Starling (61 page)

She ran for the first gondolier she saw but then realized she had
no money for the fare. Desperate, she hopped into a different boat
filled with young peasant boys that was just pulling away from the
dock. The two in back looked curiously at her, one even reaching up
to touch her loose hair, but they didn’t try to force her out of the
gondola. Cass crossed her arms over her sagging bodice and tucked
her chin low to her chest. She prayed the boys would take pity on her.

The gondolier, a spindly dark-eyed man dressed in bright red and
blue frowned at her disheveled appearance, but did not question her.
He untied his boat from the mooring post and steered away from the
dock. Looking back over her shoulder, Cass scanned the dimly lit
waterfront for Piero. She didn’t see him, but that didn’t mean he
wasn’t lurking somewhere. Watching her.

The boat turned into an adjoining canal. As they drifted along,
the gondolier looked hard at Cass again. He was still frowning, his
brow heavy, deep, crescent-moon creases on either side of his mouth.

Cass had no idea where the gondola was headed, no idea where
she would go once the boat reached its destination. She couldn’t go
to Falco. Even if he would help her, Piero must have followed him to
Palazzo Dolce, which meant Falco—and undoubtedly his current
residence—were being watched by the Order of the Eternal Rose.
Unless he’s a part of the Order.
Cass refused to acknowledge the
voice in her head.

She couldn’t go to Luca, who had left her standing alone in the
street. Even if she could find him, she couldn’t bring herself to beg
for his aid. Not after she had hurt him so badly.

Feliciana might still be willing to help her, but there was no way
Cass dared seek her out at Palazzo Dubois.
For the first time in a long time, Cass felt utterly and completely
alone.
Panic danced around her, clawing with its shadowy fingers. She’d
be lucky to survive the night. Piero would find her. The Order would
find her. And when they did . . .
Some blood works better than others.
No. She reached her hand in her pocket and squeezed the dagger’s hilt. She was not—she would not be—helpless. She would die
before she let Belladonna find her.
Cass whispered to the boy who sat in front of her. “Thank you for
allowing me passage. Can I ask where you are headed?”
He smiled. “Cannaregio.”
It was the far northeastern district of the Rialto. There was nothing there that she knew of, save for a few churches, but the trip would
buy her some time to figure out where she was really going to go.
The gondolier turned off into another side canal. She watched
clusters of buildings float by, her mind reeling desperately. Perhaps
she could tuck herself away in a moored fishing boat or under a
bridge and sleep until morning.
But then she thought of Piero creeping up on her with his rag
soaked in chemicals . . .
The canal hooked to the left, and Cass saw an arched marble
doorway with Hebrew words engraved into the stone. Beyond it was
the Ghetto, the walled area where the Jews lived. A steady stream of
people, the men dressed in bright red caps, flowed forward toward