Читать книгу Veiled Passions - Tracy MacNish - Страница 10

Matteo de Gama sailed his burchiello home to his small casino. The noise of the street performers jarred his nerves as his vessel navigated the waters of the canal and the rio that led to his home. He disembarked with his boatmen, and together they proceeded with caution. There was more than one man angry with Matteo: vengeful brothers, jealous husbands, furious fathers.

Outside his entrance, a group of adolescent boys gathered in a cluster, and Matteo grinned to himself as he wondered what mischief they were plotting. He flipped them a sequin as he passed them, and they scrambled to catch it.

He laughed at them, enjoying their youthful exuberance. Boys, like tightly compressed springs, needed to be let go with a firm, slow release. Let them go too quickly and they would bounce around, wild and uncontrolled.

Matteo had once been one of those boys himself, running the streets after dark, stealing, pick-pocketing, and cheating at cards. He knew a few things about being let go too early and with no care.

One of them wrested the coin from another and held it up to the moonlight to assess its value. Shouts of thanks followed Matteo, who waved them off.

The boldest of their bunch stepped aside, the coin in his fist. He called up to Matteo, who was already three-quarters up his walkway, with his boatmen behind him. “Not a good night to sleep in your own bed, signore.”

The boys took off at a run like a pack of wolves startled by a gunshot. In the dim light he saw the door to his casino was ajar, and instantly Matteo was on the move, his men on his heels. It was probably DelAmicio’s men, and if so, Matteo and his men would be outnumbered and outgunned.

Shouts came from inside his rooms, echoing in the entrance alcove. Matteo dashed down his walkway, ran as fast as he could, hearing the footsteps hit a few seconds behind him. They were in pursuit, but Matteo and his men had a good lead.

They rounded a corner to slip down an alley. It had plenty of doorways that led to other alleys and gardens like a maze, and had served them well in similar situations.

There were other men posted there, and Matteo was tackled and grabbed as he entered, along with his boatmen. Stilettos hit the ground with metallic twangs and a few shots from pistols rent the air in warning. Two men held Matteo’s arms, one had an ankle. Scrabbling around on the gritty, dirty ground Matteo nearly broke free, but he stopped fighting and froze in place as a cold, iron muzzle pressed against his head.

“Your time is up,” said the man who held the pistol, his voice muffled behind a mask that bore the face of grinning ghoul.

Kieran sat by Emeline’s bedside, the two of them working on sewing projects, Kieran on a tapestry and Emeline on a baby’s nightgown in a soft blue cotton. The light of afternoon spilled in through the open windows, as did the air, fragrant and fresh.

Fully recovered from the previous night’s ordeal, Kieran was gowned in pink silk and ivory lace. Her hair spilled down her back in shiny, dark auburn waves, held back from her face by carved, gold combs.

The door opened and Rogan stepped in. He smiled at his wife and then addressed his sister. “A word, Kieran?”

“Of course,” she replied, setting her sewing to the side. Emeline caught her gaze and lifted an eyebrow in question. Kieran shrugged a reply, and followed her brother out of the rooms with an insouciance she did not feel. Her belly flipped over and again and her palms began to sweat. She knew her brother well enough to not like the expression on his face.

Rogan led the way to Kieran’s rooms, far enough away from his and Emeline’s that they would not be overheard by his wife, an ominous sign. Kieran’s mouth grew very dry when Rogan shut and locked her door. When he turned and faced her, his eyes gleamed like hard, glittering emeralds beneath the black slash of his brows.

“Why did you lie to me?”

A dangerous question, for Kieran had lied to her brother so many times she knew not in which falsehood she’d been caught. She remembered Matteo’s words, and kept her chin steady, lips soft. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Rogan took two steps closer to her. Kieran planted her feet beneath her, determined not to show her fear.

“Who was the man who pulled you from the canal?”

“I do not know. I told you last night, I neglected to ask his name.”

“You are lying. Why?”

“That would be such a silly thing to lie about, Rogan. Don’t be absurd.”

Rogan grabbed her by the arm and hauled her to his chest, his fist a hard band around her arm that burned and hurt.

“I have never been so close to smacking you, Kieran.”

Real anger gathered in Kieran’s chest like a thundercloud. Yes, she’d lied. That did not give him the right to threaten her. “Go ahead. Hit me. See if you feel better for it.”

