Table of Contents

- Title Page

- Copyright Page

- Dedication

- Map

- PART ONE

- Prologue

- CHAPTER ONE Tallow

- CHAPTER TWO The conversation in the kitchen

- CHAPTER THREE Revelations

- CHAPTER FOUR Errands go awry

- CHAPTER FIVE What happened in the workshop

- CHAPTER SIX A visitor in the night

- CHAPTER SEVEN Secrets revealed

- CHAPTER EIGHT On the Mariniquian Seas

- CHAPTER NINE Family Bonds

- CHAPTER TEN The apprentice learns a new art

- CHAPTER ELEVEN The candlemaker's apprentice

- CHAPTER TWELVE What Tallow heard

- CHAPTER THIRTEEN The alchemist's story

- CHAPTER FOURTEEN A sudden departure

- CHAPTER FIFTEEN The Pledge Stone of Casa di Maggiore

- CHAPTER SIXTEEN Zaralina

- CHAPTER SEVENTEEN The story of Pillar's father

- CHAPTER EIGHTEEN The boy and the dog

- PART TWO

- CHAPTER NINETEEN Fuoco e acqua

- CHAPTER TWENTY Of gondolas and canals

- CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Events on the Circolo Canal

- CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO In the Great Hall of Albion

- CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Tallow's interference

- CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Baroque Scarpoli reports

- CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE The Council of Elders

- CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX Outcomes and encounters

- CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN A change of weather

- CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT Inside the chandler's shop

- CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE Tallow's promise

- CHAPTER THIRTY Francesca delivers some news

- CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE Morto Assiderato

- CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO Return to the Chandlers Quartiere

- CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE Baroque's letter

- CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR The morning after

- CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE Pillar's choice

- CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX The charade unravels

- CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN The spy vanishes

- CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT On the Ponticello di Mille Pietre

- CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE The significance of failure

- CHAPTER FORTY Claudio's dreams

- CHAPTER FORTY-ONE Tallow's deliverance

- Glossary

- Acknowledgements

- About the Author

Tallow
THE CURSE OF THE BOND RIDERS BOOK I

KAREN BROOKS

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Curse of the Bond Riders 1: Tallow

ePub ISBN 9781864714418
Kindle ISBN 9781864716818

A Woolshed Press book

Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd

Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060

www.randomhouse.com.au

First published by Woolshed Press in 2009

Copyright © Beyond the Rainbow Creative Productions Pty Ltd 2009

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Woolshed Press is a trademark of Random House Australia Pty Ltd.

All rights reserved.

www.woolshedpress.com.au

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia.

Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at www.randomhouse.com.au/offices.

National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry

Author: Brooks, Karen (Karen Ruth)
Title: Tallow / Karen Brooks
ISBN: 978 1 74166 435 5 (pbk.)
Series: Brooks, Karen (Karen Ruth). Curse of the bond riders; 1
Dewey Number: A823.4

Cover design by Mathematics, www.xy-1.com
Cover photography by Marco Martins
Map illustration by Karen Brooks
Map design by Mathematics
Internal design by Midland Typesetters, Australia
Typeset in 11.5/16 pt Palatino by Midland Typesetters, Australia
Printed and bound by Griffin Press, South Australia

Random House Australia uses papers that are natural, renewable and recyclable products and made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Edna Rosenthal (1937-2006), Eva Meyer (1913-2007),
Moira Adams and Patricia Brooks – mothers, friends
and beloved.

PART ONE

'Father,' asked one of his children, 'what are the stars?'
'The stars are stars, and little things that shine as
thou seest.'

'Then they are like candles, perhaps?'
'Make thy account that they are candles exactly.'

'Of wax or tallow?' pursues the boy.
'What! Tallow-candles in heaven? No, certainly – wax, wax!'

William Dean Howells
Venetian Life

PROLOGUE

'I KNOW YOU'RE OUT THERE.'

The Bond Rider peered into the rolling mist, his arm wrapped protectively around the warm bundle strapped to his chest. 'I can feel you.'

Urging his horse forward, he resisted the impulse to look at the tiny, tranquil face just below his own. As if aware of the significance of the journey, the baby had neither cried nor moved since they set out – how long had it been? He tried to calculate, but it was no use. Not in this place, where time had no meaning. Instead, he recalled the three who had set out with him, Bonded to protect the child at any cost. The empty feeling in his chest marked their passage as accurately as any device. Three lives lost to this venture already; far too many crossings dared. He knew that he would not survive another.

The huge wall of vapour manifested before him, rippling gently as he came to a halt at a respectful distance. He eyed it warily. He could just discern the silhouettes of the winter mountains and forests beyond the wall. Before him, so near and yet immeasurably distant, lay his former home.

He still yearned for his old life, even after all these years. But if he were to breach the wall and enter his beloved world of Vista Mare just once more, then time would snatch away what it had so generously bestowed: his unnaturally long existence.

The horse snorted and stamped, breathing heavily, ears flattening to his head. He didn't like venturing so close to the edges of the Limen.

'It's all right, boy,' muttered the Bond Rider, slapping his mount's neck. 'Our route doesn't take us that way today.' He glanced over his shoulder. 'Not if I can help it.'

There was no sign of pursuit. But he knew better than to trust his eyes when the Morte Whisperers were hunting.

