Belladonna

him.”

Did Luca even have legal counsel? Perhaps Cass should send a message to his mother on the mainland just in case. No. He had mentioned that his mother was unwell. This was the sort of news that could kill a woman. Luca was industrious and prepared. Undoubtedly, he had gotten word to an attorney.

Cass shook a few gold pieces out of her purse. She transferred them from one hand to the other. “There is absolutely no way I can see my husband, not even for a moment? Not even from a distance?” She dabbed at her eyes with the back of a gloved hand, trying to squeeze out a couple of tears for the aide’s benefit.

Giovanni stared at the gold. “I would like to assist you, Signora, but it would be a grave risk for both myself and the jailer.” He licked his lips.

Cass doubled the amount of coins in her hands. Behind her, Siena inhaled sharply. It was probably more gold than she had ever seen all at once.

Giovanni removed his spectacles and polished them on his shirt. He glanced around the Senate Hall warily, as if he thought maybe the paintings were spying on him. “Return to the antechamber.” He gestured toward the door they had come through. “Let me see if there’s any possible way I can help you.” His voice wavered slightly.

He disappeared, only to return a few minutes later. “Exchange your cloak and shoes with your maidservant and put up your hood,” he said. “Someone will come for you.” He skittered back through the door like a nervous rat before Cass could ask who, exactly, was coming for her.

Probably someone to arrest me, she thought as she slipped out of her cloak and shoes. She secured Siena’s plain muslin cloak around her gown and lifted the hood so that it obscured her face and hair. She settled back in on the bench, watching with amusement as Siena awkwardly fastened Cass’s embroidered silk cloak around her neck and slipped her feet into Cass’s velvet slippers.

A different door creaked open, and a stumpy bald man shuffled through. He was almost as old as Agnese, with yellowing skin and a hump on his back that made him walk stooped over. He looked up at Cass with a pair of beady eyes that were set close to his crooked nose. He had the look of a man who had lost one too many tavern brawls.

“You.” He pointed at Cass and then rotated his hand until the palm of his dirty leather glove faced up. It took her a moment to realize he was waiting for payment. She deposited the gold coins into his hand. “Follow me,” he said.

Cass gave Siena’s hand a quick squeeze and then wordlessly rose from the bench. She nodded at the man, who did not respond except to turn his back and mutter under his breath. She followed him back through the door, across a gallery, up two narrow flights of stairs, and down a dingy passageway lit only by minuscule openings carved straight into the marble walls. The heat was unbearable, the sun on the lead-plated roof turning the entire corridor into an oven. The passage ended at a thick metal door. A tarnished ring of keys hung on a hook just outside.

“Keep your head down,” the jailer muttered as he reached up and grasped the set of keys. He shoved one in the lock and jiggled it. The door swung open with a groan.

Cass raised one of her gloved hands to her mouth, willing herself not to vomit from the overpowering scent of urine and feces that wafted into the hallway. Holding her breath, she ducked her head low to enter the room. No wonder the jailer walks hunched over, she thought. The ceiling couldn’t have been higher than five feet.

She stood inside a garret, the roof of the Palazzo Ducale just above her head. A single high window cast a beam of scattered light across the dusty enclosure. A row of thick iron doors with circular vents cut in the middle ran along the edge of the room. So these were the infamous piombi—cells so cramped and sweltering that men sometimes went mad from being imprisoned in them.

Cass tried not to look at the dark holes centered in each of the cell doors. She didn’t want to make eye contact with any of the prisoners, at least one of whom was moaning. Instead, she focused her attention on a long wooden table that ran against the far wall of the room. On it sat coils of rope and scattered pieces of silver that reflected the scant light. Cass squinted. Were those . . . knives? She took a tentative step forward, and then another. Sure enough, an assortment of daggers was displayed on the table, their tips smeared with rust.

Or blood.

Horrified, Cass spun around to glare at the jailer.

He ignored her accusing look. “Last one.” He pointed toward the corner of the room. “You have five minutes.”

Cass gathered Siena’s cloak around her body and strode toward the cell at the end, slouching low to account for the sloping roof. Mindless of the grimy floor, she crouched down and peered through the circular grate, into the cell beyond. “Luca?” she whispered.

The blackness seemed to recede into forever, as if Cass were staring at a pit that went all the way to hell. A blurry figure materialized from the dark.

Luca knelt before the grate, his soft eyes peeking out at her with surprise. His beard was a little unkempt and there were bluish circles under his eyes, but otherwise he looked unharmed. His hair glistened with sweat, and the fabric of his doublet clung fast to his chest. “You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered. “They’ll kill you if you get caught. Besides, there’s nothing you can do.”

Cass pressed one hand against the grate. She cast a glance back over her shoulder at the wooden table. “Are they hurting you?”

“No,” he said.

Not yet. Cass couldn’t shake the feeling that his predicament was her fault. “There has to be something. You’re innocent. Tell me how I can prove it.”

Luca shook his head. “You can’t, Cass. The testimony has been bought and paid for. No one will go against Dubois. He owns half of the Council of Ten.”

The Council of Ten was a group of senators elected from within the general council. Hortensa’s husband, Don Zanotta, sat among them. They were some of the most powerful men in all of Venice. They and Joseph Dubois.

“But I know the names of your accusers,” Cass said, fanning herself with her free hand. Rivulets of sweat were beginning to trickle down the sides of her neck. “Donna Hortensa Zanotta, for one.”

Luca frowned. “I’ve never even met her.”

“If I could persuade her to recant her statement, do you suppose you might go free?” She let the tips of her fingers curl their way through the grate.

“Unlikely,” he said. “It’s my understanding she is one of several accusers, all of whom probably gave false testimony at the behest of Dubois.” Luca reached his own hand up so that his fingertips met Cass’s. “Promise me you won’t go threatening Dubois. There’s no point in both of us dying.”

Cass twined her fingers through Luca’s, their hands separated only by the network of steel bars. She leaned forward until her forehead rested against the grate. “But I don’t understand,” she whispered. “What did you do to make him so angry?”

Luca lowered his voice to a whisper. “Dubois is a member of a group called the Order of the Eternal Rose. When my father died, he gave me a key that unlocked a hiding place to certain papers relating to this Order. I told Dubois I would make these pages public unless he sent Cristian away, but then Dubois demanded I relinquish the papers to him. I told him I had burned the papers, but he didn’t believe me.”

“What’s so special about these papers?” Cass’s eyelashes flicked against the metal grate as she blinked.

“Dubois thinks the papers incriminate him in crimes perpetrated by the Order.”

“What crimes?”

“That’s exactly it. I have no idea,” Luca said, shaking his head. “I only know the Order must be involved in something terrible. Unfortunately the papers aren’t quite as incriminating as I let on.”

“It was all a bluff,” Cass said, starting to understand.

Luca sighed. “Dubois’s name is on them, but there are no crimes mentioned. They’re largely chemical formulas and research notes. They’re part of a larger book—the Book of the Eternal Rose. That’s what he’s really looking for. According to my father, the complete set of pages describes enough atrocities