Rogan reached into his coat pocket with his free hand, not relaxing his grip on her arm in the slightest. He withdrew a piece of tattered, stained parchment. “This was delivered less than thirty minutes ago. Why don’t you explain how a man called Matteo de Gama not only knows your name, but he also knows mine and where we are staying? And when you finish with that explanation, you can tell me why he apologizes for contacting you lest your brother find out.”

Kieran tried to snatch the paper but Rogan was too quick. He held it high above her head. The action was so brotherly in manner that Kieran kicked him in the shins, hard.

“How dare you read something addressed to me.”

“Aye, I dared. I suspected you of lying last night, but couldn’t find a reason for your mendacity. I still cannot, but at least now I know my instincts are correct.”

Rogan dragged Kieran over to the chair by her fireplace and pushed her down. He threw the letter onto her lap, and loomed over her as she unfolded the parchment. Tiny grains of sand fell onto her lap as a musty odor rose from the paper, and she noticed the handwriting, loopy and artistic amidst various blotches and smudges.

Signora Kieran,

I write to you from the Leads, trapped in a prison cell across a bridge from the Doge’s palace.

I ask you for your help. There are false charges brought against me, the most nonsensical of allegations, in fact, that of freemasonry and treason. I ask, who loves Venice more than I? If there is such a man, make him known to me.

Sadly, there is a powerful man who would see me spend the rest of my days in this cell, and while I do not deny that I once loved his wife better than he, I do not care to accommodate him in this way to satisfy his vendetta.

Please go to the Doge’s palace and inquire when I will be brought before the Court of the Esecutori contro la Bestemmia. Pity that it is, I am not privy to that information. Once the date and time is known to you, I implore you come and speak on my behalf to the Council of Ten. The events that transpired between us last night will provide some defense of me, as the man claims I committed one of my transgressions just this evening past.

I do so apologize if this letter jeopardizes anything you may have told your brother, but I am in the direst of straits and you are my shining ray of hope. Surely the Council of Ten will listen to you during this Inquisition, and if possible, your brother Rogan, a duke. Indeed, to have aristocrats vouch for me and my whereabouts will not hurt my case, even if they are English. I mean no offense in this.

Most sincerely,

Matteo de Gama

Kieran brought her face back up to her brother’s after she reached the end of the letter. Honor demanded she do as Matteo asked. He’d pulled her from the canal when she was nothing but a stranger to him. However, she had to deal with Rogan first.

She stood and calmly laid the letter on the gold, marble-topped table by the chair. “I will go to the Doge’s palace, now, if you care to accompany me.”

A muscle flexed in Rogan’s jaw. “You’ll first explain why you lied to me.”

But Kieran knew better than to back down.

“No. I won’t. I lied for motivations that are mine alone, and they shall remain my private reasons. ’Tis not your concern.”

“You are my ward. ’Tis nothing but my concern, aye?”

“Wrong. I am your sister, not your wife or your servant or your child. If I wanted a man to give me orders and demand my honesty, I would marry one of the many who have offered for my hand.”

Rogan narrowed his eyes, obviously toying with the idea of turning his sister over his knee. His hands fisted and then released, again and again until Kieran thought he might actually strike her.

But she met his gaze with false calm.

“You are far too full of yourself,” Rogan bit out. “You live, dress, and dine on my accounts.”

“That is only because you refuse to accept recompense from Da and Mum.” Kieran kept her voice level. She would not be made to feel indebted simply because she existed. “Is it my fault that I have no means to support myself, barring selling myself into marriage? Would you rather that, over the cost I bring you?”

“You speak nonsense in an effort to disguise the true matter.”

“I do believe we are at the crux of the matter, Rogan. Think on it: If you did not support me as I live, dress, and dine, would you dare to speak to me as you are?”

Rogan let out a long breath. He stared at her for a few minutes until he finally shook his head, a gesture of disgust and resignation combined. “You were raised better than to be a liar, Kieran. I cannot fathom what has made you stoop so low.

“But you have always been our mother’s daughter, as stubborn and headstrong as any man. I know that nothing will make you tell me the truth, even were I to try to beat it from you, and honestly, I have no desire to test the boundaries of that belief.

“You live with me because I love you, Emeline loves you, and we want you with us. The issue isn’t financial, and I’m sorry I made it so.

