Belladonna

seventeen

Cass thought about the painting for the rest of the evening. She woke early the next day still thinking of it. Over and over, she replayed her terse conversation with Falco’s patroness in her head. “What a . . . lovely background,” Cass had managed to say when Belladonna had asked her opinion. “Such a unique color scheme.”

“That piece was actually painted in my bedchamber.” Belladonna had seemed very pleased to relay this fact. According to her, Falco had insisted on the location because the light through the southern windows was best for sitting. Belladonna had then raised a gloved hand to her forehead, adding that she had spent several excruciating days posing for the painting, saved from a cruel death from boredom only by Falco’s witty conversation.

“Signorina Cass. Am I hurting you?” Siena had finished lacing Cass into her favorite topaz gown and was now brushing her hair.

Cass snapped back to reality. She had unconsciously balled her hands into fists. “No. Why do you ask?”

Siena pulled Cass’s silver-plated hairbrush gently through a tangled area. “You’re making the most dreadful faces.”

“I’m sorry, Siena. I was just . . . thinking about something.” Cass took in a deep breath and uncurled her hands. She didn’t know if she was mad at Falco for painting his patroness exactly as he had painted Cass, or if she was angry with Belladonna for her baiting, suggestive remarks. All she knew was that she was in an exceptionally foul mood. Were it not for the chance to scour the library once again in search of the Book of the Eternal Rose, she might have decided to skip Belladonna’s party altogether.

Siena patted her shoulder awkwardly in a feeble attempt to soothe her. “Has there been any word from Signora Querini?”

“No,” Cass said. “No news of Luca.” She’d received just a single letter from her aunt since she’d arrived in Florence. The short note said only that Agnese was getting on fine without Cass and that she would send word if Luca’s status changed. Just over a fortnight remained before his execution.

“You must be so worried,” Siena said. After a pause, she ventured, “Perhaps coming here was a mistake.”

Cass didn’t answer. She wished the little room at Palazzo Alioni had a mirror. She felt different since coming to Florence. Older. More tired.

Outside her window, the piazza was growing crowded: another trial, and another execution, had been scheduled. This time, a pair of girls no older than Cass were to be drowned up on the wooden platform. Cass had seen them being dragged into the square when she first woke up. They had the same honey-colored hair and heart-shaped faces. Sisters, undoubtedly.

Now, as she listened to the shouts and roars from the assembled crowd, she was surprised to feel tears pressing behind her eyelids.

She blinked them away. “Could you latch the shutters?” she asked. Even her voice sounded old and unfamiliar.

“But this room is so dark without—”

“Light a candle,” Cass snapped. “Light two.”

Wordlessly, Siena went to the window and pulled the wooden shutters tightly closed. When she turned around, Cass saw spots of red blooming on Siena’s cheeks.

“Mi dispiace, Siena,” Cass said, rubbing her forehead. “I didn’t mean to be so harsh. Please forgive me. I’m not feeling very well today.”

“That’s all right,” Siena answered softly, dropping her gaze.

Cass’s bad temper persisted throughout dinner. She picked listlessly at her food and did her best to avoid eye contact with anyone. Madalena tried to ease the obvious tension on the carriage ride to Belladonna’s villa. She chattered the entire trip, commenting on parts of Florence and lamenting repeatedly Marco’s inability to attend the party because of yet another business meeting with her father’s associates.

“He comes back to the palazzo so late and then falls right asleep. I can’t believe he and my father decided to attend a meeting instead of a party at Villa Briani.” Mada fussed with her lavender overskirt. “What do you think, Cass?”

Cass thought Madalena was being overly dramatic, as always, but she refrained from saying so. “Maybe things will calm down soon and you can spend more time together,” she offered. She had more important things on her mind, like how she could sneak away from the party to search for the book, and whether Falco would be present. Was he still angry with her? Was she still angry with him? She didn’t know.

Siena and Eva sat quietly next to the girls, conversing in whispers. Feliciana had stayed at Palazzo Alioni to prove herself to the mistress of the house. The regular washwoman was still sick, and Signora Alioni didn’t want her anywhere near the palazzo until she was feeling better. Feliciana had quickly offered to spend the evening scrubbing linens and chemises.

