Color Song (A Passion Blue Novel) (30 page)

Venice, Italy

March 2, Anno Domini 1489

Giulia did not know how long she walked, or where her footsteps took her. The fog made it impossible to tell the time of day or to identify landmarks—even if she’d been able to recognize them, for she had no idea to what part of Venice Matteo had brought her.

She simply moved, making turns at random, striking blind across campi whose boundaries she could not see, crossing bridges that seemed to span smoke rather than canals. The fog smelled of sewage and the sea; it muffled noise, wrapping her in an eerie silence through which the voices of passersby and the slap of water intruded like dreams or fancies. Most
people were sensibly indoors; but even in this miserable weather Carnival revelers were abroad, looming through the mist in their nightmare masks, staggering in and out of the candle glow of taverns.

She paused at last to rest on the edge of a wellhead, in a campo so small that the fog did not quite obscure the walls of the surrounding houses or the dark opening of the alley out of which she’d come. A little church huddled among the dwellings, the lanterns by its door making golden gossamer of the mist. She was exhausted, wet, and cold, so cold. She felt as if she had been cold forever.

But she was free. Free of her oath to Humilità. Free of Matteo. Free of her disguise, of her apprenticeship. Free of secrets, free of plans, free of everything except her own body and the borrowed clothes that covered it. She tried to find some emotion in that, anger or resolve or even fear. But all she felt was cold—her blood like ice, her thoughts as slow as sap in winter. Her face was wet with water vapor, but her eyes were dry: She was free even of tears.

She could not sit here forever, waiting for whatever happened next. She must rise and move on. But where? And to what? The thought of starting over—disguising herself again, talking her way into another apprenticeship with a different master, in a different city perhaps—made her feel so weary she could have sunk into the stone on which she rested.

Sofia.
She could go to Sofia, who had offered to help her if she ever needed it.

Longing rose in her—for the comfort of Sofia’s house, for the refuge of a place she knew, even a little. Yet it would be bitter to return in failure to the one person who had understood not just the nature of her disguise, but the reasons behind it. And Bernardo would be there—Bernardo, who still believed
she was a boy and despised her for it. The memory of the disgust she’d seen on his face on that last day made her flinch. How would he look at her when he learned the true depth of her deception?

It can’t be worse than what’s already happened. What does it matter anyway, what anyone thinks?

The sound of voices stirred the smothering quiet. At the alley’s mouth, the fog began to glow. Three men in bone-white masks melted into view, their steps unsteady with drink. They were singing, a loud, off-key song about a shy girl and a clever thief.

On the wellhead, Giulia tensed.

“Hold up, fellows!” The reveler in the lead halted, causing the man at his back to collide with him. “What have we here? A ghost?”

“A shy girl!” The third man lifted the lantern he carried. These were not nobles or young dandies, but working men in rough clothing. “Where’s your thief, shy girl? Has he deserted you?”

“No one should be alone at Carnival time,” slurred the first man, taking a swig from a bottle.

The little campo was a dead end. There was no way out but past them. Giulia pulled her shawl closer around her face and stood.

“Where are you going, shy girl?” The man with the bottle lurched forward. “Stay and celebrate with us.”

“I just want to be on my way, signor,” Giulia said as calmly as she could.

“By the saints, she’s shy in truth!” cried the lantern holder. “Whoever heard of such a thing?”

“Leave her alone, you two.” The second man, the one who’d collided with the drinker, caught his companions’ arms.
“I’m sorry, signorina. They are drunk and foolish, but they mean no harm. Go along now. You’ve nothing to fear from us.”

“Thank you, signor.” Giulia hesitated. “Could you . . . could you tell me the way to Cannaregio?”

The lantern holder laughed. “The shy girl doesn’t know where she is!”

“Quiet, Giorgio.” The second man pushed up his mask. Beneath it, his face was middle-aged and homely, with a scruffy growth of beard. “This
is
Cannaregio, signorina.”

“Oh!” Had she been in Cannaregio all along? “Can you tell me how to get to the Rio dei Miracoli, then?”

“Easier to show you, as long as you don’t mind these two fools following along.”

Once before Giulia had made the mistake of trusting men she shouldn’t. “I don’t want to put you to the trouble.”

