes into the room. “Now, here’s my plan. Lucia La Rotonda makes a wonderful dish of roasted chicken with cheese, sugar, and cinnamon. We can have a feast on Sunday and invite everyone. The aroma of cinnamon will fill our palace. Everyone will accept Dolce as noble. We will start planning right now. Thank you a thousand times, Signora. And now you must excuse me.” She races away.
“I’ll help Dolce pack.” Signora Laura takes me by the elbow.
I look over my shoulder at Marin. Our eyes meet. It’s going to happen. We’re going to marry.
“Thank you, Signora,” he calls.
Signora Laura ushers me into the room I share with Agnola.
Bianca sits in the middle of our bed, her legs folded under her. “Don’t go.”
I should have known she’d be eavesdropping. I hug her. “I must.”
“Then I’m coming with you.”
“Don’t be silly,” says Signora Laura. “Dolce will be back on Sunday. And she’s got a busy week in between.”
Bianca’s eyes are on me. “I’m talking to Dolce. I’m coming with you.”
“There’s no need to be rude to me, Bianca,” says Signora Laura. “I know you want to be part of things. You’ll act like a little hostess at the feast on Sunday.”
“Take me with you.” Bianca stares at me, solemn. “You’re my mamma now. I need you.”
I want her to come with me. But Signora Laura…“I’m coming back,” I say softly. “In less than a week.”
A tear makes its way down Bianca’s cheek. “Promise me.”
“I promise.”
“Will you have children with Papà?”
“I hope so.”
She clasps her hands together. “Will you still love me if you do?”
“Yes.” I climb onto the bed and pull her onto my lap. “Yes, Bianca. I will always love you.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
Bianca turns her face to Signora Laura. “Will Dolce be recognized as noble?”
“I hope so.”
“You only hope?”
“I can’t know for sure. I will do my best to help. Dolce found a way to make me accept her. She’ll find a way to make other families accept her.”
“How?” Bianca pulls on the sleeve of my bodice. “How did you make Signora Contarini accept you?”
I put my mouth to her ear. “I made her a mirror,” I whisper.
Bianca pulls my head down and whispers into my ear, “Then make mirrors for everyone.”
“If I have to,” I whisper, “I will.” I fall backward onto the bed and look up at the plaster molding—grapevines with clusters of bursting fruit—on the ceiling. I love feeling clearheaded, seeing without pain. I don’t want the mirror malady to come back. It’s so much worse than it used to be. I don’t want to go murky.
But those children, my unborn innocents, must be nobility. I don’t understand why, but Marin accepts it. And I cannot bring harm to Bianca. Never.