The butler, an older man with gray hair, opened the door. “Yes?” he asked.
“I am looking for Hortensa Zanotta,” Cass said firmly.
“The mistress has gone to Santo Stefano,” the butler said, as if Cass were daft and quite possibly a heretic for not being in church herself. He started to close the door.
Cass quickly put a hand against the door frame. “But there’s no Mass tonight,” she said. If there had been, Madalena likely would have insisted on their attending. She glanced past the butler, but all she could see was a hallway receding into darkness and a set of white marble stairs that led up to the portego. If Hortensa was hiding in the palazzo, Cass would never be able to tell.
“The mistress and some of the local parishioners have come together to sew banners for the altars and the baptistery,” the butler said. “She’s very pious.”
Right, Cass thought, when she isn’t lying and sending innocent men to their deaths. She smiled demurely. “I do appreciate your time. And sewing banners sounds lovely. I may have to pass by the church and see if they can use another pair of hands. Which church did you say again?”
“Santo Stefano, just east of the Ponte Vecchio.”
Cass knew of the Ponte Vecchio, the long enclosed bridge over the Arno, lined on both sides with food stalls and butcher shops. She was only a couple of blocks north of the river—she could smell it. “Grazie,” she called over her shoulder as she returned to the street. She headed toward the water and had no trouble locating the small gray-and-tan church with three sets of wooden doors built into its façade.
And sure enough, when Cass slipped quietly inside the entrance hall and peeked into the main room of Santo Stefano, she saw three women gathered in the front of the church, one of them holding up a swatch of fabric. Maybe there was more to Hortensa’s story. Maybe Dubois had coerced her into giving false testimony and she was working through her guilt by spending extra time in church.
If that were the case, Cass might have a real chance at getting her to confess. The donna had left Venice so quickly, she probably didn’t even know that her words were going to send Luca to the gallows. Cass felt her pulse quicken at her throat. Hortensa wouldn’t want an innocent man to die, would she?
One of the girls suddenly burst into laughter, and Cass watched as Hortensa flung the swatch of fabric around her waist. Cass’s eyes widened. It wasn’t fabric to cut and sew for banners—it was a skirt. A brilliant, scarlet top skirt.
She crept a little closer and realized that the women weren’t sewing at all. They had taken refuge inside the little church to change their clothing. Their gowns hadn’t initially seemed out of place, but that was because Cass was from Venice, where jewel-toned fabrics and scandalously plunging necklines were the fashion. Here in Florence, Hortensa and her friends were going to raise many an eyebrow in their low-cut bodices.
What were they getting so dressed up for? Where were they going?
Hortensa pulled a tiny pot of lip stain out of her pocket while her friends arranged her cloak so that it covered her dress. She rubbed some on her lips and turned to one of the other women.
The woman dabbed at Hortensa’s mouth with one finger and then nodded her approval. She tossed her hair, glancing toward the back of the church at the same time. Cass quickly let the door fall shut. Ducking around the side of the church, she secured her own cloak and waited for the main portal of Santo Stefano to swing open.
The women emerged a few minutes later, their vibrant gowns tucked safely beneath black cloaks. Cass followed them across the far side of the church campo.
The donna and her friends walked west along the Arno River. The water was flowing quickly, the moonlight reflecting off pockets of white-tipped current. Cass hurried after the women. They moved almost as if they were a single entity, navigating the darkened streets without a lantern or a candle. A right, and then a left. Then another right. Cass tried to remember the turns so she’d be able to find her way home. The women passed through a narrow alley and then paused in front of a palazzo made of black marble with threads of white stone running through it. The green-shuttered windows were all pulled closed, except for a single second-floor window where six tiny candle flames danced in the night.
Cass ducked between two buildings, watching as the trio of women went around the side of the palazzo, toward the servants’ entrance in back. She pulled her bonnet low. She didn’t want Hortensa to recognize her. Not yet. Not while they were in the streets and the donna could escape.
She followed the path Hortensa and her friends had taken. As she came around the house, she saw the back door shutting, and a brief burst of laughter was quickly quelled as the door clicked once again into place.
She approached the door and paused with her hand on the knob. It was made of bronze and shaped like a coiled serpent, with two bright green stones for eyes. Had the women knocked to gain admittance? Cass wasn’t certain. Just as she was going to try the door, the knob turned beneath her fingers. A blonde woman a few years older than her pulled open the door.
The woman wore a plain white dress and had her hair fashioned into a high bun. “Are you just going to stand there?” she asked crossly. “Or are you going to come in and join the party?”
thirteen
“The art of coercion lies not in seizing control, but in determining a person’s needs and sating them.”
—THE BOOK OF THE ETERNAL ROSE
S-sorry,” Cass stuttered, but the woman had already faded into the dark. As she closed the door behind her, Cass realized she was in a small kitchen. The room was bare except for an oven and a long wooden table. Masks of various sizes littered the table. Apparently she had stumbled into a masquerade party. What luck! Cass could sneak up on Hortensa without any danger of being recognized. She chose a mask at random, turning the strip of velvet over in her hands. It was simple and unadorned, different from the style she was accustomed to in Venice.
Readjusting her bonnet, Cass tied the mask securely over her eyes, feeling slightly braver now that her face was partially concealed.
Past the kitchen was a dark corridor. The air smelled sweet, like rosewater and lilies mixed with some type of smoke. A pair of flickering candles sat on a side table, casting undulating shadows upon the wall.
A stone staircase spiraled upward into the piano nobile. Cass heard laughter from above as she crept quietly up the steps. The room was dimly lit, its crimson walls pulsing with darkness. Everyone’s face was hidden: the women in half masks, the men in smaller ones that obscured only their eyes. Most of the guests had shucked off their cloaks. Cass unfastened hers and added it to a stack of outergarments piled on a divan in the corner.
Serving women dressed in simple white chemises moved through the crowd with trays of wine goblets. Someone was playing a harp, and masked figures swayed to the music. A few appeared to be dancing all alone, their bodies moving strangely, like puppets on strings.
Cass could no longer see Hortensa and her friends. She stood and made her way into the portego. Thin fingers of smoke, emanating from a ring of red and black candles that lined the perimeter of the room, wafted through the air. It made her think of Venice, of the lacy mists that coated everything.
A man caught her eye from the far side of the portego. Cass’s heart leapt into her throat when she saw his dark hair—almost the color of Falco’s. He moved like a cat, coming toward her stealthily. But it wasn’t Falco, of course not. She turned away, pushing through the crowd, determined to find Hortensa. Unfortunately, several of the women wore scarlet dresses. With her distinctive scarred cheek covered by a mask, the donna could be anywhere. Or anyone.