Ignoring his mount's nerves, the rider once again considered the ghostly pall that marked the perimeter of the uncharted lands known only as the Limen – the space between. Rising from the ground, the strange, shifting wall was deceptively elusive. It was hard to believe something so fragile disrupted the temporal reality of the world, separating countries and families alike. The rider knew it all too well, though; Bond Riders respected the power that bordered and measured their subsistence, even while they continued to flout it.

Wiping the sweat that trickled down the side of his face, he weighed his options. It wasn't safe here, on the edge. He should retreat deeper into the Limen. Take the child to its own people.

Yet if the child rightfully belonged to anyone, surely he was deserving? After all, he had devoted his life to the secret enterprise that only this child, at the right place and time, could bring to fruition.

Ah, had he really believed it would come to this? The future of his kind – of the world – held in the palms of an infant. He almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of it all.

When he had made his Bond, over three hundred mortal years ago, it had seemed a courageous and bold adventure – an antidote to the tragedy his life had become. Back then, this child had been nothing but a myth, a story told to bolster hope in a dwindling faith and a dying breed. But somehow, after years of half-hearted searching, the Bond Rider had stumbled on that marsh-bound village and found the very flesh of legends. And, as he had been instructed, he had taken the child.

He wanted to look at it again – to behold the little face and those magnificent eyes. Only now did he understand the danger of succumbing to that temptation. As soon as he'd lost his pursuers, he'd opened the baby's swaddling and looked upon it, in spite of all the warnings. With slow deliberation, the infant had returned his gaze. All at once he'd been overpowered by emotions so strong they'd almost broken him. Gasping, he'd tried to turn away, but the infant's stare held him transfixed. Within the depths of those quicksilver eyes, he'd seen his own soul laid bare – his weaknesses and secret desires reflected in them.

A low murmuring from the Limen brought him back to the present. He didn't have time for this! If he stayed here, his pursuers would find him ... and the baby. And if it wasn't the Morte Whisperers, it would be something else. Bond Riders were not the only life forms to dwell within the Limen.

He glanced at the small being bound to his chest – his Bond, his burden. Tiny, vulnerable and unaware, the child slumbered.

Locked in a stasis of indecision, it took a moment for him to register that the murmuring he heard was not drifting across from the forests on the other side.

In one fell gust, the haunting wails of the Morte Whisperers finally reached him.

It would only be a matter of time before they were captured. His mount reared and would not be coaxed back to stillness; he understood the sounds and the cruelty they promised.

Turning to flee, the Bond Rider saw the shape of a horse and cart through the rolling miasma of the wall. Careering along the old road that ran beside the Limen, the vehicle swayed dangerously close to the trees before swinging back towards the wall. He could taste the lone driver's panic. If the man did not regain control of his vehicle, no gravestone would be the arbiter of his memory. None but the misguided or foolish dared to travel this treacherous route.

A triumphant howl sounded behind the Bond Rider and his heart flipped in response. The Morte Whisperers had finally caught the child's scent. In moments they would be upon them and not only would his eternal soul be condemned, but the hope of an entire race would be lost.

Horror and a sense of utter inevitability brought a chilling clarity to his thoughts. He knew his orders.

Tightening his hold on the reins, he spurred his horse away from the border for several paces before wheeling mid-stride, facing the wall once more. Before the horse could defy him, the Bond Rider kicked his beast hard. The horse leapt forwards but, at the last minute, the rider turned him to gallop parallel to the Limen, inches from the edge. Hungry tendrils of mist reached out, coaxing them, daring them to pass through.

Obscured by the cloudy border, the rider raced alongside the hapless cart. He knew that the Morte Whisperers would not hesitate to rupture the boundary; unlike him, their future was not contingent on what the Limen both gave and stole. But they would not expect him to act so rashly, he who valued life and its gifts so highly.

Perhaps, with his sacrifice, his people would have reason to hope again.

The Bond Rider bent low in the saddle and began to chant the words that would break time asunder. The fabric of the wall ahead altered and a rift appeared – subtle at first, but quickly growing larger, firmer. For a moment, like an opaque window being opened, his former world became distinct, perfect. He inhaled sharply. The bitter smell of mortality filled his lungs.

Then, with a shout of defiance, horse and rider hurtled through.

In those fleeting moments, as his horse bounded through the Limen and into the temporal world, the Bond Rider's head filled with images from a long-forgotten past. His life wound backwards, a melange of fleeting pictures and sensations: the coolness of raindrops on parched cheeks; the warmth of sunlight on half-closed eyelids; the radiance of a fire thawing blue-tipped fingers.

Then his horse's hooves hit the road and time entered his body and, with great hungry gulps, consumed it.

The last image the Bond Rider held as his horse crashed into the cart and crumpled beneath him was the child flying through the air and a vague human shape reaching out. The Rider cried out the two words that would secure its future before death finally claimed him.

HE WAS BEING WATCHED. He knew it.

Every hair on his body stood at right angles. His heart hammered and he was having trouble breathing.

'Don't hurry now. Take your time,' Pillar muttered. All he wanted to do was jump back into the cart and ride away from this cursed place. For the time being, that was impossible. The collision had almost tipped the cart over. Righting itself in one fierce bounce, the full weight of the cart had landed on one side, loosening a wheel.