“I will accompany you to the palace of the Doge. I do want to thank the man who saved you; he deserves that, and any help we can lend him. I care not if he committed the crimes that are laid against him. My loyalty is not to Venice, but to you, my blood.”

Rogan turned and walked away from Kieran. He paused in the doorway and turned. “Just one thing. Did Matteo de Gama treat you inappropriately?”

Kieran thought about the night before, the look in Matteo’s eyes, as if he understood her darkest longings. She remembered his eyes, so dark and full of amusement, but somehow still sad. And his mouth, soft and expressive, quirked up in humor, turned down in rage.

“No, Rogan. He truly did not.”

His gaze met hers, full of meaning that did not need to be spoken. Not when one had been raised the way they had, with honor and conviction as requirements. “I take you at your word.”

The statement could not have been better aimed to injure Kieran any more than it did. She fought the sting of tears as Rogan left her rooms. Nothing hurt more than his disappointment.

For a moment she considered running after him and telling him everything. Every sordid, disgusting detail so he would understand why she had lied. So he could comprehend the gravity of how, in the act of knowing, he could never again look at her the same way again.

Kieran pushed the thoughts away. Better for him to know her as a liar than to know her for worse. Much, much worse.

Liars did not inherit God’s kingdom; the admonition from the Bible rang in her ears.

It was a small consolation to Kieran to consider, however, that by those same standards, neither would most anyone else.

And yes, she admitted to herself, Samuel Ellsworth had struck a chord. Perhaps after all this time, Rogan would not believe her. Had he not discovered what a liar she could be?

In deference to the law that forbade persons from being without costume during Carnivale, Kieran donned the half-mask that matched her gown, a pink and gold creation with cat eyes and pricked ears. It had a headdress of pink feathers that made a hat unnecessary. She picked up her parasol and her reticule and followed her brother out of the palace.

They boarded a gondola, and Kieran sat on the small, hard bench and opened her parasol to shade her from the blazing sun. She angled it so the taut, pink fabric shielded her also from Rogan’s silent regard.

The ride to the Doge’s palace took less than a quarter of an hour, but Kieran felt like the entire afternoon passed before she could disembark.

They left the Grand Canal behind them as they entered by way of the Piazzetta dei Leoncini, passing the columns of Venice’s two patrons, Marco and Todaro. Kieran marveled at the statues that stood atop the tall pillars: the lion of Saint Mark and the statue of Saint Teodoro of Amasea, or “Santodaro” to the Venetians.

The Piazza San Marco dominated Venice, the seat of the republic and the center of Venetians’ lives. Kieran stopped, absorbing the enormity, the beauty, the scents and sounds. The ground floor of the Procuraties were dominated by several cafes exuding the tantalizing scents of pastries and coffee, along with a fair share of laughter and shouts.

Kieran had noticed that the Venetians laughed as much as they spoke, a trait as vastly different from the English as any of the more obvious.

It was the many differences of Venice that enraptured Kieran, nothing like England or Barbados, the island on which she and Rogan had been raised.

The architecture flaunted boldness and audacity without a trace of restraint. Everywhere the eye looked one could see detail upon detail, each surface and area decorated and adorned. Yet, the city wore it with a casual elegance that felt as natural as the elements of which it was comprised: water and wood, marble and metal.

Oh, and the water, she mused, sparkling in a deep green-blue when the sun hit it just so, something beyond color for its luminescence. No horses’ hooves ringing on cobblestones, no clatter of wagon wheels, no cries of people hawking their wares. There was such peace in the water lapping against the black hulls of gondolas, the sounds of conversations held in cafes, and the cries of seagulls and cooing pigeons.

A woman in full Carnivale costume ran from a café, pulling Kieran’s attention to her. She laughed and darted around a pillar, giggles turning to shrieks of pleasure as a man followed to peek around the column, the meter and tone of his voice obviously making it known he was in the midst of playful pursuit. He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward him, kissing up her arm until he reached her elbow.

The woman allowed him to pull her closer, and soon they were dancing to a song only they could hear.

“Looks like fun, aye?” Rogan asked.

Kieran sent her brother a cool look of disdain. They walked to the Doge’s palace, pigeons flying out of their path.

All Venetians pursue pleasure…the things that make a life rich. That is what Matteo de Gama said, Kieran remembered.

