The room was alive, pulsing with energy. Vibrant. Exotic. Teasing. Men in white tie and women in extravagant, daring dresses that had seemingly been hanging ready for just such a night as this. From behind her feathered mask, Elena watched from the sides. This was her greatest triumph – a ball that would be talked about for generations to come. Even those not invited were muscling in on the event, as crowds gathered outside, people stopping to admire the procession of guests making their way up the steps, others craning to snatch glimpses of the ball within as dancers and revellers whirled past the windows. Christina was vanquished once and for all. Aurelio’s return had quickened Rome’s blood, the women – the wives – sweeping aside their queen’s diktats to shun Elena’s occasions for a night of flirting, of being held in his arms, if only for a while, on the dance floor.
There had been less than a week’s planning for it, Aurelio carelessly dropping the suggestion at breakfast on Christmas morning – he was the kind of man who assumed such things could be thrown together in under a week – but such was his draw, the city made it possible. Prior commitments were revised, apologies to jilted hosts submitted and the RSVPs rushed in like the floodwaters of the Tiber.
Vito had been reluctant, of course. It was hasty, rash; these things needed to be organized. But the pulse in the palace was up, everyone could feel it; the staff too, all of them rushing to polish the mirrors, buff the gold, scour the steps and dust the marble busts, for the mania had been exactly the thing – the only thing – to make this familial arrangement work. No sooner had the words dropped from Aurelio’s mouth than she knew he had given her the means for them all to remain within the palace walls and not have war – or something worse – break out.
She had never worked so hard – up with the sun and in bed after the moon – overseeing every last detail so that Vito couldn’t keep track of her, much less his brother. Every day, she walked miles as she swept through the corridors issuing commands to Maria – move those chairs, lower that chandelier, roll back the rugs – so that every night she fell alone into her bed and into dreamless sleeps, out of reach of her husband’s arms and his brother’s shadow.
It had worked for a week. But what now?
She watched Christina dance, taking perhaps the most joy in that. She had had no choice but to accept. Everyone was here and she knew as well as Elena that her absence would have raised too many direct questions, and theirs wasn’t a war that could be waged in the open air.
‘See how she bends at your knee,’ a voice murmured in her ear, the scent of leather and cinnamon drifting over her like a mist.
Elena straightened, holding the mask even closer to her face as she turned. Those hooded, elongated eyes she knew so well blinked back at her from behind black velvet. It was no disguise. She would have known him anywhere. In any lifetime.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she demurred.
‘Of course you don’t. She’s been nothing but a charm since you got here, opening doors, taking you under her wing.’
Elena didn’t reply. How did he know? Christina hadn’t been in the palace since he’d arrived. Unless . . . he’d heard the things Christina was saying about her . . . ?
‘Bravo, sister. She is vanquished.’
‘Don’t call me that.’
‘It’s what you are, though.’
She felt her heart thrash, like a trapped bird caught in a cage. ‘I am your brother’s wife,’ she said carefully. Determinedly.
He stared at her, his expression hardening before he looked away suddenly, standing beside her in a frigid silence as they watched the party swing. ‘Where is Vito anyway? I haven’t seen him all night.’
‘Glad-handing, I expect. He’s always the consummate host.’
Did he hear the edge of bitterness in her voice? From the corner of her eye, she saw him look back at her sharply. ‘Has he danced with you?’
‘Not yet.’ She glanced at him. ‘I’m fine with it . . . We don’t go in for public displays.’
‘No. You like to keep things private, don’t you?’ he said, harking back to the embarrassment of Christmas Eve.
‘Stop it,’ she hissed, feeling her throat constrict. She had yet to wear the negligee. Her intended plan of nightly seductions to fall pregnant with immediate effect had yet to materialize. Tonight, perhaps? She couldn’t keep putting Vito off, even though the thought of putting it on, when Aurelio was in his rooms across the courtyard, the lights on . . .
‘Well, it’s quite the success,’ he said eventually, backing off. ‘Your legacy. They’ll be talking about it for years. Far better than Capote’s in New York.’
‘The Black and White Ball? I was there.’ She turned her head to him, feeling her breath catch, her heart on hold. Nothing was safe. She could scarcely bring herself to ask the question. ‘Were you?’
‘Yes.’ She saw the flare of his nostrils, the pulse in his jaw, the intense blaze behind those chocolate-brown irises. ‘It’s a wonder we didn’t meet then.’