The city streets gave way to dirt roads and scattered estates. Cass fixated on the twin clock towers of the little church that sat almost directly across the street from Belladonna’s winding drive. The towers grew, and then the magnificent stone villa appeared through the trees. Once again, Cass couldn’t help but suck in a sharp breath. The sun was just beginning to set, giving the whole structure a magical, otherworldly look.

The girls stepped out of the carriage and into a festively decorated portego, with ribbons adorning the Roman sculptures and large vases of Belladonna’s vibrant roses sitting on every flat surface. Siena and Eva excused themselves and headed toward the kitchen, where most of the Villa Briani staff would be located. Cass handed her cloak to the butler and loitered in the portego, watching the well-dressed Florentines chat and mingle. The necklines were higher and the pearls were smaller than what she commonly saw in Venice, but it was nonetheless obvious that Belladonna’s friends were extremely wealthy.

At the far side of the room, a string quartet performed and a few guests—including Pale and Scarlet from tea the previous day—were beginning to dance. Cass sighed. Belladonna had made it sound like this evening would be another intimate gathering, but half of Florence appeared to be in attendance.

Falco appeared in the doorway that led to the back of the villa, and Cass felt drawn to him like a fly to a spider’s web. Then she thought of Belladonna posed exactly as she had been, and hesitated. Should she ignore him? Did she have a right to be angry? Was she just upset at the whole world? Her feelings were all tangled up.

A decision was made for her: Falco began to move in her direction. Cass turned to offer Madalena a word of explanation or excuse—certain that she would disapprove—but Mada was deep in conversation with a pair of men Marco’s age, and just as Cass touched her shoulder, one of the men asked Mada to dance.

Perfect. Cass retreated into a corner, hiding behind a sculpture of Venus where Madalena wouldn’t see her, and where she and Falco could converse in relative privacy. When Falco got closer, they both opened their mouths to speak at once.

“Your twin, I presume?” Falco said, gesturing toward the Venus.

Cass realized she and the sculpture both had their arms folded across their midsection. She dropped her hands to her side. “I just—”

“Come with me.” Falco didn’t wait for her to answer. He placed his hand on the small of her back as if he were merely helping her navigate the crowded portego. Once he hit the hallway at the back of the room, he twined his fingers through hers and whisked her into a small study, latching the door behind them. The walls of the room were painted dark gray and the furniture was made of a sturdy mahogany. He turned to her. “Now, at least, we can speak in private.”

Cass’s whole body felt simultaneously shivery and warm, as it always did when she and Falco were alone together. She avoided looking at him. “I just want you to know, I stayed at the execution only because one of the victims was Hortensa Zanotta, the woman who accused Luca of heresy back in Venice,” she said. “She was my best chance to prove his innocence.” She risked a glance at him.

Falco’s face tightened. “Of course,” he said stiffly. Then he sighed, and rubbed at the scar under his eye. “I’m sorry, Cass. I said things I didn’t mean. It’s not fair of me to expect you to share my beliefs when we—”

“Come from two different worlds?” she finished softly.

Falco groaned. “Don’t do that.” He took a step toward her. “Are we really so different?”

“Aren’t we?” She could hardly breathe. He was so close. She could see silver threading through his blue eyes. Impulsively, she reached out with one hand to brush his hair away from his face.

Falco grabbed her without warning. He spun her around him so that her body was pressed up against the wall. Cass’s heart leapt into her throat. She knew she should protest, should turn away.

But she didn’t.

She surrendered. To Falco. To what she wanted more than anything. His mouth teased her, tasting her tongue and lips. She pulled him closer, her nails digging into the fabric of his tunic. He pinned her hands above her head as his mouth found the spot where her jaw met her throat. She exhaled hard. Her body threatened to slide right down the wall, but she didn’t push him away. She couldn’t. She angled her head to expose more of her neck. She felt his warm mouth, his soft tongue tracing circles on her skin.

“Come with me to my quarters,” he murmured.

Cass’s eyes snapped back open. No raised eyebrow, no lopsided smirk. He was serious.

“I can’t. I—”

“You can,” he insisted. “You want to. No one has to know, Cass.” His breath was hot against her lips. And her face. Her whole body was burning, like lightning was sizzling beneath her skin.

And then there was a burst of loud applause from outside the room.

Cass slipped out from between Falco and the wall, her heart thudding like the hooves of a runaway horse. “What was that?” she asked, not caring in the slightest.

