Color Song (A Passion Blue Novel) (16 page)

Giulia woke to a rattling at the latch. For a moment she could not remember where she was.

“Who’s there?” she called, forgetting to lower her voice.

“Your breakfast” came the answer, muffled through the door.

Leaving the cloud-like comfort of the bed, Giulia wrapped herself in her mantle again and turned the lock. It was Chiara, carrying a steaming bowl in one hand and the clothes Giulia had left in the hall last night in the other.

“The mistress will receive you in the
sala
when you’ve finished,” Chiara said.

The bowl held grain porridge, sweetened with honey and dried fruit. The shirt was beautifully clean, and the other garments had been brushed and sponged. Giulia redressed, then
got into bed again to eat, for the fire had burned out and the room was cold.

I’m in Venice,
she thought, astonished.
I am really here.

But it was too soon to feel triumphant. The most crucial part of her plan still lay ahead. She felt a thrill of apprehension and wondered if she could delay—surely Sofia would let her stay a day or two, at least until her ribs were fully healed. But then she thought of Bernardo and his warning at the journey’s start. Two days of rest, in any case—or three, or four—would not make facing Ferraldi any easier.

She had everything she needed: Ferraldi’s address, memorized from his letters. Five sheets of work to show—the tiny sketches she had done on the journey, her studies of Sofia, and a finished portrait: the second one, with the smile. The story she planned to tell, conceived at Santa Marta and rehearsed along the journey.

No. There’s no good reason to delay.

For the second time she threw back the covers. She finger-combed her hair, thrust her feet into her heavy wooden clogs, and slipped out into the hall.

The clouds had pulled away overnight. Sun flooded through the windows facing the canal, printing their latticed images on the shining marble floor. In the light, Giulia could better appreciate the opulence of the furnishings: the tapestries with their floral motifs, the carved and gilded chairs along the walls, the great glass chandelier bristling with candles.

She headed toward the front of the house, the direction in which Sofia had gone last night. All the doors she passed were closed except the last. It opened onto a comfortable sitting room, where Sofia sat in a cushioned chair in the sun, her head thrown back to reveal the long arch of her throat. A
yellow cat dozed in her lap; two others sprawled by her feet. A crackling fire warmed the air.

Sofia looked around, smiling, as Giulia entered.

“Girolamo. Welcome.” She leaned back her head again and closed her eyes. “It’s wonderful to be home. I pine for Venice when I’m away from it, like a plant uprooted from its native soil.”

On the wall opposite the door, a portrait hung—Sofia herself, in a high-waisted dress of brilliant red-gold brocade, her tawny hair wound with pearls, a white Easter lily in one hand. In the exquisite detail, the glowing colors, Giulia recognized the work of a master. It drew her like a flame. Before she knew it she was across the room, bending close to see if she could identify the paints the artist had used.
Orange realgar, for certain, mixed with . . . what?
If the portrait had been wet, she might have been able to guess. But it was long dry. The colors no longer sang.

“You like my Bellini, I see.”

Giulia turned. “I didn’t mean to presume, clarissima. It’s just that it’s so beautiful.”

“The lily and the pearls were his idea. He enjoyed the irony—symbols of purity, on a courtesan.” Sofia smiled, caressing the cat’s ears. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did.” Giulia came forward, halting in a patch of sun. “Clarissima, I thank you for your hospitality, and for everything you’ve done for me these past days. I’m more grateful than I can say. But I need to be on my way.”

“You’re welcome to remain, Girolamo, for as long as you wish.”

“My master is expecting me. I shouldn’t delay.”

“Very well.” Sofia lifted the cat off her lap and got to her feet. “I have something to give you before you go.”

“You’ve already been too generous, clarissima.”

“Nonsense. Come with me.”

She led the way through an adjoining door. The chamber beyond had a coffered ceiling and walls painted to imitate fabric hangings. A great bed occupied the center of the room, with a scarlet canopy and heaps of snowy linens, its gold-embroidered coverlet tossed casually aside. Giulia’s cheeks grew warm at the thought of what happened there, in that bed.