His voice was cruelly sardonic, the thought haunting. What if they had met that night, fourteen years earlier? Before Vito. Steve. Just before she had married Leo. What if he had been the brother she’d met first? How very different might her life have been? ‘Yes,’ she said, looking away quickly, aiming for the same bored carelessness. ‘A wonder.’
He reached for her hand suddenly. ‘Elena—’
‘Aurelio!’ A woman in a dramatically feathered red mask sashayed up to them, her bosom all but on display in a deeply corseted dress. Elena inclined her head in greeting, as Aurelio dropped her hand.
‘Aurelio, dance with me,’ she said brightly, coquettishly holding out a hand.
‘That wouldn’t be a good idea. We have already danced, Signora Bertorelli . . . What would your husband say?’
The woman’s hand dropped, the mask – though obscuring her identity effectively – still not large enough to hide her dismay as she gathered her skirts and hurried away with a sob.
‘You bastard,’ Elena said under her breath. ‘There was no reason to humiliate her like that.’
She heard his intake of breath and glanced to find him looking at her with glittering eyes. ‘On the contrary, I’d argue she’s the one doing the humiliating. I’m single. She’s not. Her husband would have me duelling in the courtyard by dawn.’
‘Well, I doubt he’d be the only one. You’ve certainly cut a swathe through their wives tonight.’
She couldn’t keep the edge from her voice. Since the very first dance, he had flirted with every woman in the palace, making them laugh and tremble with an intensity that bordered on savagery. Was it any wonder they were all lining up for more?
‘I’m surprised you noticed.’
‘I didn’t,’ she replied with deliberate lightness. ‘I over-heard some of the ladies in the powder room. You’re the talk of the town.’
He stared at her with a look that threw heat on her cheeks, but she refused to meet his eyes. ‘Well, I guess you’d know all about that.’
She gasped and whirled to face him. ‘What did you say?’
In one fluid movement, he had grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her round to the back of the column, into a deep, shadowy niche. The music fell away, silence wrapping around them, fastening them to one another. His eyes were only inches from hers, their faces obscured, but the truth, somehow, plainly written. Time slowed, worlds clashed.
‘He’s my husband, Aurelio,’ she said, her voice breaking. ‘I love him.’
‘I know,’ he said, his gaze on her mouth. ‘So do I.’
*
She sat at the table in the courtyard in the shade of the orange tree, the blanket wrapped tightly around her, deep moons cradled beneath her eyes. She hadn’t slept, lying on top of the sheets all night, locking the door to Vito and keeping him out as she turned over the options in her mind. But, really, there was only one.
A movement behind the glass caught her eye and she saw Vito – already dressed – behind the run of windows, striding through the galleries and assessing the morning-after detritus of the night before. The party had continued until three, the legend already begun: Aurelio had been right – they would talk about this ball for years. Christina couldn’t reach her now.
Christina. How long ago it seemed now, when she had been her biggest concern.
She watched as Vito picked up a sequinned mask that had been left on the immobile face of a bust of Nero. She could see him tutting: glittery fragments peppered the marble and his long, elegant hands brushed them away.
He was a good man. Steadfast and honourable. Loyal and principled.
He deserved better.
She looked away, back at the garden, the grass hard and tipped white with frost, the topiaries silhouetted and emerging from the mists. A loud caw sent her gaze up to the rooks nesting in the cloud pines on the distant boundaries. The birds were free. They could fly away, just leave.
Couldn’t she? She could go anywhere. She had the means. She had the houses.
A plane crossed the sky, its vapour trail slicing through the last of the bruised night clouds. She could go anywhere. Begin again and pick up the life she’d left before she’d stepped onto that boat. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t done it before. Another call – to Mr Charles’s successor – and a plane ticket; that was how it usually went. Where this time? Paris? Berlin? St Moritz? London?
But she thought of Vito and of what she would say; she thought of the expression on his face as she told him . . . he wouldn’t understand because how could he, when the truth wasn’t an option?
Somewhere inside the palace a door slammed and a sudden shout made her look up. Vito was on the top floor of the west wing, wrestling open a window.
‘I cannot believe it!’ he shouted, with an anger she’d never glimpsed in him before, his face red even from this distance. ‘He’s done it again!’
Elena straightened up, the blanket falling off her shoulders. ‘Done what, Vito? Whatever is the matter?’
But dismay was already arrowing through her. Because she knew.
‘He’s gone.’