In the dim light of a single candle, Joanna could see them. Sara and the Devil were on the bed in an embrace.

Chapter Fourteen

Joanna felt a sudden sense of betrayal. Sara had seemed so close, so allied with her against foolish Italian men. How could she do this?

For a brief, deeply wounded moment Joanna backed away again, then saw Sara’s arm hanging from the side of the bed.

She burst into the room.

“What the hell is going on?”

Alvise bolted upright and Joanna saw immediately that it wasn’t an embrace at all, but a molestation. Sara lay limp against the pillow, her head thrown back. Both their masks lay on the floor.

Joanna stormed over to the bed and grasped Alvise by his red sleeve, shoving him aside. “What have you done to her?” She sat beside the dazed woman and tapped her lightly on one cheek.

“Sara, are you all right? Can you hear me?”

“Your friend’s had a bit too much to drink.” On his feet, Alvise straightened his doublet and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I brought her here to lie down for a few minutes, and we both succumbed to the moment. No harm done.”

Sara seemed to wrench herself into partial lucidity. “Not drunk,” she mumbled. “Something in the wine.”

Joanna helped her up into a sitting position. “Are you sick?”

“No. Got dizzy, all of a sudden.” Sara rubbed her forehead. Her carefully coiffed hair had become undone and hung loosely over her hands. “Help me home.”

Joanna spun around to Alvise, who had moved toward the door. “Sara never drinks that much. Did you drug her? What a disgusting thing to do.”

“Of course not! What do you imagine?” He looked slightly ridiculous bending over and snatching up both their masks, more clown than demon.

Morosini’s Knight stood in the doorway now. “Is something wrong?”

Joanna helped Sara to her feet and urged her to walk. She staggered a few feet, holding her head in her hands.

Alvise took a different tack. “The signorina has reacted adversely to the wine and has taken sick. Perhaps we should call a doctor.”

“No. No doctor,” Sara babbled, and Joanna knew why. They couldn’t risk an examination unless it was something serious. She hoped it wasn’t.

“Are you sure?” she whispered.

“Yes. Just need air, coffee, get home.”

Joanna debated whether to accuse Alvise in front of witnesses. But it would sever their relationship with the university and possibly jeopardize the project. She had no real proof, anyhow.

“Please, just call a water taxi. I’ll take her home and everything will be fine.” She took Sara’s mask from Alvise’s hand, but he looked away.

*

The cold air over the canal seemed to clear Sara’s head, and by the time they reached the Ponte dei Greci embankment, she could walk again without assistance. They had collected their cloaks, though Sara now wore the warmer tabarro and clutched it across her chest while Joanna opened the iron gate to their apartment building.

“Does your head still hurt?”

“Yes, like someone’s hammering on it.”

“Could it be an allergic reaction?” Joanna still held Sara by the arm, more to comfort than to physically support her. She guided her into the apartment and toward the sofa.

“No, I don’t have any allergies. How can you even ask? I know he put something in the wine. I had only two glasses, the same as you. He brought me a third in a new glass when you left, and a little after that I got dizzy. He ‘helped’ me to the bedroom and then was all over me, the bastard.”

Joanna went to the kitchen and came back with a glass of water. “Despicable, I agree. But, you have to admit, colorful. Poisoned wine is very Renaissance Venetian.”

“It’s not funny. The guy’s a creep and you left me alone with him while you went off on a little tête-à-tête with Tiziana.”

“We didn’t have a tête-à-tête,” Johanna half lied. “Besides, I can’t protect you from men like Alvise. Welcome to the world of women. You have to learn to read the signs of trouble and get around it somehow.”

“If I hadn’t been half-unconscious, I’d have clocked him.”

“I wish you had. Did he grope anything…dangerous?”

“I don’t think so, but he sure as hell tried. Bastard. And now I’ve got a raging headache. I can’t even focus my eyes enough to remove my makeup.”

“I’ll do it for you, but first take this.” She handed Sara the water and two aspirin capsules. “These will take the edge off the headache without harming you. The water will do you good too.”

Sara dropped the capsules in her mouth and drank the glass of water in three swallows.

“Now go take off your nice dress and put on your pajamas. I’ll come in shortly.”

Joanna removed her own costume and packed the trousers, tabarro, and tricorne for return. She prepared the box for Sara’s costume, made up the sofa bed, then ventured into the bedroom.

Sara was in bed, propped up against her pillows. The velvet gown lay over a chair and the Salome mask was on the wall over the bed again.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Joanna went to work with lotion and tissues. “Close your eyes now, so I can take off the mascara.”

Sara obeyed, but continued talking. “Pretty clever the way she lured you away.”

“What are you talking about? Oh, Tiziana? Please, stop harping on Tiziana. Nothing’s going on. And if there were, what business would it be of yours?”

“You’re right.” Sara’s lips drooped to a sulk. “None.”

Joanna felt a twinge of guilt that she had indeed been sidetracked by the librarian, but then had become enraged to think that Sara had betrayed her with Alvise. It was all so schoolgirlish and confusing. They both were too mature and too serious for such nonsense.

