A dream on the water
A city of plague and laces
Steps in the night
Echo my call
Venice, Italy
Nobody saw the slender, amber-skinned girl walking on the water of the Grand Canal, placing one foot slowly in front of the other, the moonlight reflected on her cropped black hair and the hem of her gown dripping with every step she took. To either side of her, tethered boats and gondolas swayed on the murky waters, the canal’s foulness a contrast to the beauty of the palaces. The city itself was rotting quietly, year after year, crumbling and dissolving in a dream of splendour and decay.
Micol walked on, straight-backed and solemn and silent, worn from the effort of staying afloat on the water and still unable to stop, because when she stopped she would have to go home, her new home. And to go back to Palazzo Vendramin, where the sleeping girl seemed to steal the air from her lungs, where the Ailment had slowly eaten one of her brothers’ bodies and the other’s mind – to go back was just unbearable.
But she had to. There was no other place of safety, and to be out alone at night – or any time, really – was almost certain death.
Still, for a little while longer Micol would walk under the moonlight, the sound of lapping water in her ears, the slow swoosh of her gown sending rats scurrying along the walls of the palazzos. Micol gazed at a little pack of them, fat and black and fearless, climbing down a gilded façade and into the water, and then she looked up at the black sky still dotted with stars, slowly turning orange in the east. She longed for freedom and purity and wished herself far, far away from this dying city.
But she knew that the plague would get her too, one day soon. Like it came for her brothers, Tancredi and Ranieri. For her, a quick demon death would be preferable to the Azasti. So Micol had made her decision: as soon as she spotted the first signs on herself – the blue nails, the constant exhaustion, the bleeding at the slightest cut, the slightest bruise – she’d go out and walk. Just walk.
And when they attacked, she would not defend herself.
A glimmer of light danced on Micol’s bare feet. Dawn was breaking, and the city would soon awaken. She couldn’t delay any more. She had to go back and let those mad Vendramins lock her up for another day.
Micol shuddered as she lifted herself up onto the street, her hands struggling to find a grip on the algae-covered bricks. She sat on the pavement for a moment, her wet feet freezing in the winter air, and then forced herself up. What she would give not to see Lucrezia, the sleeping girl, again. Not to hear her screams ever again for as long as she lived.
Micol tiptoed along the calle until she reached the palazzo. She lifted her dress and tied it in a knot at her hip, and then she started climbing the ivy-covered wall, her slim limbs strong and supple, her grip firm like someone who’d been climbing trees every day of her fifteen years of life. In no time at all, she’d scaled the wall and jumped into the Vendramin garden, making no noise as she fell to the frosty grass. In one graceful movement she lifted her arm, fingers extended, and murmured a few words in the Ancient language. A lightning bolt danced from the sky and hit her index fingers, travelling through her body and discharging into the earth. One of Vendramin’s demon traps – she knew them all. Or at least, she hoped so. Maybe one day, returning from one of her night water walks, she’d find herself skewed or electrocuted by a trap she wasn’t aware of, or eaten alive by some new Elemental she had no control over. And still, as dangerous as it was, she couldn’t stop going out at night. If she had to spend her nights locked up with those crazy people who were sheltering her now, she’d go crazy too. Like Lucrezia. Often in her dreams, Micol saw herself lying beside Lucrezia, in an equally tormented sleep, without ever being able to wake up.
A throaty growl interrupted her thoughts. She turned around to see a night-black beast looking at her, eyes narrow, its incisors too big to fit into its mouth, saliva dripping down its neck and onto the grass. The creature bent slightly to give itself momentum, and then pounced.
“Ouch! My legs, you silly beast! Oh, come here. You happy to see me? Me too. Good bo—” She didn’t have time to finish the sentence when an arrow hissed in front of her nose and buried itself into the brick wall behind her.
“What did you do that for?” she whispered, too angry to even articulate properly. A young man stood a few feet from her, a furious look in his eyes. He clutched a bow with both his hands, and there was another arrow in it, ready.
“I’ll kill you before you get us all killed. Do you understand me?” the man said, and something in his voice left Micol in no doubt that he meant it.
Raging, Micol strode through the manicured gardens, in between a row of stone statues and one of the palazzo’s exquisite rose bushes. The young man followed her closely.
“If you kill me, your dad will kill you, Alvise.”
“You’re not that precious, Micol. Stop fancying yourself as some kind of princess.”
Micol stopped suddenly and turned around to face Alvise. “Yes, well, stop fancying yourself as some kind of hero, because you have no powers and a Secret heir with no powers is good for no—” Her words were again interrupted, this time by a slap so swift and strong that it made her head twist sharply to one side. She tasted blood on her lips.
Micol saw red. She narrowed her eyes, and static raced over her arms. Her short dark hair began lifting slowly.
“What do you think you’re doing, little girl?”
Guglielmo Vendramin was standing in front of her. Without ceremony, he grabbed her by the shoulder and dragged her inside. As soon as they stepped into the hall, with its ornate ceilings and its arched windows, he threw her on the floor.
Micol sobbed in anger. She was furious. Soon her brother would come back and take her away from here. She focused on the mosaic tiles on the floor, following their patterns, their colours. She wasn’t there. Her body was there, but not her mind. She would not let them win.
She studied the floor, a mosaic of swirling colours. A lion on fire, devouring the sun. The symbol of the Vendramin. Brutal, like them. And mad. They all were.
Suddenly, a strong hand curled around hers, and lifted her to her feet.
“Micol. You don’t seem to understand the situation,” hissed Vendramin. His silver hair and beard glinted in the rays of the rising dawn, the lines on his face deep and his eyes etched with worry. “The Secret Families are dying. Because of the Azasti, because of the demons closing in on us. And you run away like a little girl. You render traps around the palace useless, as if this were some kind of joke!”
“She’ll get us all killed, Father,” the young man reiterated. Vendramin gazed at his son. His strong features, the sharp cheekbones, the white-blond hair. He was the double of his mother. Only nineteen, and so much on his shoulders already. Every morning Vendramin checked him for signs of the Azasti that was devouring so many Italian Secret Families, but for now, their family had been spared.
“She won’t,” Vendramin said unexpectedly. There was a hint of fatigue in his voice, a weariness that clashed with the man’s proud demeanour. “She’s learnt her lesson. Haven’t you, Micol?”
Micol lowered her eyes. She hated him. She hated them all and she wanted to go home. But she knew they were right. She knew that what she was doing was foolish. She’d have to survive being locked in with all these sick people, these mad people.
At that moment, a scream pierced the silence, followed by a shuffle of feet and a tapping of heels. It was the sleeping girl screaming out a nightmare, and Cosima, the chief maid and Lucrezia’s main carer, running to see to her.
“If she doesn’t toe the line,” Vendramin continued, his eyes on Alvise’s face but his words clearly directed toward Micol, “she knows what will happen to her.”
Micol felt nauseous.
Yes. She knew.