“You’ll be lost again in no time if you try it on your own. And there’s worse than us about today.” He looked at her. “My name is Rinaldo Favretto. I’ve a daughter about your age. If she was alone in the fog, I’d want someone to help her get safe home.”

Again Giulia hesitated. But she was so tired. She couldn’t bear the thought of more blind stumbling down streets she did not know.

“Very well,” she said. “Thank you.”

—

Rinaldo walked at her side, directing her with authority, certain of his way even in the enveloping fog. He took care to keep a respectful distance between them. The other two trailed behind.

They came at last to a waterway that he said was the Rio dei Miracoli. Much to his companions’ annoyance, he refused to leave her, accompanying her along the broad fondamenta that ran above the canal and accosting passersby to ask for the house of La Fiamma.

After several such inquiries, they met a woman who said she knew the way. Rinaldo and his friends rolled off into the mist, singing their song again, while Giulia followed the woman over a bridge and down an alley to another campo, her sodden skirts tangling around her ankles. The woman pointed to a door and was gone almost before Giulia could thank her.

The fog had thinned enough that Giulia could see the wellhead at the campo’s center, the houses that ringed it, and the church on the far side, closed and dark. She tucked her tangled hair behind her ears and wrapped her head and shoulders in her shawl again, then stood before the door for several moments, gathering her courage, before she raised her hand and knocked.

A pause, then the sound of footsteps. A key turned in an inside lock. A young woman with rolled-up sleeves and a stained apron pulled the door open a little way.

“Is this the house of La . . . of Sofia Gentileschi?”

“It is.” The servant’s eyes were wary.

“Please. I need to see her.”

“We don’t feed beggars.” The servant’s gaze traveled from Giulia’s face to her dirty hem and back again. “If you want alms, knock at the church.”

“I’m not a beggar—” But the servant was already stepping back. “Wait!” But the door thumped closed, and the key turned once more. Giulia knocked again, then pounded with her fists and shouted. Somewhere above, a shutter scraped—a
neighbor, looking out to see the cause of the noise. That was all.

Giulia found suddenly that she could not stand up. She sank down on the step, its chill biting through the fabric of her gown.
I’ll wait.
Someone was bound to come in or go out eventually. Although, she realized, she couldn’t stay here, on Sofia’s step, where the person who arrived or departed might be Bernardo.

She meant to get up, to cross over to the church and watch from there. But she was weary, so weary.
I’ll rest a moment.
She closed her eyes.
Just a moment.

—

She woke slowly, as if surfacing from deep water. It was full dark; she was lying on her side, her hair across her face, her back against something hard. Somewhere above her, a light was shining.

“You there.” A man’s voice, familiar. “Wake up. You can’t sleep here.”

Where am I? Why am I so cold?

“Come now.” Something nudged her leg—the toe of a boot. “If you’re hungry I can have something brought from the kitchen.”

If her mind had been clear, she would have realized that she’d fallen asleep without moving from Sofia’s step. She’d have known at once whose voice it was and turned from the light so he would not recognize her. But she was confused and only half awake. She had already pushed her hair back, was already sitting up, before she recognized him.

“Girolamo?”
By the light of his lantern, she saw Bernardo’s eyes widen. His gaze fell to her skirts, snapped back to her face. “What is this?”

“Not Girolamo.” Her tongue felt frozen. The words were thick and slow. “My name is Giulia. Giulia Borromeo.”

“What . . . ? What do you . . . ? What are you . . . ?”

He seemed to have lost his breath. His face was blank with shock. Giulia shut her eyes; she didn’t want to see the anger that would surely follow. The lantern light moved against her closed lids, as if his hand were shaking; she could hear him breathing, harsh and fast. Then she felt a rush of air, heard the rattle of a key. The door opened, slammed. His rapid footsteps faded to silence.

She leaned her head against the icy stone behind her. Her body was lead, her mind an empty well.

Sometime later—long or short, she did not know—the door scraped open once more. A hand touched her shoulder. She looked up to see Maria, Sofia’s dark-skinned maid.

Maria helped her to her feet, drew her across the courtyard and up to the pòrtego and into Sofia’s sitting room, where the Bellini portrait hung. Sofia’s bedchamber door stood open, the room beyond it gilded with firelight.