Bending down, he quickly checked that his makeshift lever would support the cart and examined the axle; it was split but should hold. He slowly spun the wheel and lifted it off. There was comfort in that – the cold, wet sensation of the crisp snow, the solid feel of the wood. For a moment, this familiar task chased away the spectres in his mind: the spirits that lurked in the forest and, worse, those that he knew loitered in the Limen. He refused to look, afraid of what – or who – his imagination might conjure. Instead he concentrated on finishing his repairs. Thank goodness these hire carts always had a few tools. Fixing the wheel back into place, he noted with dismay that two of the spokes were bent. He prayed that the wheel would bear the weight of the cart as he slid the lever out. It did.

He picked up the mallet and chisel and then searched for the axe. It had skittered across the slippery surface and now lay in the rider's ashen remains. Pillar blanched and dropped the tools, recalling the rider's last moments – his chilling words, the way the air seemed to tear at his flesh, ripping it from his bones before reducing it to dust. And the death scream of the horse. He shuddered. Tonight would haunt him always.

Pillar knew it was not his fault the man and his horse were dead. No, not dead. He now knew that there were things worse than death. He muttered a futile prayer for the man's soul, lost long ago.

A lone cry broke the night, turning Pillar's blood to ice. His horse whinnied and stamped the icy ground.

'Only wolves, girl,' he murmured, patting the horse reassuringly. 'Only wolves.'

But no wolf he'd ever heard made a sound like that.

Refusing to acknowledge the shifting barrier on the other side of the road, he wound the reins around his fingers and casually looked back through the trees. No fast movements, keep it easy, he told himself. Don't raise suspicion. Don't force an attack.

Setting a sedate pace, he travelled for some time in numb distraction. It was only when he reached the pass and began the descent that would end by the green waters of the lagoon that he finally allowed himself to go over the strange events of the night. The rider bursting through the Limen, the impact that had almost flung him from the cart and, most incredibly of all, the child who had miraculously landed in his arms.

Pillar rested one hand on the small form, bound so tightly in a peculiar cloth, neither crying nor moving. All it did was stare. From the moment he'd pushed the dark hair from its forehead its eyes had never left him. Amid the terror and confusion, he'd felt calmness descend and composure take over; simple Pillar the candlemaker had known what to do. He'd known to steady his horse and brace the cart. He'd known to ignore the smoking residue and to swallow the panic that had risen in his throat. And he'd known to work swiftly, with a studied disregard for the sinuous wall and what lay on the other side.

Deep in his heart, Pillar knew it was all because of the child – the dead Bond Rider, the creatures that watched but did not come forward. He'd escaped some terrible fate – or, he thought, glancing at the baby, been handed one.

He pondered the rider's words. Two simple words that in the seconds it took to utter them became an irrevocable command. Pillar had no choice; the child now belonged to him.

The silver eyes studied him. He steeled himself to look away. But he couldn't. As if the child was speaking and he was listening, Pillar was held in the thrall of silent conversation.

The cart rolled on. Around him, night metamorphosed into dawn, serenaded by the clatter of hooves and the rumble of wheels.

When a golden thread appeared on the horizon and the minarets and domes of Serenissima spread out before him, the future suddenly became clear to Pillar. His frown dissolved. The child would not be a burden, no matter what the Bond Rider said. But he flinched at the thought of his mother's response. She didn't like change, particularly when she had no role in instigating it. Perhaps it would be better to stop the cart now and abandon the baby here at the foot of the mountains, away from the Limen – let someone else bear the responsibility. As his mind travelled that dark, uneasy path, the child simply stared up at him.

Pillar glanced at the little bundle. Before he could look away again, his concerns fled. Everything would be all right. He would protect and keep this child as if it were his own. A life to replace the one he still missed; the one that, from beyond time and space, continued to regulate his own. His mind was made up. The child was his, no matter what anyone else, even his mother, might try to tell him. She need never know what the Bond Rider said to him. It would be his secret. His pleasure.

The cart jolted and the child shut its eyes.

Unaware of the otherworldly presences that peered out at him from behind the skeletal trees, from above the postern gate as he returned the cart and horse, or from the banks of the canal as he hailed a traghetto, Pillar dreamed on – his past rewritten, his present assured and his future, for the first time in more than thirty years, full of promise.

CHAPTER ONE
Tallow

'THERE,' I SAID, BALANCING THE candle I'd snapped off the broach in the palm of my hand. 'What do you think?' I ran my other hand through my hair, pushing back my recalcitrant fringe. My fingers came away moist. It was hot in the workroom, but that wasn't the only reason I was sweating.

Even though I had been making candles ever since I could remember, I awaited Pillar's opinion nervously. It wasn't that Pillar was such a great candlemaker; in fact, he often lamented how pedestrian and ordinary his work was and that he only earned enough lire to survive. Pillar was right. His work was nothing special, not compared with the work of the master candlemakers who lived on the salizzada and controlled the Candlemakers Scuola, but what he thought mattered terribly to me. While he lacked the artistic flair of the masters, or their golden ducats to spend on exotic waxes and wicks, his candles were solid, the wicks dependable, and they burnt long and brightly.

'Well?' I pressed. He didn't usually take so long to offer his opinion. 'Can we afford to purchase more beeswax?'

For the first time, Pillar had allowed me to use some of his precious beeswax, not just to coat our tallow candles to give them the illusion of being more expensive but to make an entire broach. There were now a dozen beeswax candles suspended on the wooden frame above the trough. The wax alone had cost more than we made in a season.

