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1
I gaze down the length of the narrow blade at my enemy. His own sword is lowered, his chest heaving as a bead of sweat rolls lazily over the ridge of his collarbone and then into the dip of his sternum. It joins the others in a damp patch over his heart.
"Yield," he says.
"Make me."
Roberto sends me a smile, then attacks. I dodge across the varnished floorboards of the palace's gallery, but my silk skirts swing heavily, weighted by the lead beads sewn into the hem. They're slowing me down.
"A peacock's feathers don't help it fly," Roberto says, his eyes traveling over the shot turquoise of my dress. With a hiss of impatience I use my free hand to loosen the ribbons on my outer robe, shoving one shoulder and then the other out of the bodice until the silk slips over my limbs and lands with a sigh in a blue cloud at my feet. Neatly, I step out of it, my sword still trained on Roberto. I ignore the loud tut of disapproval from the servant who sits on one of the window seats, chaperoning us. When I first met Roberto six months ago, I might have blushed, but six moons have done more than just improve my sword skills. I'm a different person.
"You may leave us," I call out. My eyes never stray from Roberto's face.
There's a scuffle of shoes across wood and then the slam of a door shutting.
"Now there's no one to witness your humiliation," I say. My voice echoes around the long gallery.
"Or yours," Roberto replies, raising his eyebrows.
I stand before him in nothing but my linen chemise and corset. My cheeks are hot, with both the duel and my recklessness. I blow a stray lock of hair out of my face and it sticks to my temple.
Roberto slowly circles. "Are you going to use that sword or just admire it?"
I turn on the spot. Behind him shift the blurry outlines of oil paintings and--as we turn again--long windows, beyond which lies Venice. Once a prison, now my home. The days of the convent are long gone, many months ago, fading quickly into the past. My stale vows to God will always lurk in my mind, but they are nothing more than a distant chanting now, faint beneath new words of love.
Roberto dances lightly from foot to foot. One flying lunge with my sword and I'll be the victor; a single riposte from him and I taste defeat. I notice his hand tighten slightly under his bell guard, and anticipate his move. As he lunges I hop to one side, turning my back on him and bringing my own blade round in a swift movement so that it cuts up under his. Our weapons bounce apart, but with a light jump I bring the buttoned point of my sword against Roberto's chest, the blade bending under the pressure. We're so close that I can feel Roberto's breath on my face.
"Disarming," he says. He fails to keep the surprise out of his voice.
I cannot help laughing, though we don't pull apart. "Does this make me the winner?" I ask.
Roberto dips his head in acknowledgment. "So it seems."
"Then I demand my prize."
He glances back up, his eyes widening a little as he leans against my blade. "Which is?"
I jerk my sword away and he staggers into me. He straightens up, cheeks flushing. "Laura--"
Before he can say another word, I bring my sword around in a wide arc until the blunt tip slides between our bodies and presses against the underside of his chin. "I demand a kiss."
We both wait. I lower my sword. Roberto is free to move. His arm is suddenly around my waist, bringing me even closer to him. As his chest presses against mine I am aware of the thin fabric of my chemise, the heat of his body. He leans over me, arching my spine backwards, and presses his lips against the hollow at the base of my throat, which I know must be salty with sweat. When he releases me, we gaze at each other, standing on either side of a long sunbeam that traces a path across the floorboards.
"Is this what love feels like?" he asks.
"I think so."
We both know how lucky we are. It might have been so different, if my father had had his way. I shudder to think of the man I was to marry, one of my father's cronies from the Grand Council. Vincenzo was old, selfish and cruel, but he was rich, and that's all that matters to a man like my father. And at that time, Roberto was living in poverty as a painter, under the name Giacomo. For his past too was a prison of sorts, hiding from the vendetta that threatened his life as the Doge's son. It's a miracle our paths crossed at all.