She had come too close. Too close to giving in, to letting go. No one has to know. She had actually been considering it. Images tumbled through her head. Falco carrying her to his bed. Her fingers ripping his doublet from his chest. His hands tugging at the laces of her bodice. The two of them lying together, skin to skin.

“Cass.” He took a step toward her again. She dodged him, turned and escaped into the hallway, fanning her cheeks with one gloved hand. She didn’t want him to see the look on her face. She didn’t turn to look and see whether he had followed her.

Belladonna stood in the middle of the portego. “Esteemed guests. If you will all follow me into the dining room, the birthday feast can begin.”

So. A birthday celebration. No wonder so many people were in attendance. Bella had neglected to mention that little detail when she had invited Cass and Mada to return.

Falco materialized at Cass’s side. She didn’t have to turn her head; she could feel his heat next to her. “We’ll talk more later,” he murmured. “I’ll find you. I promise.” He melted into the crowd just before Madalena reappeared, giggling about a conversation she’d been having with a young duke.

In the dining room, the two girls found tiny placards with their names inked in swirling letters. They had been seated just a few chairs down from Belladonna herself. Midway through the feast, Signor Mafei interrupted the meal with a wrapped package that had just arrived via messenger.

Belladonna’s eyes lit up. “I suppose one never does outgrow a love of presents.” She turned to Cass abruptly. “How old do you think I am?”

Cass felt her face go bright red. She twisted and untwisted the napkin in her lap, wishing she could melt into the swirling colors of the Oriental rug beneath her feet. Because of the stories she’d been told, she knew Belladonna had to be at least thirty, but could she really say that without offending her? Cass decided to play it safe. “You don’t look but a few years older than I am,” she said. “Twenty perhaps?”

Belladonna smiled widely as some of the guests seated close enough to hear Cass tittered and winked at each other.

Cass felt more embarrassed than ever. It was as though everyone were laughing at a joke whose punch line she had misunderstood. Her stays were pressing down on her chest, and the high collar was squeezing her neck, trapping her breath deep in her throat. “Are you going to open it?” She gestured at the gift, hoping to divert the guests’ attention.

“Does everyone think I should?” Belladonna read the rolled parchment attached. “It’s from Don d’Agostino.”

The guests sitting closest to Belladonna all nodded their approval. Madalena leaned in to Cass and whispered something in her ear about how handsome Don d’Agostino was. “If I weren’t so mad for Marco . . . ,” she said, giggling, and Cass realized she was a little bit tipsy.

Belladonna set down her knife and fork and dabbed primly at her mouth with her napkin. She tugged at the brown paper wrapping, folding it back to reveal a sturdy crate. Lifting off the top, she tilted the opening toward the far end of the table so that everyone could see the contents. Cass had been in the middle of taking a drink of wine and nearly dropped a half-full glass of sweet burgundy in her lap. The entire crate was tightly packed with books, their spines a rainbow of vivid colors.

“Do you like to read, dear?” Belladonna asked Cass curiously. “You look as though I’ve uncovered a crate of gold.”

“I do,” Cass admitted. “My aunt has quite a collection, but yours outstrips it in every way.”

“What is your favorite?” Belladonna asked. The rest of the table had fallen quiet. Even among Belladonna’s learned friends, it was unusual for a young girl to be so interested in reading.

“I enjoy the writing of Michel de Montaigne,” Cass said carefully.

Belladonna’s dark eyes brightened. “He is a favorite of mine as well. ‘Age imprints more wrinkles in the mind than it does on the face.’”

“It does for you ladies, anyway,” the man sitting across from Cass said with a chuckle.

As the guests finished supper, the servants cleared plates and filled cups of coffee and tea. Cass seized the opportunity to have some coffee. She liked the earthy Spanish beverage that the pope had only just declared acceptable. Of course, Agnese abhorred it, as she did almost anything that was new or different.

A man dressed in white, whom Cass presumed was the cook, waddled into the room with a huge cake balanced precariously on a silver tray. The cake was several layers high, and decorated with what looked like real flower petals.

“Before we enjoy this lovely dessert,” Belladonna said, “there is one other gift I’d like to share with you.” She signaled one of the serving boys and spoke some low commands into his ear. He nodded and hurried from the room. Everyone waited expectantly, looking around with amused glances.