“These were Bernardo’s.” Sofia bent to pick up a pile of clothing that sat atop the long chest at the bed’s foot. “Two shirts, a cap, and a good wool cloak to replace that torn rag of yours. They’ll be large on you, but they are all nearly as good as new. My beast is particular about his clothing.” She gave Giulia the garments, then knelt to open the chest. “And I believe you will need these soon, if you do not already.”

She rose. In her hands she held several folded cloths of thick, absorbent wool. Giulia stared at them, an icy flood of understanding spreading through her. Her eyes rose to Sofia’s—those amber eyes that saw so much, including, apparently, what Giulia had most wanted to keep hidden.

“Do not fear,” Sofia said gently. “I’ve told no one. Nor will I, you have my word.”

“When did you . . . how did you guess?”

“A day or two after you found us. It’s nothing you did or said, only a sense I had, which grew surer as time went on. The night you gave me the portrait was when I became certain. I saw the nature of your gift, and understood why you would be driven to conceal yourself in order to follow it.”

“But if
you
could see it—”

“No, no.” Sofia shook her head. “You make a convincing boy. People see what they expect to see, in any case, and most will not think to question the story told by your clothes and
hair. It’s simply that I am better versed than most in wearing masks. It’s easier for me to recognize them when they are worn by others.”

“I’ve wondered . . .” Giulia hesitated. “Why you’ve been so kind to me.”

“I would have helped you reach Venice regardless of your sex. As Bernardo likes to point out, I have a weakness for abandoned creatures.” She gestured to the yellow cat, which had followed them into the room. “Having been one myself, long ago. But if you were what you pretend to be, I would not have invited you into my house. What is your true age?”

“Eighteen.”

“And your name?”

Again Giulia hesitated, reluctant to reveal more than Sofia had already guessed.

“No matter. I won’t press you.” Sofia stepped forward and laid the cloths atop the clothing Giulia held. “Early in my life I learned that though it is God who makes men and women, it is men alone who make the world. I’ve done the best I can with the gifts God gave me—better, I will say, than most in my profession. I’ve even won a kind of freedom for myself. Yet it is only as much freedom as a woman may possess, to live in comfort without complete dependence on the whims of men. And the price was very great. You too will pay a price. But if you succeed, the freedom you gain will be a man’s. I admire you,
Girolamo”—
lightly, she stressed the false name—“for what you are attempting.”

Giulia, overwhelmed, could not reply.

“I have this for you too.” Sofia held out a leather purse, heavy with coins.

“Clarissima—that is too generous—”

“I have it to spare, as you can see. Take it. I will not permit you to refuse.”

Softly Giulia closed her fingers around the purse. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Thank me by becoming what you were born to be. And Girolamo—if ever you require help, come to me. Ask for the house of La Fiamma, on Rio dei Miracoli in Cannaregio. Will you promise?”

“I promise, clarissima.”

It was a lie. Giulia already knew she would never come back. Her secret was perilous enough when she was the only one who knew it. Safer to let Sofia forget her.

“Good.” Sofia took Giulia by the shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks. “I’ll send for Bernardo now, to escort you.”

Giulia felt a pulse of alarm. “I don’t want to put him to the trouble.”

Sofia laughed. “Venice is a labyrinth, capable of defeating even those born and bred to it. If you go out on your own, God alone knows where you’ll find yourself. I have already told him he must accompany you. You may wait for him in the courtyard. Good-bye, Girolamo. I will keep you in my prayers.”

—

Calle del Fruttariol, off Salizzada San Lio, in the parish of San Lio in the
sestiere
of Castello. That was Ferraldi’s address. Giulia spoke it to Bernardo, who gave it to Sofia’s steward, who was waiting on the landing by the gondola.

The steward steered the gondola back toward the Grand Canal. Bernardo sat in the shade of a
felze,
the canopy that arched over the craft’s midsection, while Giulia sat facing him in the bow, wrapped in her mantle against the cold rising
off the water—her old mantle, for she had no desire to wear Bernardo’s castoffs in front of him. In her arms she clutched the bundle she’d made of the things Sofia had given her, except for Sofia’s purse, which she’d stowed inside her doublet with her drawings.