I go to pick up my discarded dress as Roberto pours us each a tumbler of water from a glass jug with images of swans etched and gilded on its handle. He hands me the water and I gulp it down gratefully. Roberto wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, recovering his breath. Beyond his head, a row of portraits of Doges past runs across the paneled wall. Roberto's father, Alfonso, the present Doge, is last. The ancient faces that look down at me are stern and unforgiving, dark shadows lurking in the corners of one painting, a fierce dog sitting at its master's feet in another. One day, Roberto's portrait will hang there too, but I can't imagine him gazing down on Venice with such ferocity.
Roberto removes his shirt and towels himself dry with it. As he moves, the muscles of his stomach contract and expand, so that the scar on his chest seems to writhe across his skin. It will always be a reminder to us of how precarious life can be in Venice. The wound, delivered when he was just a boy, has long since healed, but a few months ago the same blood feud almost claimed his life again. It was only the intervention of the Segreta that ended the cycle of violence and spared him.
The Segreta. The Secret Women. The female balance to the Doge's brute force and power. I owe everything to them. They welcomed me to their bosom when I had nowhere else to turn. They rescued me from a marriage to Vincenzo, exposing his crimes and leading to his exile. Now they are my family. We operate under cover and behind the scenes, the hidden puppeteers who see that justice is done in a city teeming with corruption.
"What are you thinking?" Roberto asks, eyeing the sudden change in my expression.
I shake my head. "I've just remembered!" I say. "My brother arrives any day now, from Bologna. I can't wait for you to meet Lysander."
Roberto throws his shirt on the floor and pours himself another glass of water. "But will Antonio approve of him becoming acquainted with a ruffian like myself?" He raises the glass at me, then takes a deep draught.
I laugh. "Do you remember Father threatening to set the dogs on you, the lowly painter?"
Roberto rolls his eyes. "Oh yes. Those imaginary dogs." He laughs too. Father has refused to have dogs in the house ever since I was a child and a pet mastiff chewed a hole in our finest rug.
A muffled sound from behind the floor-to-ceiling doors makes us both quiet abruptly. Roberto holds a finger to his lips as we listen to the sound of voices; then one of the doors is flung open and a figure falls into the room, pushing past servants.
"I'm a lady-in-waiting!" she screeches, before stopping short. Faustina blushes crimson as her gaze travels over the sight of Roberto and me. Suddenly, I am all too aware of Roberto's naked torso and my own thin undergarments.
"Never did I think I'd live to see such a thing," she mutters. She swivels round, turning her back on us. "Get dressed, for propriety's sake!" A servant has peered around the open doorway and she shouts at him, "Get out! Leave!" She shakes a gnarled fist and his head quickly disappears from view.
Roberto and I scramble into our clothes, and I go to my maidservant's side. If she wants to call herself a lady-in-waiting, I won't object. Once my wet nurse, she's always been my closest companion. My dearest Faustina, whose soft folds and tender hugs have comforted me through many troubles.
Her eyes flicker to one side, checking that I am back in my blue dress. "We have an appointment to keep, remember?"
I hadn't forgotten--how could I? "Help me with my bodice?" I ask her. As she tugs on the ribbons, she glances over at Roberto. "Wait for me outside," I tell her gently, turning to kiss her on the cheek. "We'll be with you in a moment."
"Don't let him lead you astray," she whispers loudly, scuttling towards the open door. Her hand darts out and she slaps one of the boy servants hanging on the frame around the back of his head. "No spying!" The door shuts behind her.
Roberto watches me as I turn back to face the room. We smile at each other and I walk to his open arms, resting my face against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. I offer up my face to him and he takes hold of my chin, pressing his lips to mine.
Eventually, he pulls away. "I must attend a meeting with Massimo," he tells me. "The Admiral wants to discuss rumors of an Ottoman threat."
My skin prickles with disquiet. Ottomans or Turks--that's all the men of Venice seem to talk about these days. But I keep my thoughts to myself.
"I'll see you soon," I say.
"Not soon enough," he replies. Since he asked for my hand four months ago, the only time we've spent apart was when he visited Constantinople on behalf of his father. Those awful few days seemed to stretch into years, and we've vowed never to be away from each other for so long again.