A minute later, Falco shuffled into the room with a large rectangle under his arm. Was it Cass’s imagination or did he look pale? The serving assistant came behind him carrying an easel, practically nudging Falco forward. Cass raised an eyebrow at him, but Falco refused to meet her gaze.

Belladonna tapped her fingers on the long table and the room went silent. “Close your eyes,” Belladonna commanded.

Everyone but Cass obeyed.

“You too, Signorina Cassandra,” Belladonna said drily. Cass, flushing, squeezed her eyes shut.

“This is the best sort of gift: one I commissioned for myself,” Belladonna said. Around Cass, the guests laughed politely.

“Ready? Open your eyes.”

Falco’s newest painting of Belladonna stood at the head of the table. It was a reworking of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus. Instead of lovely Venus, it was Belladonna who stood mostly nude in the painting, her right breast and thigh covered by her dark swirling mane. Instead of a seashell, she was springing forth from the blooms of a rose.

The guests broke into applause. Cass found herself applauding along with them, although she felt dazed, as though her head had detached from her body. She couldn’t stop staring at Belladonna’s bare legs and uncovered left breast. I wonder how long she posed for that, Cass thought. Saved from a cruel death from boredom only by Falco’s witty conversation.

Falco stood next to the easel, transferring his weight from one foot to the other. Belladonna was praising his virtues—work ethic, attention to detail—to the rest of the dinner party guests.

The cook began distributing the cake, but Cass was no longer hungry. She knew she should be happy for Falco. After all, this was the whole reason he had left Venice, to make a name for himself. But she couldn’t help but think of what sorts of projects he’d be doing next, of more long hours in Belladonna’s bedroom. Perhaps next time Bella would just pose completely nude.

Cass leaned close to Madalena. “I think we should leave,” she said softly.

“Oh, please, Cass,” Mada said. “Stay for a while.” Correctly interpreting Cass’s change of mood, she said, “The painting doesn’t mean anything. What sort of woman actually asks to be painted as Venus? She’s obviously in love with herself.”

“I don’t care about the painting,” Cass lied. “I just have a little headache, that’s all.” It was true. The nape of her neck and her temples were stinging. Perhaps Siena had braided her hair too tightly. “And there are entirely too many people here.”

“Well, you should have Bella’s handsome house physician whip you up a tonic,” Mada said.

Cass recalled how the ladies from tea had gossiped about Signorina Briani’s attractive doctor. The doctor, the butler, Falco. Cass wondered how many other young men boarded at Belladonna’s villa. Perhaps she collected attractive staff the same way she collected books.

When Cass frowned, Madalena added, “Just let me have a few more dances.” She stared at her with wide, pleading eyes.

“All right,” Cass relented. “Go dance. I’m going to rest in the library.” Bella’s portrait there didn’t seem so bad now that Cass had seen this latest work. She still hadn’t made eye contact with Falco. He was being mobbed by other guests eager to discuss his techniques and sitting fees.

“I’ll be quick,” Mada said. She stood up from the table and left on the arm of a man with close-cropped black hair and piercing green eyes. Cass stood too. She weaved her way through the milling guests.

Her head began to hurt worse, blood pounding an uneven tempo in her ears. The guests were loud. Too loud. The airy violin music had sharpened into scalpel blades, each stanza cutting a bloody path across her skull.

Cass found the library and collapsed into a chair. The room was quiet and dim, the only light coming from a scattering of dying orange embers still flickering in the dark fireplace. She turned her back to the wall, refusing to look at the painting of Belladonna draped just as she had once been. What she needed to do was take advantage of this moment and search for the Book of the Eternal Rose. She would, just as soon as her headache faded. Burying her head in her hands, she pressed her fingertips hard against her temples to slow the throbbing.

“Signorina? Are you all right?”

Cass looked up. The silhouette of a man stood in the doorway. Undoubtedly, the handsome house physician. He didn’t sound young, though. Maybe the gossiping hags from tea had been exaggerating.

“It’s my head,” she said. “It’s pounding. Is there something I can take for it?”

As the man came closer, his features began to sharpen. Cass dug her fingernails into the armrest of her chair. Her stomach plummeted, and for a second she thought she might faint.

It was the man from the terrible workshop in Venice, the place where she and Falco had discovered the tin basins filled with dismembered body parts. It was Angelo de Gradi.

He had followed her to Florence.