“Clarissima,” Maria called softly, the first word Giulia had ever heard her speak. A moment, then Sofia swept into the sitting room, clad in her silk wrapper, her hair a copper torrent across her shoulders: her own portrait come to life. Giulia caught her breath. She hadn’t wept in Matteo Moretti’s house. During her long day of wandering, she hadn’t shed a tear. But now she hid her face in her hands, and the sobs burst out of her, harsh and wrenching, uncontrollable.

“Ah,” Sofia said as if someone had struck her.

Giulia felt arms go around her shoulders, felt herself guided stumbling into the bedchamber and pressed down on a cushion before the fire. Then Sofia held her as she cried, rocking her like a child. Not since her mother died had Giulia been embraced this way, a nearly forgotten memory that tore open a door to deeper griefs. She wept not just for what she’d given Matteo and what he’d taken from her, but for Humilità, for her mother, for all the losses of her life.

Eventually there were no more tears. She pulled away, drying her wet cheeks with her sleeves.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“There’s no need to apologize.”

“Thank you for letting me in.” Giulia’s breath hitched. Her throat was raw. “How did you know I was here?”

“Bernardo told me.”

“Bernardo?”

“He stormed in and woke me from my sleep. He wanted to know if I knew what you really were. I told him I had guessed.”

“He’s . . . he must be very angry.”

“At me, certainly, for keeping your secret. I suspect he feels something of a fool.” Sofia’s amber gaze was grave. “But largely, I think, he is relieved.”

Relieved.
The word slid into Giulia’s mind and sat there, like a box she was afraid to open.

“Of course, he kept secrets of his own. I did not know he was visiting you.”

“I thought you sent him. He told me you did.”

“Did he?” Sofia gave a small, close-lipped smile. “Well, I did not. If I’d realized, I might have forbidden it—not for your sake, but for his. You have caused him great distress, though I don’t imagine you intended it.”

There was a knock at the door: Maria, with a tray that held a plate of bread and cheese, a withered apple, and a steaming jug of mulled wine. Sofia poured wine for them both, then got the coverlet from her bed and draped it around Giulia’s shoulders. She settled back onto the hearth, waiting as Giulia devoured the food.

“Tell me your name,” she said when the plate was empty but for the core of the apple.

Giulia folded her hands around her wine cup, breathing its spicy odor. The fire brushed warmth across her face, and the food was warm inside her. Still she was cold, a knot of ice that would not thaw.

“Giulia Borromeo,” she said.

“Tell me who you are. Tell me what happened.”

“My father was Count Federico di Assulo Borromeo of Milan. My mother was his seamstress . . .”

The story poured out: Santa Marta, the workshop, Passion blue, Humilità’s illness, Domenica’s ultimatum, Matteo’s threats, her own escape and flight. She did not speak of the talisman and Anasurymboriel, nor of the color song; nor could she bear to speak of Ormanno and the shameful part she’d played in Matteo’s first betrayal of Humilità. Those secrets she would keep. But everything else she confessed.

Sofia sat silent after she was done, gazing into the fire. The forgiving light erased the lines around her eyes and the creases in her forehead; she looked like a girl, hardly older than Giulia herself.

“Is it really so valuable?” she said at last, softly. “This Passion blue.”

Giulia huddled deeper into the coverlet. How could she explain? Could anyone who was not a painter appreciate the worth of a paint that shone like sunlight through stained glass,
that never changed or faded as it dried and aged? Could anyone who was not part of the story understand why Passion blue had been so much more than that, something different to all who desired it: for Humilità, a legacy, something that would live on after her; for Matteo, the one thing he could not force the world to give him, and so the thing he wanted most of all; for Madre Magdalena, prestige and income for Santa Marta; for Domenica, ambition and perhaps greed.

And me. Wasn’t I greedy for it too? Isn’t that at least part of why I refused it to Domenica?

“Yes,” she said simply. “It is.”

“I guessed you were fleeing something. I wondered if it might be a convent.”

“I wasn’t a very good liar, was I.”

“You were quite a deft liar. It’s just that once I pulled the first thread, all the rest unraveled too. You are even braver than I thought, Giulia, but also more foolhardy, to set off on this adventure with no assurance of what lay at the end of it.”