It was a huge risk that Pillar had taken, entrusted to me alone. It was also an act of desperation, driven by what could only be described as invisible flaws in my tallow candles. We could no longer sell what I made and it was costing us business.

Finally, after examining the candle from all angles, he reached out and took it from me. His long fingers gently stroked the smooth white exterior before softly tugging the wick.

'You have managed to get the wax very white, Tallow, not bad.' He held the candle to his nose. 'And while the rich scent of the honey is still present, there are no impurities.'

I'd spent weeks preparing the wax: first boiling it and filtering it to get rid of any contaminants, and then drying it and shredding it into strips to lay out and be whitened by the sun. The whiter the candle, the better the quality and the higher the price we could ask.

'The lines are even and the candle tapers nicely,' said Pillar, interrupting my thoughts. 'You've rolled it quite well, too.'

Unlike the masters, who used marble rollers to achieve a symmetrical shape, we used ones carved from oak. It was hard work. My neck and shoulders ached with the memory.

'The wick is neatly plaited.' Pillar plucked at the cotton tip a few times. 'You have shown great patience for a boy your age, Tallow.' He took a deep breath. 'The work is passable.'

I couldn't help it. My chest began to swell, my eyes to glow.

'But,' continued Pillar, before I could become carried away with my success, 'the real test is in the lighting.'

'Do we have to –' I began. It seemed such a waste to risk even one. Then I saw the look in his eyes.

'We cannot ask others to buy what we would fear to use ourselves,' he said. He was right. We had to test it.

My heart sank. Lately, after years of relatively successful candlemaking, something was going wrong. Although my candles looked perfect, as soon as they were lit and the blue-purple smoke rose into the air, things would start to happen – intangible, eerie things. We first noticed it about six weeks ago, when Pillar and his mother, Quinnatta, began weeping uncontrollably after lighting one of my rush lights. Pillar later blamed the vino they'd consumed. But when they started behaving in other uncharacteristic ways – feeding the stray cats that lolled on the fondamenta, staying awake for nights on end – they began to regard me and my candles with suspicion. They thought I'd done something to them, tainted them in some way, and they were afraid. I would hear them whispering late into the night and catch my name among the fraught murmurs.

But I continued to make the candles and they continued to be affected. We didn't stop selling them, not then. After receiving odd and even accusatory comments from customers blaming us for their milk souring or their hens laying rotten eggs, Pillar and Quinn decided to withdraw the candles and study my methods in the hope we could work out what was going wrong.

We all knew what it was.

It was me.

Quinn certainly held me accountable. Pillar didn't openly admit it, not yet. He kept getting me to try different ways of making the candles. I shaped more moulds, even carved a new broach and plaited fresh wicks of hemp and cotton. But as soon as the candles were lit, the inexplicable mood swings and uncharacteristic behaviour would commence again.

Finally, Pillar suggested I try a completely different material. The tallow we were using was old, he said, it didn't have the right proportion of animal fats and was probably full of impurities. Without asking his mother, he went to the neighbouring Chandlers Quartiere and purchased some freshly imported Jinoan beeswax.

And now my candles were ready. They looked lovely and smelled sweet. But, as Pillar said, the real test lay in the lighting. Placing the candle in a holder, Pillar ceremoniously trimmed the wick. In the past, I'd loved that moment. Lately, seeing the way Pillar's fingers trembled, it filled me with dread. Placing his nose against the wax, he inhaled deeply. I knew he was stalling.

'You really have managed to safeguard the scent, Tallow.'

I was surprised. Pillar didn't offer praise very often and I'd been careful to preserve what was in the original wax itself – its very essence.

Pillar continued. 'I'm guessing that when we light it, the fragrance will be very pleasant.' He noted my look. 'Don't be so worried. There's a perfectly rational explanation for all this.'

'There'd better be,' said a gruff voice from the doorway. Quinn glared at us as we stood blinking, like the owls in the local basilica whose sleep has been interrupted by a shaft of morning light. 'Well, what are you waiting for? It's clear you've wasted our hard-earned coin on this ne'er-do-well again. It's too late to do anything about it now. Light the damn thing.'

Gripping her favourite mug, Quinn entered the workshop, ducking her head to avoid the crooked lintel, sidling past the benches and troughs, and bobbing under the broach with practised ease. She looked us up and down. When her eyes rested on me, the familiar smirk that twisted her mouth to the left appeared. She gave me a mock toast, and I quickly lowered my head as I'd been taught. Ever since I was four and old enough to understand, I hadn't been allowed to meet her eyes – or anyone's, for that matter. I lived in a world where I could not be caught looking.

Quinn came to a halt by my candle and bent to pass judgment. I waited nervously.

'Not bad, boy. Not bad. But as we all know,' she said, her eyes running over me again, 'looks can be deceiving. Come on,' she urged, 'let's see if he's managed to overcome his ... problem.'

Melted tallow snapped as Pillar lifted a rush light from the bench and used its flame to light my candle. I heard the slow sizzle of fire kissing wick and then caught the smell of burning fibre. Once I knew the flame had taken, I dared to raise my eyes. Candles tell no tales.

Or so I thought.

