The Shadowed Heart

Giulietta hooked her hand through Luca’s arm to take him away from the clutch of people who had drawn close together to hear what the young Gypsy had to say, but he resisted.

“You seem inordinately interested in her, caro.” Her rouged mouth pursed in a pout and she leaned close, inviting his caress.

“Wasn’t that what you wanted?” Luca raised an eyebrow. “To pique your guests’ interest?”

“But you’re not a guest, you are—”

He lifted a finger to her mouth to silence her and, extracting his arm from her grasp, shifted so that he could watch the young Gypsy’s face.

The guests crowded around her, thrusting their palms toward her, their voices raised in a babble of questions.

“I do not read palms.”

Luca straightened at the sound of her voice. It was low and husky for a girl so young. A voice that would go well with Gypsy fires.

“I cannot look at your whole life. You can ask me a question and if I am allowed to see the answer, I can tell you.”

Murmurs greeted her statement, which had been made in a clear voice that carried no apology.

“What a sham,” Giulietta hissed. “Manelli will not see a lira from me.”

Absently Luca shushed her as someone wearing a bautta, a kind of domino that was the simplest and most popular carnival disguise, stepped forward. The molded white mask covered the upper two thirds of the face and a black lace hood fell to the shoulders, making it impossible to say if the person beneath the disguise was a man or a woman.

The figure brieny lifted the black tricorn hat in a mocking salute and sketched a bow, revealing the dark silk breeches beneath the floor-length black cloak.

“Tell me, will the woman I love finally surrender?” The question was asked in a scratchy whisper.

Luca watched the young Gypsy’s eyes again grow unfocused, glassy. She went so completely still that she did not even seem to be breathing.

Minutes passed. Then Luca saw her chest move with a deep breath, saw her eyes lose that odd, empty expression.

“The woman you love will surrender many times,” she said. “But she will never surrender her heart.”

“Why not?” The scratchy whisper asked.

“Because her heart belongs only to herself.”

The figure made a gesture of disbelief with a gloved hand.

Chiara looked directly into the eyes visible through the slits of the mask. “No man will ever love you better than you love yourself, signora.”

Gasps of surprise and flustered giggles greeted her words.

Manelli gripped her arm and leaned close to her ear. “In Venice, the mask is to be respected above all things.”

Chiara wrenched her arm away and stepped away from the man’s smell of onions and cheap wine. “Those who do not want to know the truth should not ask me questions.”

“Leave the poor girl alone,” the masked figure said, the voice undisguised now and obviously female. “She spoke only the truth.”

The woman laughed, reached into a pocket and handed Chiara a gold coin. Then she turned sharply, her cloak belling out for a moment before it settled around her again, and strode toward the door.

There was a moment of stillness, for everyone had recognized the voice, although no one was impolite enough to acknowledge that openly. It was the fabulously wealthy and eccentric Signora Laura Paradini. Laura Paradini, who had broken every rule in an already permissive society. Laura Paradini, who had outlived three husbands while half the patrician women in Venice took the veil for lack of marriage-minded men.

Everyone in the room seemed to start talking simultaneously at this sign of approval and began to press closer to the Gypsy. Suddenly everyone was eager to have the Gypsy answer their questions.

But Chiara pushed her way past the people milling around her. She had to talk to the woman. For the few moments that she had looked inside this woman, she had felt the presence of her father. She had not seen him, but he had been there just the same.

She had to know if the woman knew him. Perhaps she was the key to finding him. Perhaps she was the key to her revenge.

“Signora!” Chiara reached the door to see that the woman was already halfway down the stairs. “Wait, please.”

The woman turned, her mask ghostly in the dim light. “I must hasten to find that surrender you promised me.” She raised her hand in a wave. “Perhaps we will meet again.” She waved again and ran down the stairs, her cloak floating behind her.

“What do you think you’re doing? Are you mad?” Manelli grabbed her, afraid that she would flee. He had already seen that Signora Giulietta was not pleased with him.

Chiara shook off his hands. She would find the woman, she swore to herself, and through her she would find her father—after she had wrought the vengeance that a kind fate had placed in her path. Her eyes searched out the blond man in the crowd.

Yes, she thought as she returned to where the crowd stood waiting for her. Today had brought her good fortune, and vengeance—more vengeance than she had ever hoped for—would be hers.

His arms folded across his chest, Luca leaned against the wall that was covered with fine leather stamped with a delicate gold pattern. He had not taken his eyes off the girl for the past hour. He had watched her as she had seemed to descend time after time into some secret place, her eyes becoming unfocused and blank, her body growing as still as if she were dead. And when she moved again, she had every time said something that impressed the questioner with its accuracy.

He had always considered himself an enlightened, pragmatic man. A man who did not believe in the supernatural—not in Gypsy fortune-tellers, not in divine deities—so he was certain that this had to be some kind of a trick. And he was determined to find out just what her trick was.

And why did she look at him with such hatred in her eyes? Perhaps he could change the hatred to something softer. He acknowledged the excitement she aroused in him. Acknowledged it and relished it. It had been a long time since he had felt anything so strong or real.

“No! That is untrue what you say there!” The voice rose hysterically over the hum of conversation. “I will have you turned over to the Inquisitors—”

Giulietta moved quickly toward the shouting man, her hooped skirts of oyster-shell colored satin making her look like a caravel in full sail.

“But, my dear Savini, how can you get so worked up about the words of a silly little Gypsy.” She wound her arm around his and tugged him away, at the same time signaling Manelli with her eyes. “Would you expect her to speak Gospel?” She smiled up at him. “Now I have a little proposal for you on how we shall resolve this.” Leaning closer, she began to whisper in his ear.

Luca watched how Giulietta skillfully soothed the disturbance. Within moments, she had poor Savini under her spell. The guests had dispersed around the room and were drinking coffee and brandy again, gossiping desultorily as if nothing unusual had happened. And Manelli had bundled the Gypsy girl off to one of the small side rooms.

Luca pushed away from the wall and followed them.

Chapter Two

“Are you insane?” Manelli shouted. “How can you speak of such things as alchemy?”

Luca stepped into the room and closed the door behind him so softly that neither Manelli nor the girl heard him.

“I know nothing of al-alchemy.” Chiara stumbled over the unfamiliar word. “I only said what I saw. And I saw the man putting a black stone in a bowl of liquid and waiting for it to turn into gold.”

“Dio, stop it.” He pressed his hands to his ears. “Just listening to you would make me guilty in the eyes of the Inquisitors.”

“Why did you bring me here, if you did not wish me to speak the truth?” Chiara demanded. She wanted to run, but something kept her standing there, as if her feet had been planted in the ground. “Now I want the coins you promised me.” She held out her hand.

“Sei pazza! You’re crazy!” Manelli tapped his hand against his forehead. “You may have called down the Inquisitors upon my head.” He began to pace. “The bravest man trembles at the mere thought of the dungeons in the Doge’s palace. And now you—” he pointed a meaty finger at her “—you dare to ask for money?”