Votive by Karen Brooks Page A

if I wasn’t sure I cared what happened to me anymore. I had to harden myself. I had to harden my heart.
    I took a deep breath and, as Hafeza began washing me in earnest, exhaled and let myself relax. I pretended that every time the soap or sponge touched my body, it was removing traces of the old me – the unkempt candlemaker’s apprentice – the pretend boy who dared to test his powers and failed. I would not be him any longer. I couldn’t afford to be.
    Everything I now did, everything I would become, would be for Dante. For what we could have been if we’d been able to be together.
    After all, how can you forget someone who is a part of your very soul?
    As for those who had shattered our future … they would pay. I didn’t know how or when, but I knew that somehow, some day, I would make sure they did … and dearly.

I T TOOK ALL B AROQUE’S CONCENTRATION to remain still. He’d been standing in Signor Ezzelino Maleovelli’s study for so long, answering question after question, every muscle in his body ached and weariness such as he’d not known in a long time made him feel heavy – in his heart as well as his mind. He wanted to sit down, to collapse in one of the empty chairs, shut his eyes and hasten the forgetfulness that only an exhausted sleep could bring. But he had to wait to be invited and, now that Signorina Maleovelli had entered the room, that particular overture was unlikely to be forthcoming.
    He glanced at her now. A barely repressed excitement attended her, arousing his curiousity. Something was afoot. Baroque could feel her loathing of him emanating from every pore as she sat, twisting in her seat, so she didn’t have to face him. The fact that she needed his services, that her father insisted on using them, only intensified her antipathy. If he hadn’t been so fatigued, he would have enjoyed the effect he was having. But the last few days had wrested their toll. That the Maleovellis had taken his briefcase, the one containing his precious journals, had almost broken him. His dreams of accruing wealth and walking away fromhis jeopardous double life never mind the hasty promise he’d made to the Bond Riders, had dissolved as quickly as they’d formed. He glanced at where his briefcase now sat, atop papers on Signor Maleovelli’s desk. For a brief second, hope that they had not discovered the false bottom where the books were hidden flashed through him. His eyes slid to his property again. No. It stood as nothing but a monument to his failure.
    ‘Why don’t you sit down, Signor Scarpoli?’ said Giaconda.
    Trying to hide his surprise, Baroque did not wait to be asked again. He slowly eased himself into a chair, clutching the arms as he sank into the tired fabric.
    ‘Tell me, Baroque,’ said Signor Maleovelli, reaching for his pipe and continuing their discussion. ‘From the time you spent in the taverna talking to Signor di Torelli – that is, presuming you spoke to him before you … dispatched him, and from what you observed en route to us, what was the mood of the popolani?’ The smell of tobacco began to fill the room.
    ‘They’re shocked, Signor. Shocked that an Estrattore lived with them for so long and they didn’t suspect anything. They talk about his kindness and how inoffensive he was, obedient. This confuses them. It conflicts with what the padres tell them, with folklore and rumour. What they know, what they have experienced, can no longer be reconciled with the stories of Estrattore wickedness and violence – of manipulation – that the Church pedals. So, there’s a great deal of uncertainty and now, of course, there’s the fear of repercussions. They see themselves as victims, but know they will answer to the Doge and the Church as perpetrators.’
    ‘Sì. Bene. They’d be fools if they thought the Council of Ten won’t act further, never mind this Cardinale Martino. Theauthorities have to quash any sympathy the popolani feel for the Estrattore quickly. It’s