All went hush.
In that single lavender beam, she shone a terrible, lovely vulnerability up at him—and without words or logic he understood: it was he and only ever he who could keep her safe.
Then she blinked, and the warm bright light was gone.
“Her name’s Chiara.” Venier whispered loudly at Gio’s side. Turning, Gio saw the man—a former soldier, whose hands had famously killed other soldiers on the rain-soaked decks of ships—reduced to an idolater. The girl shifted her gaze to Venier, small dimples suggesting themselves near the corners of her mouth. Someone had trained her well. Without warning, Gio felt the stare of the dark-haired man on his back.
It was like a shadow, passing.
“I want a portrait to put the others to shame, Giovanni.” Venier moved closer, dank breath cloying with wine. “I want you to make Tintoretto’s eyes bleed. You know he promised me a picture and reneged to paint for that miserable confraternity.” The confraternity Scuola Grande di San Rocco, on whose walls Tintoretto was painting the life of Christ.
Venier grasped Gio’s forearm, squeezing it tightly. “I want him to see Chiara’s portrait and hate himself.” He edged in, thin lips nearly touching Gio’s ear. “She’s sat for none of them yet, you see—you’re the first. Virgin territory.” The old man leaned back. “Artistically speaking, of course.” He let out a dry laugh that fractured into a fit of coughs.
At the sound, the other man in the room stood.
“You know Corvino.” Venier gave a wave of his hand, before turning to hack into his elbow.
Gio did know Corvino, who was handsome in a way that other men noticed: black hair trimmed to skim his shoulders, a prominent brow that cast his dark eyes even deeper in shadow. Muscles moved beneath his robes like horse flank stirs and flexes under hide. He’d arrived in Venice the same way Gio’s blindness had appeared: not noticed at all until suddenly he was everywhere. Seated at every important dinner, kneeling in the front pews, walking out from Mass with this senator or that councilman, head bowed. Listening. He dressed in fabric as fine as that of any nobleman, with a heavy gold cross dangling conspicuously. More than once, Gio had overheard him allude obliquely to Spanish connections, to a fortune made in brokering exports with colonists en route to the New World. Yet from the first, Gio had believed Corvino’s history about as much as he trusted the street vendors hawking their wares along the Rialto Bridge.
Still, he had to give the man credit for how quickly he’d established himself among Venice’s elite. Likely, it had much to do with his looks. It wasn’t just that Corvino gave the impression of being a statue brought to life; there was a grace to his gestures, a lilt to his phrases that Gio guessed must have taken years of study. He appeared and behaved the way a nobleman should—but so rarely did—appear and behave: elegant, cultivated, reminiscent of a demigod. For this, he was rewarded with a regular chair at the best dining tables in the city. Yet looking the part is far different than being cast in the role. For all his charm and fancy robes, Corvino still lacked a proper lineage—and without a title, he’d never be allowed any position of real power. Gio sometimes wondered if the senators and councilmen who opened their homes to Corvino ever noticed the hungry way he eyed their fleets of servants, their sumptuous, gilded halls. Likely not—or if they did, they took a perverse pleasure in it. For many of them, envy had become the only measurement of importance. Gio, however, found it unnerving to sit by as Corvino watched others live out a version of life he so clearly felt he was owed.
It came as no surprise, then, when Corvino attached himself to Venier: the statesman had a reputation for being mercurial, as erratic with generosity as with punishment. It was well known he’d arranged an advantageous marriage for the daughter of one of his favorite merchants, pairing her with a noble family that’d suffered recent losses. They’d gained her dowry, she’d gained a title and coat of arms. Yet by the same token, Venier had banished from Venice permanently a former adviser whose counsel had displeased him. No doubt Corvino was hoping to one day be on the receiving end of a warmer mood. Meanwhile, the statesman had likely taken shrewd measure of Corvino and estimated him willing to do nearly anything to earn influence. With a campaign for the role of doge looming on the horizon, Venier would surely put his acolyte to good use. Until then, he let the man chase at his heels like an underfed lapdog.
For his part, Gio simply did his best to avoid Corvino. In his experience, jealousy had a bad habit of fermenting into rage.
“Well, let’s get on with it, then.” Venier’s voice came again, still at a shocking volume. With his coughing fit over, the statesman returned to his chair. Behind him, Corvino remained standing—seeming, as always, to be attending to a deeper and more important dialogue occurring in his own mind. As the room watched, Gio began unpacking his supplies. From his satchel, he withdrew a portable drawing board and a roll of parchment. Next, he undid the pouch that held his boxes of chalks and charcoals. Today he’d propose a composition; once Venier approved, the real work could be done back in the studio.
Stepping into the role of artist like a seasoned actor assuming the stage, Gio once again approached the girl. He brought two fingers to her chin. At his slightest pressure, she swung her head: first left, then right. Squinting, he assessed her bone structure and profile, quickly memorizing her features while close enough to see them in detail. Her face was perhaps the most symmetrical he’d encountered—though he knew enough of womanly arts to spot that she’d intervened with nature on the matters of her brow shape and hair color. As she watched him appraise her, a pang of doubt flared in her eyes. With his back to the others, Gio gave her a grin, a secret reassurance. You’re safe with me, don’t worry. He thought he caught her lips start to curl, then she flushed and wrenched her chin away. As he walked back to his station, Gio made a silent promise to no one in particular that he’d capture the cleverness he’d seen in her, before she trained it completely into hiding.
“We must prepare you for immortality, my dear!” Venier reached out a hand. The first signs of a mangling arthritis could be spotted in the subtle bend of his fingers. The girl leapt up like a marionette at his summons. She was shorter than Gio would’ve guessed, but as she danced toward Venier even the embers seemed to flare, watching. Following along to a tune only she could hear, the girl glided across the floor, swinging her silks out—first in one hand, then the other. She was teasing them. She dipped and swayed and leapt, bending like a swan to raise the hem of her dress, revealing the length of her leg, her shapely, slipper-clad foot. Then she dropped the fabric and spun, arms arching into the air. Curls fell loose at her neck and temples, the hem of her dress swirling and billowing around her like white-gold petals. Gio squinted. The jewel at her chest fractured light, her slender arms fluttered. The room began to melt away at the edges until it was only her, center stage, delicate and pale.