A sweet honey fragrance filled the workshop. I watched as first Pillar's, then his mother's, face altered. Their eyes widened and their eyebrows arched. Quinn's mouth straightened and then her lips parted. Pillar's broke into a huge smile that I just knew would reach his eyes. As the aroma enveloped us, I could feel the years of squinting over the render, of enduring the stench of beef and sheep fat, of suffering burning fingers and singing hair, slip away. That and more. The bitterness that etched sour lines around Quinn's mouth and cheeks faded, and a ruby glow crept up her cheeks, making her look younger and more at ease with what life had meted out.

Pillar's face also changed as grief and weariness sloughed away. I could see the grey hairs on his arms darken and watched as his arthritic fingers straightened and stretched towards the candle, towards something that life had cruelly snatched away from him before he could fully taste it.

I rejoiced at what I saw even while a small voice within me sounded a warning. But, blinded by my accomplishment, I didn't listen. Instead I inhaled, deeply, richly, and for a moment became one with the candle, with the wax. I saw a sun-dappled glade scattered with yellow-tipped flowers, each bent by the feather feet of the bees nestled in their hearts, harvesting their sweet crop. Warmth crept up my body and feelings of contentment washed over me.

Pillar felt the same. Joy was written all over the lines on his prematurely aged face; joy that reached far into his heart and touched his aching spirit. I risked another peek at Quinn but, just as I turned my head, a large, red hand swung at my cheek, and the resultant sharp sting ended my reverie.

'You stupid, careless bastard! You've done it again. He's done it again, Pillar. An entire batch of beeswax, ruined!' Quinn punctuated every word with another slap. 'You did this deliberately, didn't you? You ungrateful little sod. After all we've done for you, all we've risked, all we've sacrificed, this is the thanks we get?'

I tried to protect myself, but it was no good. She came at me, both hands flailing, striking blow after blow. I didn't cry out. It wouldn't have done any good; it never did.

Instead, I focused on inhaling the mellow perfume and hoped that she wouldn't scar me this time.

CHAPTER TWO
The conversation
in the kitchen

'YOU NEED TO CONTROL THAT boy. Do what I do, treat him with a firm hand.' Quinn smacked a fist into her palm for emphasis. Pillar winced. He knew his mother's idea of a firm hand all too well. So did Tallow. 'I'll have none of that nonsense in my house. You've got to let him know who's in charge. As long as he thinks he can get away with it, I tell you, he'll keep doing it!' Quinn drank deeply before wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. 'In fact, it'll only get worse – for all of us.'

Slamming the mug on the table, she glared at her son, daring him to contradict her. But Pillar kept his head bowed and pushed a chunk of bread around his plate. It was hard for him to eat anything knowing that, in the tiny room above, Tallow was going without.

In the corner the fire crackled. The pot of soup suspended above the coals steamed, and the curtain dividing Pillar's sleeping area from the kitchen billowed slightly. A temperate breeze stirred over the canal outside and slipped in through the open casement, bringing with it the stench of the neighbourhood. Pillar didn't notice that as much as he did the faint sounds of revelry as the quartiere's residents enjoyed an unusually balmy night. In a matter of weeks, it would all cease. The canals would freeze and the island streets nearer the mainland would be covered with snow and ice.

Pillar didn't respond as Quinn continued. 'I told you it was a mistake to let him touch any more candles! But no, you don't listen, do you? Instead you go and waste good coin on beeswax. That cost every last one of those hard-earned lire we made over summer.' Still Pillar didn't respond. 'What are you going to do with it now?'

Pillar raised his head. 'I thought I might melt it down and try to remould –'

'You!' Quinn scoffed. 'You can barely mould ordinary tallow, let alone beeswax! If you lay a finger on that stuff, you're even more stupid than I thought. He's infected it. It can never be used. I don't know why you let him near it – not after what he did to the tallow.' She leant over and dropped her voice. 'But you think you know better, don't you? Giving him chances, encouraging him and after what he did – what he still tries to do – to me, to us.'

Quinn reached for the large ceramic jug to pour herself another mug of vino. She went to top up Pillar's mug, but he covered it and shook his head.

'I've had enough.'

Quinn shrugged. 'Suit yourself.' She took a long draught from her mug. 'Winter's going to be knocking at our door any day and we need to find a way to pay the coal and timber merchants, never mind feeding ourselves. It's clear we can't let him make any more candles, so we're just going to have to find something else for him to do.'

Pillar knew not to say anything when his mother was like this. It only made things worse. He stood slowly and rubbed his eyes, wondering what he should do. For all her complaining and threats, there was an element of truth in his mother's words and that concerned him more deeply than he was prepared to admit. For a few blessed years there, everything had gone so well. Despite his appearance, Tallow hadn't shown any other signs that he was different and he'd taken to candlemaking like a bird to the air. It had come so naturally to him. And somehow Pillar knew that Tallow's skills would only improve with age.

Expectation can be a cruel thing.

'I know you think he can control it, Mamma, but he can't,' said Pillar finally. 'Any of it. Whatever else he might be, he's also an awkward lad going through a phase.'

Quinn snorted. 'A phase! Is that what you're calling it? Think he'll grow out of it, do you? Can't help it! My Pillar, always the optimist.' She shook her head and then frowned. 'No, you're probably right. He can't, can he? And that's the problem.'

Quinn squinted in an effort to focus. Pillar's features swam into view – his thick grey hair, his wide nose and stubbled chin. Weak fool! If only he would rage at her, call her names. But he never did. Just like his father, and look what had happened to him.