They stepped inside the shady interior of the palace and as Rogan spoke with the attendants and guards, Kieran allowed herself to mentally answer Rogan’s question.

Yes. It had looked like fun.

Good timing often comes down to chance; Matteo had already been brought in for his Inquisition in the Grand Council chamber. Outside the huge doors, Rogan and Kieran removed their masks, left them on a table, and entered.

An enormous dais held a long, thick table of dark, elegant wood. Centered behind it was a high-backed throne, flanked by five large, carved chairs on either side. The Council of Ten had been assembled, and as Rogan and Kieran had found out, because one of the charges was of treason, the Doge, the Prince of Venice himself, sat for the Inquisition with his Council.

Matteo stood, flanked by two guards as the proceeding took place. To his side there was a man giving impassioned testimony to the Doge and the Council.

The man, his anger thinly disguised by his reddened face and clenched hands, spoke in rapid Italian, his tone accusatory. A red-lipped woman with shiny, curly hair sat at his side, her eyes downcast, her cheeks flushed. Papers littered a table in front of him, and when he reached the crescendo of his diatribe, he slammed his fist down on the documents.

When the man finished his speech, Matteo had a turn to address his defense, and he did so in measured tones. One of the men asked a question, and Matteo answered, and another asked a question, gesturing to the rear of the chamber.

Matteo turned and saw Kieran.

Their eyes met and held, and in his grim expression Kieran saw relief and gratitude. Matteo said something to the guard beside him, and a long conversation was conducted before the guard slipped away and the Inquisition continued.

“What do we do?” Kieran asked Rogan in a whisper. “What are they saying?”

“Just wait.” Rogan had her take a seat. “They know who we are and why we’re here.”

Kieran watched the proceedings continue. Matteo stood with his face sober. She leaned over to her brother once again. “Are Venice’s laws similar to ours?”

Rogan nodded gravely. “Aye. The penalty for treason is death.”

Kieran sat back and retreated back into silence, considering that if Venice executed treasonous persons in the manner in which England did, she did not want to know about it.

Still, as she studied Matteo from the back, it pained her to imagine his body dangling from a rope, those amber-lit eyes bulging as he gasped for air.

After what seemed an eternity, a guard came and gestured for Rogan and Kieran to follow him, and led the way to the front of the massive courtroom.

Kieran behaved as she would before her king, and swept into a deep, deferential curtsy. Beside her, Rogan bowed low.

A man approached and identified himself as a translator summoned by the Council, and with his aid, they addressed the Doge and the Council of Ten.

The Doge turned his attention to Kieran first.

“You claim you were with this man, Matteo de Gama, last night?”

“I was, your Serenity,” Kieran answered, and she curtseyed once more. “He saved my life when I fell into the canal, and he returned me safely to my brother.”

“Impossible,” the patrician man screamed, pounding again on the papers. “She lies!”

“Do not call my sister’s integrity into question,” Rogan interjected, his voice firm and resounding in the great hall, echoing off the high ceilings.

“And you are her brother, no? You confirm this is the truth?”

“Indeed, your Serenity.”

The Doge leaned over and listened to the whispered words of a counselor at his side, nodding as he took in the information and the advice. He cast his attention once more to Matteo, and his flinty, dark eyes narrowed in contemplation.

“This is not the first time you have been brought before the Council of Ten, Matteo de Gama. However, it is the first time I have heard anything that defames your loyalty to Venice.”

Matteo did not hesitate to defend himself. “I have written many satires that have inflamed those who read them, it is true. I have engaged in private gambling despite the ban on it, and relieved many a man of his coin, that is also true. But what Count Carlo Gambera claims, that I turned my loyalties elsewhere and endangered Venice with correspondence and maps of our city in an effort to weaken our defenses, is not true. No man loves Venice as I.”

“Nor her women.” The Doge’s eyes rested briefly, but knowingly, on the count who made the claims of treason and freemasonry against Matteo, and his wife who sat at his side.

The Doge leaned back in his chair and regarded the group before him. His dilemma proved sensitive. The count who made the claims had gone to great length to prove them. He was a man of influence and power. To say the count fabricated the documents would mean he would be guilty of a high crime.

The Doge chose to address Rogan with the aid of the translator. “You are a duke in England, no?”

Rogan bowed deeply. “I am, your Serenity.”

