The Shadowed Heart

Even at this late hour, the piazza was full of life. The cafes and even some of the shops were brightly lit. A violin began to play a melody from a popular opera and was joined by the high, pure voice of a castrato tenor. A couple had linked arms and was whirling in a dizzying dance that needed no music, save that in their heads.

Chiara glanced at the groups of people that dotted the square, wondering if there was someone among them who would help her. Some were garbed in colorful costumes as Moors or harlequins or Chinamen, but most looked like ghosts in their long, black cloaks, their heads covered with the black bautta topped by tricorn hats, their faces disguised with white, beaked masks. Laughter and chattering voices drifted over and she understood just how alone she was.

Luca hurried them past the cathedral, with its Byzantine facade that seemed to glow even at night, past the Doge’s palace, to the quay, where the black gondolas bobbed on the dark water silvered by moonlight.

“Olà, Tommaso,” he called out toward the group of gondoliers who were huddled together at the base of one of the Egyptian columns. Immediately one of the men detached himself from the group and came toward them.

“You are early tonight, Don Luca.” He slid a sly glance toward the girl at his master’s side. “Do you wish to go—”

“Home, Tommaso.”

The gondolier acknowledged the command with a small bow, but his eyebrows shot up in surprise. In silence he herded his passengers around the column, in obeisance to the long-standing superstition that to pass between the columns, where on occasion the scaffold or a gibbet stood, would bring misfortune.

Luca stepped down from the dock onto the stern of the gondola, balancing his body against the gentle pitching of the craft with the ease of long practice. He turned and held out his arms.

“Come, I will lift you down.”

Her gaze darting around, hoping to find yet another way to escape, Chiara shrank back and bumped into the gondolier’s stocky body.

“Don’t be timid,” the gondolier whispered on a laugh. “He’s generous and, from what I hear, well skilled.” He gave her a push.

She stumbled forward. Before she could brace herself against his touch, he had lifted her into the gondola and released her.

“Sit down in the felze.” Luca pointed to the cabin in the center of the gondola.

When she hesitated, he jerked the door open. “Get in,” he growled. When she still did not move, he grasped her arm to maneuver her inside.

“Dio, you’re freezing.” Her gaze skittered up to his as he stroked his hand up her arm. He wanted to put his arms around her and warm her. Giving in to the desire, he pulled her closer only to see her eyes widen with alarm. Swearing, he pushed her away and toward the cabin so that she tumbled onto the cushioned bench.

Unhooking the clasp of his cloak, he shrugged it off and tossed it at her. Damn her, he thought, as he leaned his elbows on the roof of the felze. When she looked at him like that, her huge eyes full of loathing, she made him feel like a beast. Glancing up, he caught Tommaso’s cheeky grin. Swearing again, he ducked into the cabin and sat down beside her.

Although he could feel her shivering, she had not touched the cloak, but sat staring at it. With an impatient sound, he picked it up and slung it quickly around her, forcing himself not to allow his hands to linger. Then he leaned back into the corner and closed his eyes.

Gradually Chiara stopped shivering beneath the soft woolen fabric of the cloak. Letting her head fall back against the cushioned back of the bench, she closed her eyes. Why did this evil, cruel man show her compassion, generosity? Those small flashes of kindness made her doubt what her eyes told her was true.

Again she gathered all her power and probed. But it was as if a black curtain had descended before her sight. She was exhausted, she comforted herself. She had exhausted herself in body and spirit tonight. Surely when she had rested, her sight would be clear and true again.

Since her sight could not help her, she opened her eyes and slanted a look toward him. A thin band of light from the lantern on the stern crept in through the narrow window on the back of the cabin, illuminating his profile.

Again her heart jolted against her rib cage. She had not been mistaken. It was him. It could be no other. Maybe his hair was longer now and the cruelty in his eyes hidden under his charm, but the face was the same. The horror, the revulsion flooded over her anew, almost obliterating the pull of his beauty.

Luca felt her eyes on his as he might have felt a touch of her hand. Turning his head, he looked at her.

“Why do you look at me as if I were the very devil?” It hurt him, he realized with surprise and displeasure. Deep inside him was a place she could touch at will. A place she could ease as effortlessly as she could hurt it. But she said nothing and only stared back at him.

“Ah, yes. You’ve told me that I am supposed to know why.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Well, perhaps I will learn it by and by.”

The gondola bumped gently against wood and Chiara started.

“We’re here.”

There was the scrape of a key in a lock and the grating sound of rusty hinges. The gondola slid into a vaulted, shadowy entry, lit by a single torch, the smell of burning pitch mingling with the smells of dampness and decay.

Within moments Chiara was standing on the slippery stones, watching the gondola glide back out onto the dark canal. A silent servant closed the water gate, the hollow clank of metal on metal sounding like a final judgment.

It was done, she thought, as she looked through the gate’s intricate wrought iron design that allowed a teasing glimpse of the dark canal and freedom. Now she was truly his prisoner.

Despair welled up within her, but she fought it. It was fate, she told herself, and for a purpose that this man had been put in her path. She could not believe that she was here only to be used by him. Perhaps it was a bounty given her by fate. An opportunity for a revenge she had not hoped for.

Yes, she thought. She would defer the revenge she would take upon her father. But this revenge that fate was putting into her hands would be hers. And soon.

“Welcome to the Ca’ Zeani, Chiara.”

She stiffened at the soft, mocking words but refused to look at him. Even as he took her arm and led her up a stone staircase, she kept her eyes stubbornly averted from his face.

Luca closed the door to his apartments and leaned back against it.

“Don Luca!” The servant who had looked after his needs since he was a boy, jumped up from the chair where he had been dozing and came running up to him.

“Santa Madonna! What has happened to you?” he demanded. “Were you set upon?” His gaze slid over to the girl who stood next to his master then back to Luca.

“A minor scuffle.” He pushed away from the door. “Now listen.”

Chiara watched him give his orders to his servant. Watched him give the man a familiar, friendly clap on the shoulder. It occurred to her that he treated his servant with more courtesy than her father had accorded her mother.

“Signore, let me care for your wounds.”

“Later, Rico. Go now.”

When the door had closed behind the servant, Luca walked to a round table inlaid with alabaster and serpentine that he had brought back from Constantinople and poured himself a glass of wine. As he raised it to his lips, he felt Chiara’s gaze upon him and remembered how cold her skin had been to his touch.

Turning around he walked to where she stood, still wrapped awkwardly in his cloak.

“Here.” He thrust the goblet at her.

She reached for it before she remembered that she wanted no more kindnesses from this man. Pulling her hand back, she shook her head.

“Have it your way.” Lifting the wineglass, Luca drank deeply without taking his eyes off her face.

Chiara felt herself grow warm under his gaze. She wanted to look away, but pride would not allow it.

“Where do you come from?”

“Gypsies come from everywhere.” She shrugged. “And nowhere.”

He acknowledged the evasion with a nod. “But you’re only half a Gypsy.”

“In my heart I am pure Gypsy.” Even as she spoke the words, she knew she was lying. She remembered too well how it had been for the short time they had traveled with the Gypsy caravan. She had been almost as much an outsider as the gadjé, the pale-skinned men and women, who had come to have their fortunes told. It galled her to see the faint amusement in his eyes that told her he knew it, too.