Her rheumy eyes took in their surroundings. The low beamed ceiling with the cobwebs thick in the corners, the smoking hearth with the old pot suspended over it and, beside the fire, against the grill they sometimes used when they had earned enough to buy a haunch of meat, rested a few rusting tools.

Quinn observed Pillar's mended shirt, stained vest and the faded blue eyes. He looked older than his forty years. For a moment, pity knocked at her heart. He didn't deserve this. Like her, he was a victim of someone else's caprices. And he did try; he always had. Whatever else he might be, he didn't give up. And he was loyal. He'd always been there for her even when, after too many vinos, she hadn't really been there for him. She opened her mouth to say something to her son, to soften her words, when she saw his hands.

Night after night, Pillar would rub remnants of the day's fat into his knotted fingers in an effort to ease his pain. Tonight, they needed no such treatment. Straight and fine, his fingers rested on the table, a pointed reminder of what Tallow and his candles had done.

Quinn felt fury and foreboding rise in equal measures. The wretched child was not normal. No, he was clever and canny and, above all, dangerous. He had to be controlled! And Pillar should be doing it. The boy was his responsibility. He'd brought the brat into their home, he'd claimed him. If only he'd be firmer, harder, then none of this would be happening.

Trying not to slur her words, she slowly leant across the table towards her son. The spluttering light cast shadows across her face, elongating her nose and defining her cheekbones. 'You're a fool if you think you can get away with this, Pillar. Don't forget, there's a reason his kind were wiped out.' She spat on her fingers and reached over to the candle that spluttered in the middle of the table. She squeezed the end of the wick, dousing the flame. 'Snuffed out, they were. And that's what will happen to him, to you and to me if they ever find out.'

'They won't find out,' he said quickly. 'There's no real proof anyway. Just suspicions. And they'll never amount to anything, not if we continue to be careful.' Pillar's voice was weary. They'd been over it a thousand times.

Quinn threw back her head and laughed hysterically. Pillar winced. 'If we're careful!' screeched Quinn. 'We're so bloody careful, I've forgotten how to live! I barely leave this house any more except to go to the shops. It's been so long since anyone came here – and because I stopped issuing invitations, I stopped receiving them. Because of your bloody, precious apprentice, I have no friends, no acquaintances, no lovers, no-one in my life.'

Pillar paused. 'You have me, Mamma.'

Quinn stifled the bitter words that threatened to spill from her lips. He was serious. Sitting there, a hulking great shadow against the glowing embers of the fire, her son really meant what he said. She clumsily reached for his hand and gripped his mended fingers tightly. The weight that had sat beneath her breast for years momentarily lightened. She remembered how he'd done everything in his power to brighten her loneliness in those first few years. He'd worked so hard, tried to bring a smile to her face, despite his own sadness and grief.

Then she recalled that cold, grey morning, over fourteen years ago, when Pillar had returned from Jinoa with a baby. Ignoring her entreaties, threats and tears, he'd stood up to his mother and told her that they were keeping the child, even though, back then, they guessed what he was and how perilous sheltering – let alone raising – one of his kind would be. But that day her son had shown a strength of character she hadn't known he possessed, and while she had been furious with him, she'd also been proud.

'Yes, I do,' she said tightly. 'I do.' She patted Pillar's hand gently. 'And while you may not believe me, I thank God every day that I have you.'

Univited, an image of huge silver eyes filled her mind, smothering all other memories. 'I have you and ... him.' Her eyes grew hard as flint. 'You have me and I have you; and I have him. Don't you ever forget it, Pillar. I have him right here,' she snatched her hand from his and jabbed her palm, her fingers curled into a cage. 'Right here. Right ... here. Right ...' Her voice slurred and drawled to a stop. Her eyelids became heavy. 'I'm so bloody careful. But he's not careful. He doesn't give a damn. That's why he's ruining the tallow. That's why every time he opens those bloody eyes of his, something happens inside of me. He twists me around; he scrapes away at me bit by bit. At who I am ... and I don't like it.' She punctuated each word with a thump on her chest, at a point over her heart.

Pillar's eyes flew to the window. It wouldn't do for the neighbours to hear. If one word slipped out, one whisper of what they suspected Tallow might be ... Once freed, rumours, like a pestilent disease, had a nasty way of spreading. He jumped to his feet and shut the window. 'If someone should hear you –'

Quinn's head wobbled an affirmative. 'You're right. We'll all be locked away in the Doge's dungeon. Tortured. Murdered. Killed. But would it matter? We're already trapped, imprisoned.' Her words came in long, drawn-out gasps. 'We're ensnared in a prison of our own making ... and for what?'

Pillar went and stood behind his mother's chair. Hesitating briefly, he rested his hands on her shoulders. Quinn gave a small moan. With growing confidence he began to knead them, working on the knots of flesh, the tightness of her neck. All the while, he whispered words of comfort, trying to calm her.

'And for what?' she repeated. She leant back into his hands and her eyes slowly closed. He continued his ministrations, feeling the tension drain from her body and a relaxed heaviness take its place. He worked in blessed silence.

'You're right, Santo,' mumbled Quinn.

Pillar's hands dropped and he backed away. It had been a long time since she'd called him by his father's name. The vino had contracted time and opened a splintered passage that melded past and present. 'He can't help it,' she murmured, 'and neither could you. That's why you did it, wasn't it? You were tricked. Thought you were taking a risk to help us, but it was a stupid risk, it was all a trick. He lured you away. Seduced you.'

