But whatever wrongs were done you, they have ended. You are with us now.”
“Now?”
“Day by day, Dolce. That’s how life moves.” His eyes hold mine fast. “I’ll be back soon. What’s your pleasure? Pearls? Gold?”
“I…I don’t know.”
“Then I’ll choose just one necklace. In Venezia you can choose for yourself.”
My fingers uncurl slowly. Marin races down the steps.
“I’ll need you to take off that robe,” says the tailor.
“She has nothing on underneath,” says Bianca.
The tailor opens a drawer, takes out a white shift, and hands it to me. “Slip this on, Signorina.” He turns his back.
I put on the shift. “Ready,” I breathe.
“All right, then. I have two gowns that could do quite well, with a stitch here or there. Silk, of course, as the fine sire requested. One is purple, the other indigo. Do you have a preference?”
“Indigo,” says Bianca.
I touch her cheek. “Why?”
“I like the word.”
I look at the tailor and nod.
I stand in the light from the window while he pins the dress, then takes it off me and sews, then puts it on me and pins again. He’s precise. The silk is soft. I feel suspended, unable to guess at what might happen next.
Finally, the tailor steps away. “I believe that does it. Take a look.” He picks up a mirror from the table. The mirror reflects perfectly. It’s because of me that Murano has such mirrors.
I gaze at my image.
“You are indeed fair, dear Signorina,” says the tailor. “And indigo was a fine choice. It’s nearly as dark as your hair.”
Fair? I look hard. I am me, still and always. Clothing changes nothing. I look at the tailor’s face. He seems utterly sincere. I shake my head and look out the window. I feel a pang in my heart. “Bianca! Look!” I point. Venerio’s short boat passes along the canal. He rows. Francesco stands in the middle. Has Venerio found someone to replace me? Does anyone miss me? Maybe the boy Tommaso. But he’ll forget me soon.
Bianca leans out the window and follows my finger. “Dwarfs. I like them. Don’t you?”
“Dwarfs?”
“Haven’t you ever seen them before?”
I nod.
“They’re funny. They always make me laugh.”
The tailor comes to stand beside us. “Ah, those are the ones from Torcello. It’s fever-ridden, that place. No one else wants it, so we might as well leave it to the freaks. They come here now and then, for supplies. They appear to be demented, poor things. Simpletons at best.”
I clap my hand over my mouth to hold in the sick.
Bianca tilts her head from side to side. “Demented? But you’re wrong. They’re capable of lots of things. They make good servants.”
“I suppose that must be true. They say if you visit Torcello, they’ll run you off. The men are strong. But every now and then someone still tries to sneak over there to snatch one of the children to sell.”
I stagger to the nearby cutting table and press a hand on it for support. The room swirls.
“Are you all right?” the tailor asks.
I put both hands on the table. My chest heaves. “Do you…do you, Bianca, do you have dwarf servants?”
“No. Hardly anyone does, really. There aren’t enough of them. If you don’t like dwarfs, you better not show it. Papà says all people have dignity, no matter how ill-formed or unable.”
“Yes,” I say. “That’s true.” I cry into my hands.
T he gondola slips through the water, and I’m listening to Bianca talk of Aunt Agnola’s dog Ribolin when the bell sounds. It’s distant but deep as it echoes across the lagoon. Bianca goes silent. We hold hands and peer through the fading light.
“Venezia,” says Marin in a hushed voice as we round an island. “This view never fails to steal my breath. She deserves her name as
serenissima
—the most serene.”
The city looms in silence, set against a pure blue, cloudless sky. Early moonlight shimmers off the water and the walls, white and pink and amber. It feels like a promise—like magic.
“Now?”
“Day by day, Dolce. That’s how life moves.” His eyes hold mine fast. “I’ll be back soon. What’s your pleasure? Pearls? Gold?”
“I…I don’t know.”
“Then I’ll choose just one necklace. In Venezia you can choose for yourself.”
My fingers uncurl slowly. Marin races down the steps.
“I’ll need you to take off that robe,” says the tailor.
“She has nothing on underneath,” says Bianca.
The tailor opens a drawer, takes out a white shift, and hands it to me. “Slip this on, Signorina.” He turns his back.
I put on the shift. “Ready,” I breathe.
“All right, then. I have two gowns that could do quite well, with a stitch here or there. Silk, of course, as the fine sire requested. One is purple, the other indigo. Do you have a preference?”
“Indigo,” says Bianca.
I touch her cheek. “Why?”
“I like the word.”
I look at the tailor and nod.
I stand in the light from the window while he pins the dress, then takes it off me and sews, then puts it on me and pins again. He’s precise. The silk is soft. I feel suspended, unable to guess at what might happen next.
Finally, the tailor steps away. “I believe that does it. Take a look.” He picks up a mirror from the table. The mirror reflects perfectly. It’s because of me that Murano has such mirrors.
I gaze at my image.
“You are indeed fair, dear Signorina,” says the tailor. “And indigo was a fine choice. It’s nearly as dark as your hair.”
Fair? I look hard. I am me, still and always. Clothing changes nothing. I look at the tailor’s face. He seems utterly sincere. I shake my head and look out the window. I feel a pang in my heart. “Bianca! Look!” I point. Venerio’s short boat passes along the canal. He rows. Francesco stands in the middle. Has Venerio found someone to replace me? Does anyone miss me? Maybe the boy Tommaso. But he’ll forget me soon.
Bianca leans out the window and follows my finger. “Dwarfs. I like them. Don’t you?”
“Dwarfs?”
“Haven’t you ever seen them before?”
I nod.
“They’re funny. They always make me laugh.”
The tailor comes to stand beside us. “Ah, those are the ones from Torcello. It’s fever-ridden, that place. No one else wants it, so we might as well leave it to the freaks. They come here now and then, for supplies. They appear to be demented, poor things. Simpletons at best.”
I clap my hand over my mouth to hold in the sick.
Bianca tilts her head from side to side. “Demented? But you’re wrong. They’re capable of lots of things. They make good servants.”
“I suppose that must be true. They say if you visit Torcello, they’ll run you off. The men are strong. But every now and then someone still tries to sneak over there to snatch one of the children to sell.”
I stagger to the nearby cutting table and press a hand on it for support. The room swirls.
“Are you all right?” the tailor asks.
I put both hands on the table. My chest heaves. “Do you…do you, Bianca, do you have dwarf servants?”
“No. Hardly anyone does, really. There aren’t enough of them. If you don’t like dwarfs, you better not show it. Papà says all people have dignity, no matter how ill-formed or unable.”
“Yes,” I say. “That’s true.” I cry into my hands.
T he gondola slips through the water, and I’m listening to Bianca talk of Aunt Agnola’s dog Ribolin when the bell sounds. It’s distant but deep as it echoes across the lagoon. Bianca goes silent. We hold hands and peer through the fading light.
“Venezia,” says Marin in a hushed voice as we round an island. “This view never fails to steal my breath. She deserves her name as
serenissima
—the most serene.”
The city looms in silence, set against a pure blue, cloudless sky. Early moonlight shimmers off the water and the walls, white and pink and amber. It feels like a promise—like magic.
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