darling girl—I don’t know. He simply bade me give it to you—and I was thrilled by the chance of doing an errand that would bring me close to someone I so admire.”
H ow many nights, over how many years, did I drift off to sleep borne aloft on the memory of Franz Horneck’s kisses?
Dawn was breaking as the maestro secreted us and all the singers back over the threshold of the orphanage, the portinara conspicuously absent from her post and the door unbarred. Off with our finery and into our beds—but none of us slept. We lay there retelling the evening’s adventures, and we had nothing but praise for Vivaldi in managing it all so well, as if it had been an opera and he the impresario. The choir girls told us how he had returned for them in the gondola and directed their midnight serenade below the Foscarini balcony—but it was hard on them to have been left on the outside in their orphans’ robes while we were at the ball.
I clasped the necklace tight in my fist all night long, puzzling over what it could mean. Rather than an answer to my questions, I’d been given yet another locked door.
My mind kept returning to the locket while the other girls and I told what we wanted to tell and kept the rest to ourselves to savor in private, like a sweet sucked gently to make it last as long as possible. I would hazard that Marietta first formed her plans that night, lying in the dark and listening to our tales of kings and pearls, dueling musicians, and kisses given and taken.
Had I made my decision even then? No—I was still a child, incapable of understanding that everything I loved and valued was as unstable as the shimmering surface of the canals, and as unpredictable as the winter rains.
CHAPTER 6
ANNO DOMINI 1709
Dearest Mother,
I am writing from one of the third-floor cells where miscreants are confined. The Prioress has meted out a jail sentence of three days for me. Sister Laura tells me that I might get out sooner if I write to you at length and with honesty about all my trespasses.
I have no doubt done much that I should not have in my life, but I have been unjustly punished this time. And even if I could have refused to cooperate with the plans of my elders and betters, I swear I would have done just what I did all over again. I have no remorse.
The maestro colluded with the portinara and one of the nuns here to secret Giulietta, Bernardina, Claudia, and me out to a ball at the Palazzo Foscarini. Our presence there was requested by no less a personage than the King of Denmark and Norway. The portinara has been demoted. The nun has been sent back to her convent. And it remains to be seen what will happen to Vivaldi.
I’m in this cell by myself on rations of bread and water. I can’t be certain, but I’m fairly sure that Giulietta and Bernardina are in a similar pickle, somewhere on the premises. Claudia, I am praying, will not be sent back to her parents in Saxony. I don’t know how the Prioress has chosen to punish her, but probably in more comfortable circumstances than these.
Sister Laura brought me ink and paper today, as well as anapple. I clutched at her sleeve as she was leaving, begging her to tell me if and how these letters reach you. I told her that I need to know—that I have something of utmost importance to ask you. When she removed my hand from her sleeve and made to move away, I stamped my foot. When she looked amused at my show of temper, I started to cry.
I told her that the time for games and fairytales was over—that I am not a child anymore.
She assured me then that she would not entrust me with this opportunity to write to you if I had been a child.
“But why can’t you trust me enough to tell me who I am?” I demanded to know. “It is my right.”
Sister Laura shook her head then, as if I had disappointed her. She told me, indeed as if speaking to a child, that none of the foundlings here has the right to know. Only if a parent comes to claim a figlia of
H ow many nights, over how many years, did I drift off to sleep borne aloft on the memory of Franz Horneck’s kisses?
Dawn was breaking as the maestro secreted us and all the singers back over the threshold of the orphanage, the portinara conspicuously absent from her post and the door unbarred. Off with our finery and into our beds—but none of us slept. We lay there retelling the evening’s adventures, and we had nothing but praise for Vivaldi in managing it all so well, as if it had been an opera and he the impresario. The choir girls told us how he had returned for them in the gondola and directed their midnight serenade below the Foscarini balcony—but it was hard on them to have been left on the outside in their orphans’ robes while we were at the ball.
I clasped the necklace tight in my fist all night long, puzzling over what it could mean. Rather than an answer to my questions, I’d been given yet another locked door.
My mind kept returning to the locket while the other girls and I told what we wanted to tell and kept the rest to ourselves to savor in private, like a sweet sucked gently to make it last as long as possible. I would hazard that Marietta first formed her plans that night, lying in the dark and listening to our tales of kings and pearls, dueling musicians, and kisses given and taken.
Had I made my decision even then? No—I was still a child, incapable of understanding that everything I loved and valued was as unstable as the shimmering surface of the canals, and as unpredictable as the winter rains.
CHAPTER 6
ANNO DOMINI 1709
Dearest Mother,
I am writing from one of the third-floor cells where miscreants are confined. The Prioress has meted out a jail sentence of three days for me. Sister Laura tells me that I might get out sooner if I write to you at length and with honesty about all my trespasses.
I have no doubt done much that I should not have in my life, but I have been unjustly punished this time. And even if I could have refused to cooperate with the plans of my elders and betters, I swear I would have done just what I did all over again. I have no remorse.
The maestro colluded with the portinara and one of the nuns here to secret Giulietta, Bernardina, Claudia, and me out to a ball at the Palazzo Foscarini. Our presence there was requested by no less a personage than the King of Denmark and Norway. The portinara has been demoted. The nun has been sent back to her convent. And it remains to be seen what will happen to Vivaldi.
I’m in this cell by myself on rations of bread and water. I can’t be certain, but I’m fairly sure that Giulietta and Bernardina are in a similar pickle, somewhere on the premises. Claudia, I am praying, will not be sent back to her parents in Saxony. I don’t know how the Prioress has chosen to punish her, but probably in more comfortable circumstances than these.
Sister Laura brought me ink and paper today, as well as anapple. I clutched at her sleeve as she was leaving, begging her to tell me if and how these letters reach you. I told her that I need to know—that I have something of utmost importance to ask you. When she removed my hand from her sleeve and made to move away, I stamped my foot. When she looked amused at my show of temper, I started to cry.
I told her that the time for games and fairytales was over—that I am not a child anymore.
She assured me then that she would not entrust me with this opportunity to write to you if I had been a child.
“But why can’t you trust me enough to tell me who I am?” I demanded to know. “It is my right.”
Sister Laura shook her head then, as if I had disappointed her. She told me, indeed as if speaking to a child, that none of the foundlings here has the right to know. Only if a parent comes to claim a figlia of
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