“You are also one the shipbuilders who petitioned for the Republic’s naval bid.”

“Yes, your Serenity.”

“And you say your sister was returned to you by this man, Matteo de Gama?”

“She was, and I’m very grateful for his help. If not for Matteo de Gama, she would have drowned.”

“He sent you a letter from inside the Leads.”

“Only his request that we come speak on his behalf, your Serenity. I will happily show the letter to you, if you would care to read it.”

The Doge’s gaze traveled to Kieran, the count, Matteo, and finally back to Rogan. “Would you say that Matteo de Gama is an honorable man?”

“He returned my sister to me, unharmed. ’Tis an action that speaks to me as one of honor, yes, your Serenity.”

The Doge fell silent again. His counselor leaned over and whispered something else. The Doge replied in the same fashion, and the discussion continued until finally the Doge smiled and nodded. He sat up straight and laid his hands flat on the table, fingers spread. He was prepared to give his answer.

He addressed the man who brought the charges, and by way of the hushed voice of the interpreter, Rogan and Kieran were able to follow the proceedings.

“Count Carlo Gambera, the claims you make are of the most serious in nature. I do not take your word, or your proof, with lightness. Yet, we have conflicting information presented here today, in the form of an English noble. I can not disbelieve His Grace, for I am not the reader of hearts and minds, but only an examiner of evidence. I do not believe we have enough evidence to convict Signore de Gama, for we have papers that could have been given to you by a man with a vendetta. Papers alone cannot compel me to order a man’s death, most especially when he has an alibi that debunks one of your documents.

“Yet, Matteo de Gama, you have troubled our city with your inflammatory writings. Simply that you have been brought before the Council of Ten for other infractions proves that while you may be a man who loves our city, you are not a man who treasures harmony. Venice values harmony. I value harmony.

“I hereby decree that you, Matteo de Gama, will be exiled from the Republic of Venice for a period of five years. Go out into the world, and see if when you return you will be prepared to enjoy the harmony that my Republic has to offer.”

A knowing gleam came into the Doge’s eyes as he glanced from the count to the gambler, and the woman who had obviously come between them. “I will send you with my guards, to see to it that you find safe passage out of Venice. Farewell, Signore.”

The Doge stood and left the room, followed by the Council. The count gathered his papers, tapped them in order, and towing his wife by her upper arm, approached Matteo. He leaned in and hissed a stream of Italian before he walked away, dragging her behind him. She looked back, and with a smile, blew Matteo a kiss goodbye.

Matteo stood stunned in the center of the immense chamber. Surrounded by frescos and statues and all things beautiful and Venetian, he realized the full impact of the Doge’s orders.

Exile.

Five years! He’d planned to leave Venice for a short while and let the matter with Gia fall to rest, but never had he intended on being gone for five years. Five months, perhaps, but years?

No more sailing his burchiello on the canal at twilight. All the pleasures of Venice would be denied to him, from Festa del Mosto, the annual pressing of the grapes that Matteo loved to attend, to even the noise and upheaval of Carnivale, which he now knew he would miss. The food, the wine, the scent in the air, it was everything Matteo knew, and the only thing he wanted to know. He was stripped of his city, his home, his life.

Exile.

The word cut like a blade, sharp, cold, and merciless.

Suddenly his satires became insipid and contrived. His intrigues with women turned empty and hollow. His gambling and swindling left a bitter taste in his mouth. Without Venice, what would he be, where would he go? He would now be like the travelers he had scorned, plunged into a new culture where he knew nothing of their customs.

Rogan approached Matteo. He outstretched his hand in a gesture as ancient as the castles of England: It said, I am friend, not foe.

“I am sorry for your troubles,” Rogan said simply.

Indeed, Matteo thought, grasping his hand in a firm grip. What more can a man say to another when he has witnessed his ultimate disgrace?

“I must thank you. I know it is a small recompense for the life of my sister, but I am leaving Venice and returning to England. If you choose, you may come with us. It would be my pleasure to allow you usage of one of my London homes, for as long as you wish to remain. ’Tis the least I can do for what you have done for my family.”

Kieran heard his words and her heart dropped to her feet. No, she thought wildly: No! She could not have Matteo so close to her. Matteo de Gama saw too much, and knew too much for her comfort. How long before Rogan and Matteo became friendly enough for Matteo to tell her brother what she said that night, and worse, what she’d done.

