Belladonna by Fiona Paul

could her own parents have willingly associated with Joseph Dubois? How could they have felt a greater allegiance to a secret society than to their own daughter? These same thoughts tumbled relentlessly through her head as their ship approached land.
    Men with carriages were waiting for the party as they docked at Mestre, the main connecting point between the Rialto and the mainland. The carriages were made of sturdy wood with big metal wheels, each pulled by a single horse.
    Cass stared in fascination. The last horses she’d seen had belonged to the Doge—great glossy black things that were draped in gold and velvet and stood almost twice as tall as she did. These were shorter, with wide furry legs and bare backs. Cass approached the nearest horse, reaching out a hand toward its muzzle.
    The horse raised one of its forefeet and stamped it on the ground. Cass hesitated. The driver laughed. “Go on then. He won’t bite you.”
    She reached out to stroke the horse’s forehead and it nickered softly. Suddenly, she missed Slipper terribly.
    “He likes you,” the driver said. “He always likes the pretty girls.”
    Cass blushed. She patted the horse again. It made a chuffing sound as it studied her with its big black eyes.
    The party split into two groups. The servants and the men hired to tend to the horses rode in one carriage, and Cass, Madalena, and Marco rode in another. Cass hadn’t ridden in a carriage since she was a little girl. Back then it had seemed fun, the rhythmic clip-clopping of hooves as the carriage skipped along. Now she felt like her head might bounce right off her neck. She clutched the side of the bench for support while Marco wrapped his arms around Mada to steady her. When the path flattened out, Marco and Madalena remained twined around each other, trading occasional quick kisses when they thought Cass wasn’t looking. Cass swallowed a sigh. She wished she were riding in the servants’ carriage with Feliciana and Siena. They were probably gossiping and giggling.
    “Are you all right, Cass?” Marco asked. “You’ve got a funny look on your face.”
    Cass blurted out the first words that came to mind. “I was just wondering how long it will take to get to Florence.” She glanced out the window. The sun had already fallen below the tree line. She couldn’t believe how many trees there were. Ribbons of pines and firs snaked out in all directions, twisted gray trunks crowned with feathery branches. The air smelled fresh, like a fire at Christmastime. Completely different from the moldy, fetid odors of Venice.
    “About a week,” Marco answered.
    A week! Cass tried not to imagine how sore she’d be after an entire week of being jostled around the tiny carriage compartment. And worse, she quickly did the math in her head. That would leave only two and a half weeks for her to find the Book of the Eternal Rose and return to Venice before Luca’s execution.
    As she adjusted to the roiling, jerking motion, she distracted herself with the stunning and unfamiliar views that rolled past her window: more and more forests, a multitude of green patches, and far in the distance, a line of mountain peaks jutting high above the trees.
    “The Apennines,” Marco said, following her gaze. “Lovely, aren’t they?”
* * *
    It took three days to reach the base of the Apennines. The surface of a turquoise lake shimmered in the moonlight, and the dark shadows of the mountain peaks loomed all around them. Cass couldn’t help but think of Falco. He would love this beauty; he would know how to draw it.
    One day turned into another. And then another. They traded the mountains for wild open meadows, for tall wet grass and soft dirt roads. The sun rose and set again. Twice during the journey, Cass’s carriage got stuck in the mud. The male servants and the carriage attendants had to push and pull the giant wagons to get them through the murky soft spots and back onto the path. Cass began to wonder if they would