"Laura!" calls Faustina's impatient voice from the other side of the door, dragging my thoughts back to the present. "The sun is already dipping below the spires of Saint Zachary. Are you ready?"
I giggle and give Roberto a final kiss. Then I run from the gallery. Faustina waits outside with her arms folded.
"Come on, then!" I say, grasping her hand and dragging her behind me.

2
Faustina huffs and puffs as she struggles to keep up. We make our way down a cobbled alley that stretches out from the palace, like a single strand in the spiderweb of paths and roads that crisscross Venice. Our feet turn towards the Cannaregio district. As she walks, Faustina flaps her knotted hands before her face, then reaches into a pocket and snaps open a paper fan with a scene painted across it.
"A present?" I ask, slowing my pace so that she can keep up.
"Never you mind," she retorts.
"Must be from an admirer," I say. A man passes, carrying a tray of sardines. He smiles and dips his head. I raise my eyebrow at Faustina.
"How dare you!" she says. The man looks alarmed and scurries past us, moving closer to the wall. "I'm too old for such nonsense, you know that." She looks over her shoulder as the market trader turns down another alley. "Though, once . . . Oh, never mind."
"You must tell me!" I say, grasping her hand. We walk side by side, our bodies jostling comfortably.
Faustina gives a dramatic sigh and raises her head to gaze at the towers and columns that rise above us. The sky is a clear blue this afternoon, though tinged at the edges by the sunset that will soon be upon us. We pause by a stall and I hand over a few coins for a pan dei dosi each, the pastries studded with hazelnuts and dried fruit. I pass one to Faustina and begin to eat my own, licking the cinnamon from my lips as we walk.
"Our families knew each other," says Faustina. "We all lived in the same courtyard. He'd never noticed me until . . ." She casts a hand across her ample bosom. "I grew up." I swallow quickly and bite my lip to stop myself from laughing. But Faustina hasn't noticed; she's lost in the memory. We pass beside a fountain with a young man's naked body holding aloft a giant scallop shell. "He was so handsome. Like that statue."
"What happened?" I ask. Faustina has never married, devoting her life to caring for me and my siblings. The death of my only sister, Beatrice, was as hard for her as it was for me.
Faustina's face colors. "It wasn't to be."
We've arrived at an arched doorway carved out of golden sandstone. Fluted columns stand on either side of it. A young girl opens the door for us. "This way, please," she murmurs.
"We're waiting for a friend," I explain, glancing up and down the cobbled street. I smile at the maid.
Faustina explodes in a fit of coughing and hastily pulls a crumpled piece of paper from inside her bodice. She shoves the note into my hand, the paper damp from her sweat.
"I'm so sorry!" she wheezes. "I forgot to give you this. It arrived this morning."
Carefully, I open the note and flatten out the paper. My eyes scan the writing quickly. It's from Paulina.

My dearest Laura,
I can't join you today. I'm so sorry. I know you'll choose the perfect wedding dress!
Paulina

I crumple the paper back up in my hand and paint a smile on my face, ignoring the stab of disappointment. Paulina knows better than most how much this wedding means to me, how much I suffered to get to this place. My mother and sister are both dead and cannot be with me today. I was looking forward to my childhood friend helping me choose the most important dress of my life. Not even a proper explanation! I push my uncharitable thoughts away. She must have a good reason.
Faustina is watching my face carefully, and the maid is drumming her nails against her folded arms.
"Please, show us the way," I say to the servant.
We follow her up the gloomy marble staircase to the grand floor where the dressmaker accepts visitors. Faustina made an appointment for us a few weeks ago.
A white-haired woman sits on a low couch, a string of coral at her throat. She wears a simple cotton dress with a pattern of flowers woven into the fabric and hems the square of gold silk on her lap, a silver thimble on the middle finger of her right hand. Seeing her work reminds me of the many hours I toiled at making lace during my time in the convent, before I was summoned home upon Beatrice's death. A moment's pain passes behind my eyes, but as the woman looks up at me and smiles, it falls away again.