At the Grand Canal, where the sun dazzled the water and the palazzi mirrored themselves in ever-fragmenting reflections, the steward turned the gondola toward the Rialto, Venice’s great commercial district—a noisy, teeming region of warehouses and markets and quays where masted ships lay at anchor. The water traffic here was the heaviest Giulia had seen; the steward navigated deftly around gondolas ferrying passengers, barges crammed with bales and barrels, boats piled with fresh-caught fish wafting the odor of the sea.

Bernardo, who had been so talkative yesterday, sat silent. When Giulia made the mistake of glancing at him, she found him watching her, a brooding expression on his face. Hastily she looked away. Sofia had guessed her secret—might he have done so too? He’d never given any sign, but then neither had Sofia. She wished again that Sofia had let her go alone.

The canal curved hard to the right, delivering them into the shadow of the Rialto Bridge. Giulia glimpsed its great wooden pilings as the gondola sped past, and then they were steering toward the canal’s left bank, where the mouth of a rio admitted them back into the city. At last, where a bridge carried a street over the rio and a set of steps descended to the water, the steward drew the gondola to a halt.

“Campo San Lio lies just down there.” He pointed. “Salizzada San Lio leads off it.”

Giulia felt her stomach turn over. A few moments, no more, and she’d be at Gianfranco Ferraldi’s door.

Bernardo ducked out from beneath the felze. Giulia realized he meant to leave the boat.

“No!” she exclaimed. He paused, his eyebrows raised. “I mean, you needn’t trouble yourself. I can find my way from here.”

“My mother asked me to see you all the way.”

He stepped onto the slippery landing and began to mount the steps to the street. Since she had no choice, Giulia followed.

Campo San Lio was a sunlit square, with an ancient church on one side and a stone wellhead at its center. Children played on the paving. From a baker’s shop came a delicious fragrance of baking bread, seasoned with the ever-present tang of the canals.

“Wait!” Giulia called to Bernardo, who was already halfway across the
campo
. Then when he did not pause: “Bernardo!”

Had she ever spoken his name before? He turned.

“Please,” she said, catching up to him. “Tell your mother you brought me all the way. But let me go on alone.”

He regarded her a moment, then shrugged. “Very well. If you’re certain.”

“Thank you for escorting me.”

He nodded.

“Good-bye, then,” she said.

He made no move to go. Some kind of struggle seemed to be happening behind his face.

“Was it worth it?” he asked abruptly.

She looked at him, unsure. “Was what worth it?”

“Running away. Leaving everything and everyone behind.”

She thought of the afternoon in the cart, when she’d read to him from his book and he’d asked questions that came too close to the truth. This time there seemed to be no point in lying.

“I don’t know yet,” she said. “I hope so.”

“I didn’t believe you were what you said you were. Oh, I saw that you could draw, but still I thought you only meant to take advantage of my mother’s kindness. But you never asked her for anything, did you? Not even to stay with us.” His obsidian gaze probed her face. “She would have allowed it, you know. You could have had much more from her if you’d wanted.”

Giulia thought of the coins hidden in her doublet. “All I ever wanted was to get to Venice.”

“What is it you’re running from?”

“A . . . master . . . who would not teach me.”

“Why would he not teach you?”

Giulia hesitated. But his voice held neither skepticism nor mockery. He sounded as if he really wanted to know.

“My old master died. The one who inherited the workshop hated me. I was ordered to . . . to do something I thought was wrong, or else be banished. I realized that even if I obeyed . . . even if I was allowed to stay . . .” She took a breath. She’d never thought she would say any of this aloud. “I could never learn from such a master. Not as I want to learn. So I left.”

“As easily as that?”

She shook her head. “It wasn’t easy at all. But I had no choice.”

“I thought of running away.” He was not looking at her now, but at his fine leather gloves, which he was drawing through his fingers. “Last year, when I turned nineteen.”

She stared at him. It was, perhaps, the last thing she might have expected him to say. “Why?”

“I’ve been managing my mother’s affairs since I was fourteen years old.” He spoke quietly; it was hard to hear him over
the noise of the campo. “But I want to attend the university at Padua. I’ve always wanted to be a scholar—to read books, to write them myself. Perhaps to teach. I thought of just . . . leaving. Dropping everything, leaving everything behind. But in the end I couldn’t betray my mother so.”