Her eyes flew back open she sat upright, blinking to refocus the here and now, folding her arms around her body. She sensed Pillar behind her. 'If he can't control himself anymore, then what hope do we have?' She tipped her head back until Pillar's face swam into view. He was astonished to see tears trickling down her withered cheeks. 'Answer that, you fool. What hope do we have?'

CHAPTER THREE
Revelations

I FELT HIM COMING.

I waited. In my small attic-room at the top of the house – the one place I could almost call my own. Here I had a mattress to sleep on, a light when I needed it, the opportunity for fresh air and even some company.

My few possessions were stored in an old wooden chest with the smell of the sea and a broken-lock lid. In there I kept a tiny sliver of myrtle wax. Green in colour and oozing a curious but pleasing smell, it was given to me by Pillar, years ago, as a reward for completing my first broach. I remember how proud I'd been when Quinn carefully placed my candles on the shop shelves and how thrilled I'd felt when, within hours, they'd all sold. Even Quinn had been happy with me that day.

Beside the wax, I had a small tinder box and a few rush lights that Pillar gave me so I wouldn't spend my nights in the dark. Not that I minded, not when I could so easily climb up to the roof garden and gaze at the stars. I also had a piece of parchment that I found in the canal the day I went with Pillar to the Chandlers Quartiere to pick up an order of beef tallow.

In an act of sheer rashness, Pillar had ordered the gondolier to row into the Dorsoduro Sestiere, to the outskirts of the Tanners Quartiere. It was the first time I'd ever been on the Circolo Canal. I couldn't believe all the traffic on the water. All the noise. Keeping my hat pulled down even lower than usual, I remember my eyes darting here and there as I'd tried to soak up all the colour and sounds. People were strolling along, talking, singing and shouting. Others peered out of windows, chatting with neighbours, hailing someone in a nearby calle. Some stood on the fondamenta, so close to the water they appeared about to step on to it, waving to vendors to row their gondolas laden with flowers and fruit and other produce closer. Children skipped across bridges, dogs barked at fluttering ribbons and flags; gondolas floated out of water gates into the main traffic. They were the most exciting scenes I'd ever witnessed.

It was only after we'd turned around and were heading back towards our own quiet backwater that I found my treasure. It was floating on the murky surface, not far from the Butchers Quartiere, when I plucked it out. Covered in strange marks, it had a picture in the middle. I tucked it under my cap and later, when I'd retreated to my attic, I flattened and dried it. I often looked at it. It was very pretty, even though it had been damaged by the water. Sandy in colour, it had crimson whorls in the margins and tiny remnants of gold scattered across the centre. Parts of it were blue and others jade. As I couldn't read then, it was years later that I discovered it was a poster and the marks were writing. I took other pleasures from its secrets, determined that one day I would uncover them.

The parchment was my most precious item. Not even Pillar knew I had it. I kept it under the loose bit of wood at the base of the chest over which sat my spare apron and my other shirt and a pair of leggings.

Next to the chest was my bed – an old mattress left in a nearby calle. Pillar had retrieved it and stuffed it with a bit more straw and even a little down he'd found on a roadside on one of those rare trips to Jinoa. I had a couple of old blankets as well, but even with them over me, I was often cold.

The attic was damp and draughty, but I was used to it. In the corner opposite my bed were a few boxes and barrels. Once they had stored flour, grain and salt. Now they were empty, except for the skinny rats that I knew sometimes hid in there. I didn't mind them so much. They weren't afraid to look at me.

Once, when I heard them scurrying around inside, I had lit my rush light. It took them a while to come out again and, when they saw me, they darted away. But they returned. They always did – two of them. Perched on the edge of the barrel, they stared at me with their little red eyes. I slept well when the rats visited me.

Tonight, I knew, I would not sleep well. After Quinn had lost her temper over the ruined candles, I came to the attic. I knew to stay here until my wounds from the beating healed – until Quinn decided I could join her and Pillar again. I wondered how long it would be this time.

Quinn hadn't always been like this. When I was younger, she would often talk to me. Mostly it was because she was lonely, but I would listen. She told me things about her husband, Santo. Her voice would grow shrill, tight. But under her sharp words, I could hear the confusion that kept him in her thoughts and fanned her passion. I often wondered about that, how a woman could both love and loathe the same person simultaneously. Everything Quinn did now, in the present, was based on what Santo had said and done in the past.

I found myself reflecting upon the power of men who, even in their absence, could wield such control. While I did not really understand how it could happen, not when Quinn appeared so strong, I was curious to discover if it was something I would ever experience. I fervently hoped not. I feared what it signified – what it could do. I felt sorry for Quinn. Not at first; that came later, when she started hitting me.

Then, just over a year ago, everything changed. It wasn't only that Quinn's occasional slaps and pinches became frequent beatings or that Pillar's anxiety grew and he retreated within himself. It was something inside me.

I know Quinn thought I could control it; that whatever was happening lay within my power. It didn't. Whenever I closed myself off from my surroundings and started to search within for something to sustain me – anything to block out the pain of failure, or even remember a small triumph – whatever I was touching began to alter. I could feel it, taste it sometimes, too. Elements of the wax or wick, or even the broach, mingled with parts of me. It was as if bits and pieces of them started to bleed into me, became part of who I am. It's only when it became too much, when I couldn't take any more inside myself, I pushed it out, released it – anything to escape its suffocating hold. I couldn't control it. I really couldn't.

