Cross My Heart by Sasha Gould Read Free Book Online

in Venice and not know that?”
    “I’ve been … absent,” I say.
    “Perhaps you were too young when it all started. It must have been ten years ago now. The Doge executed the de Ferraras’ only son, Carlo, when he was just a young lawyer,” she continues. “On charges of conspiracy, apparently.” She stops to cross herself, her plump hand moving rapidly across her bosom.
    The woman wearing the feathers continues. “Julius took the only revenge he could. His men killed Roberto—the Doge’s son. So tall and handsome that boy was. Only eleven.”
    Her eyes glisten as she speaks, but not with tears. They brim with histories, backgrounds, stories, reasons, accounts of old scores.
    “Oh yes, such an awful business that was!” exclaims the woman in the green gown. “The noblest among us are always those in most danger, isn’t that what they say?” The women nod, and she sighs. “But young men are such a worry. So full of passion and principle.”
    “I always advise my boy not to take life so seriously,” says another. “Take things with a pinch of salt, that’s what I say. I mean, goodness, we have quite enough to worry about, what with the Turks and pirates ruining my husband’s business. Honestly, I can’t keep my daughters in silk these days.”
    They laugh. The big woman drips with gold, her green dress stretched over her vast bosom like a yawn of satin. I wish that Annalena could see, or that I could tell her everything. I want to sit in the window of our cell with the white curtain dancing in the breeze and see her eyes widen.
    Their laughter fades as they stare behind me. I turn to a handsome equerry, dressed in a livery of gray and red.Beside him is the Doge and a finely dressed woman I guess must be the Doge’s wife. Jewels glitter from her ears and about her neck.
    The equerry indicates me with a flourish and I step forward. “Your Grace,” he says to the Doge, “may I present Laura, Antonio della Scala’s youngest.”
    “Ah yes,” the Doge says. He looks straight at me.
    My breathing has lost its rhythm, and I stammer as I drop into a clumsy curtsy. “Your Grace.”
    There isn’t the slightest glimmer of recognition in his eyes. His wife regards me with a quizzical smile.
    “Make sure Vincenzo treats you properly,” she says to me.
    They move on past to other people, all hungry for a kiss of the Doge’s ring, a shake of his hand or a single word from the most powerful man in Venice.
    I step out of the path of a dancing couple, who are too wrapped up in each other’s gazes to notice me. The girl’s skirts brush mine as they whip past. Across the ballroom couples spiral and turn in time to the music. I’m amazed by the way hands openly rest upon bodies, cheeks press against cheeks.
    A young woman with a bright face rushes across the room, skipping through the dancers. There’s something familiar about her: very pretty, high cheekbones, a slender neck. Her dress is cream, dotted with crystals, and her shoulders bare but for her tumbling black curls. The remembered taste of meringues sits on my tongue. I do know her—and her grandmama, with her sospiri di monaca . The last time I saw Paulina she was softer and rounder. An apple-cheeked little girl has been replaced by this grownup and willowy woman.
    “Hello, hello, sweet Laura!” she says, kissing me quickly, once on each cheek. She hugs me close and I want to laugh and then I want to cry. Because she was, she is , my friend.
    “How many years?” she asks. “How many since I last saw you? Four?”
    “Six,” I say. “You look beautiful!”
    “Not as beautiful as you!” she says. “You know that all the men are talking about you already. Have you been flirting?”
    I blush. “I …”
    “I see,” laughs Paulina, and she wags a finger playfully at my cheeks. “You can even bring rose blossoms to your face at will. Just like your sister.” The words fall from her mouth, and seem to drop to the ground as heavily as the