She made another pass with the tissue under Sara’s eyes and changed the subject. “Didn’t you find it bizarre to spend an evening with people in masks and costume? It’s true we knew a couple of them, but the rest were like phantoms.”

“That was the part of the evening I enjoyed. Disguise gives people a chance to reinvent themselves. How could I not like that?”

“I see your point. It would be more convincing if people could change personalities too. But Arlecchino, who was arguing with you about Carnival ‘perversion,’ turned out to be just as big a jerk in a mask as he was without it. Did you recognize him? He was one of the archivists. Bracco was his name, I think.”

“Ah, right. I thought he seemed familiar. Bracco. Isn’t that also the name of the two Jesuits on the Grazie Dei?”

Joanna stopped wiping, her hand suspended in midair for a moment. “You’re right. Interesting coincidence.” They looked at each other, exchanging glances that seemed hold the same questions. Could it be more than a coincidence? Probably not. But still…

Finally, Joanna gathered up the makeup-stained tissues and tossed them into the waste-paper bin. Suddenly tender, she took Sara’s hand where it lay across her stomach. “I’m really sorry about leaving you in Alvise’s clutches. I couldn’t avoid it, but I’m still sorry. How’s the headache?”

“Better, thanks. I think I can sleep now.”

“Well, then, I’ll let you do that.” Joanna rose from the bed and made her way from the room, extinguishing the overhead light at the doorway. Behind her, Sara said softly, “Good night, Joanna. Thanks for saving me.”

“You’re welcome. Maybe you can return the favor some time.”

Joanna showered leisurely, turning the evening’s events over in her mind. The constellation of allies was changing and they would have to adjust with it. Alvise had proved himself obnoxious and would have to be avoided. Fortunately, he seemed to have less to offer the project than Morosini.

Tiziana, on the other hand… On the other hand, what? Was that avenue worth going down? Another religious woman from a foreign culture. Monique in middle age.

Coming out of the bathroom, she passed the door to Sara’s bedroom and glanced inside. The small table lamp was still on and, on the pillow below the Salome mask, Sara was breathing the slow deep breaths of unconsciousness.

Standing in the doorway, Joanna watched her for a moment and felt a sudden pathos for the little boy who had spent almost an entire childhood longing to be loved. She tiptoed toward the bed, resisted the urge to pull up the covers, but clicked off the bedside lamp before creeping from the room.

*

Around eleven the next day, Joanna was at the garden table with the Arnoldi book still open in front of her. She glanced up as Sara came into the garden with two cups of coffee. “You look much better. I guess ten hours’ sleep will do the trick. Did you hear the siren last night?”

“Siren? No. What siren?” She set one cup down in front of Joanna.

“The acqua alta siren warning of a high tide around midnight. You didn’t hear it?”

“No. I didn’t hear a thing. Did you check the news to see if San Marco is flooded?”

“Yes. I watched it on the television this morning. The tide wasn’t so bad, but tomorrow is a full moon, so they’re predicting an even higher one at about the same time.”

“They seem to be happening more often now than when I was a child.” Sara sat down, warming her hands on both sides of her coffee mug. “So what’s the story about our ship’s scribe? Should we believe Morosini’s report?”

“I don’t know. This account is really damning. The author”—Joanna tapped the leather cover where the author’s name was embossed—“Benedetto Morosini clearly discredits the whole lineage. Primarily he damns Pietro for being demented, but he also implies that the entire family goes crazy. What’s more, I checked the Venetian history books on the shelf, and they support that idea.”

“What do you mean by ‘goes crazy’?”

“Keep in mind that the Arnoldi family was one of the Old Families, that were expected to represent the true Venetian virtues. But in a single year, 1561, not only is Pietro himself declared demented and sent into exile, but his brother is charged with theft from the church and sentenced to prison, his oldest son defrauds an investor, and the year after that, the youngest son is charged with murder. The family just suddenly falls apart, in a single generation. Comparing the dates with the ship’s log, I’d say the deterioration started with the voyage of the Grazie Dei.”

“Well, we already saw in the log that something happened to Pietro during that voyage.” Sara stirred sugar into her coffee. “But you think Pietro’s shipboard breakdown is what caused the damage to his family?”

“If it did, reading Leonora’s book was the start of it all. He says so outright, remember?”

“Yeah?” Sara drew out the word, wanting to hear more. “Where is this line of thinking taking us?”

“Stay with me here.” Joanna tapped the book again. “The author talks about ‘other heresies,’ not just Lutheranism, so I’m wondering now if Leonora’s book might have found its way into other hands after this voyage. A lot of other hands. I’m even wondering if it might not also be a contributing cause of the Counter-Reformation.”

Sara frowned. “That’s pushing it a little, isn’t it? We should collect a lot more information before we go that far.”

“Fair enough. At least let’s read the rest of the letters. Maybe we’ll find some clues as to what everyone was so excited about.” Joanna got up from the garden table and fetched the leather wallet and notebook from the living room.

“We have only these two left.”

“Let’s finish them now and have all of Leonora’s story on the table. I’ll read while you take notes.”