Memories flashed in sequence. Standing aboard the burchiello, ready to launch herself back into the dark, killing canal; lunging at Matteo with her dagger, trying to provoke him into shooting her; the final disgrace, his lying on top of her and her words, telling him volumes. Her final plea. Please just shoot me.

Kieran stepped forward. “Rogan, perhaps we are presumptuous in our offer. Signore de Gama speaks French as well as English, and may find Parisian life more to his liking. I have heard that in Paris the climate is far less constraining than life in London. As a Venetian, Signore de Gama may feel quite—inhibited—in England.”

Rogan faced Kieran, listening, and behind his back Kieran saw Matteo smile at her words. He caught her eye and with the smallest of motions he pointed to his lips and then his chin.

She averted her eyes and turned her attention fully on her brother, all the more determined that Matteo de Gama not accompany them home to England. This man must not be housed nearby. He must not be afforded entrance to their homes. He just simply needed to not be anywhere that Kieran was.

Rogan turned back to Matteo. “Whatever you decide, Signore de Gama, I am at your service. Passage to France is certainly something I can provide you.”

On the heels of Matteo’s greatest disgrace came a new opportunity, handed to him by the intriguing girl’s own brother. He looked at Kieran, her pink dress setting that fine, fair skin to glowing. The wet, ropy hair of the night before gleamed a deep, shining auburn that begged for his fingers. And those eyes, mysterious for all their stormy blue beauty, silently pleading for him to decline Rogan Mullen’s offer.

It was just as obvious to Matteo that Rogan loved his sister, as it was that he did not know her at all. How desolate it must be for her, he thought to himself, knowing that the greatest loneliness was felt when surrounded by others with whom there is no understanding. Matteo knew that truth with hard-earned knowledge, and looking at her before him, so young and lovely with her raw, ancient eyes beseeching with him to stay at a distance, his decision was made.

Matteo bowed low. “Your Grace, you honor me with your munificence. I understand your gratitude toward my helping your sister. I maintain that I did not do a great thing, but simply the right thing. However, as my circumstance has been unjustly affected, it is with deep humility and appreciation that I accept your generous offer.”

Kieran stood helpless. Matteo de Gama was coming to England, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it.

He grinned at her, a recklessly inappropriate smile for a man who had just been humiliated and exiled.

She turned up her nose and sniffed, and that only widened his grin. He swept low into a bow, then straightened and turned to go. Two of the Doge’s guards followed.

She watched as Matteo was stopped by a woman who’d been seated by the rear of the room, just beside the doors.

Like most all young women Kieran had seen in Venice, the woman was beautiful: long, shining dark hair framing an exotic face that betrayed her Spanish ancestry. Slashing dark brows moved expressively over vibrant black eyes, and plump red lips pouted as if she held back tears. She grabbed his arm first, to get his attention, her husky voice a stream of rapid Italian. Her hands gestured wildly from her heart to her hair to the Doge’s abandoned seat. She began to weep.

“Non ci credo,” she cried. Tears fell unheeded down her cheek. “Non lasciarmi, amore!”

“Mi dispiace,” he replied, his tone soothing. “Mi mancherai.”

Kieran studied him with interest as he comforted the woman. Matteo de Gama’s appeal to women made perfect sense, she thought, as he held her hand, stroked her arm, and listened to her weep and wail. He paid attention to her the way he had to Kieran on the burchiello, as if she were the only woman in the room, the only woman in the world.

Matteo withdrew a linen handkerchief from the pocket of his leather coat, and tenderly wiped the woman’s tears. She clung to his arm, her head tilted up to his ministrations, and she seemed to be begging him to take her with him.

He shook his head to the negative and said, “Tesoro mio, non ti dimenticher moi.”

These words brought fresh wails. Matteo simply lifted her hand, kissed the back of it, and walked away from her.

She called after him.

He kept going.

She fell to her knees and cried out another plea. “Torna da me!”

Kieran looked on at Matteo’s retreating form. He strolled away as if taking a walk on a summer day, indifferent to both the weeping woman and the armed guards.

The dark-haired beauty screamed his name, her voice resounding in the great hall. She remained heedless of the people who watched her undignified display, and buried her face in her hands, dissolving into sobs.

Matteo de Gama’s footsteps echoed off the marble walls and high ceilings.

He did not look back.