I had already been in the attic for a few hours – I'd got up off my bed because the feel of the straw against my cuts and scratches had become intolerable. I lay instead on the cold wooden floor. It soothed my aches, helped me to control the sharp pain that ran from the back of my eye through to the base of my neck. But Pillar's despair still lingered in the wood from the last time he came to the attic. I deliberately cleared my mind. It hurt to think.

And that was how, hours later, I knew Pillar was coming. I'd heard muffled voices. Some words were very clear, others not. Then there was a long period of silence before Pillar made his way up the stairs. He tried so hard not to be heard, not to be caught by Quinn.

Pillar's movements were slow and steady as he cautiously distributed his weight on the stairs. I listened for any other sounds, but there were only distant, guttural snores. Quinn would not know about this visit but, like all the others he paid me after his mother lost her temper, she would probably guess. And say nothing. It was her way of condoning what he did without appearing to approve.

When the door opened, I tried to lift my head, but the blood on my cheek had dried and I was momentarily stuck. I sat up carefully, but I reopened the wound and blood flowed again. I cried out. Pillar was by my side in seconds.

In the dark, I could smell the lavender he'd placed in the bowl and the hot water infused with turmeric root in the mug he'd brought. Pillar thought this was something else he had managed to slip by his mother – the herbs. But I knew better.

'Tallow –' he began and then paused. I knew he was wrestling with his conscience.

'It's all right, Pillar.' I hated that he always wanted to apologise. He who suffered in ways I would never understand. He pushed the mug into my hands and I drank carefully. My lips had been split and I'd bitten my tongue so many times it was swollen and awkward in my mouth.

I heard him lift the lid on the chest and then the sound of flint striking tinder, and watched as the flame on the wooden spill I used touched the tip of an old wick. The rush light smoked as he placed it in the small grease-smeared holder above my bed. It was one he'd made. Pillar never wasted my rush lights on the family. The light it cast was modest, but adequate.

Pillar's pale, watery eyes met mine for a second, and in that fleeting look, I saw years of regret – regret that he had found me, regret that he had insisted on indenturing me and regret that he couldn't stop what was happening.

'Tallow ...' he tried again, the cloth to clean my wounds scrunched in his large hands.

'It's all right, Pillar,' I reached out to hold him; then I remembered that was forbidden to me and let my hand drop. I must not touch, I must not look.

'No, damn it. It's not,' he said. It was then, with his eyes on my torn cheek and swollen lips, the cloth dabbing ever so gently, that he began to cry.

It was always like this when Quinn hit me.

He took a deep breath. 'I am weak. No, Tallow.' He held up his hand as if to ward off my protests, the stained fabric hanging from his fingers, a defeated flag. 'Don't try to tell me otherwise. I know what I am. I am weak to let her treat you like she does. I am weak not to have the courage to sell your fine candles –'

'Fine?' I couldn't help it. The word tripped out of my mouth. How could he call my recent creations fine? He always melted them and then destroyed the wax. Not one of my efforts remained.

It was then Pillar looked at me. He smiled, the flickering light reflected in his eyes. 'Yes, Tallow. Your candles are among the finest I have ever seen. Over the years, you have become very good at what we do – better than I could ever hope to be. But your work of late ...' He paused and looked over his shoulder, as if afraid Quinn might suddenly appear. He lowered his voice. 'Your work should be celebrated, not hidden or destroyed. It's the work of a master.

'Everything you've produced this season has been perfectly shaped, perfectly coloured, and today you mastered the most difficult wax of all. Your work is –' He fumbled for the right word. 'Exquisite.' He smiled again and, I couldn't help it, I smiled in return. In my heart, I'd known my candles were good.

The smile left my face as swiftly as it had appeared. 'But they are no use to you. You cannot sell them.'

'No, that is true. If we did, we'd all be in great danger.'

'Why, Pillar?' My chest felt hollow. 'You tell me my candles are fine and that they should be celebrated, but all you do is melt them and now you tell me they're dangerous. Why?'

Pillar gestured for me to drink. I did as I was told and waited. He started daubing my face again. I knew that whatever was wrong with me and my candles was connected, I just didn't quite understand how. As Pillar knelt before me, conflicted and sad, I knew I had to have it explained, have my doubts and concerns either assuaged or confirmed. I swallowed hard. This could not continue.

I had to have answers, now, tonight. The silence and evasions – the beatings – had gone on long enough.

'What am I, Pillar? You have to tell me.'

Pillar shook his head. 'I don't know what you mean.'

'Yes, you do,' I corrected him. I moved my head so he had to stop his attentions. 'It's why Quinn hits me ... and why you let her.' Pillar winced. I pressed my advantage. I had to, despite the hurt I knew it was causing him. 'I am not like you, am I? It's why my candles make you, Quinn and others feel and act the way you do, isn't it? It's why Quinn says I'm a threat.' I lowered my voice. 'What's wrong with me?' When he didn't immediately answer, I summoned my courage and asked the question I'd been longing to ask. The one that I'd buried deep within me and which now struggled to be released. 'What's an Estrattore?'

The look on Pillar's face made me inhale sharply.

'Where did you hear that word?' His eyes flickered towards the door. He rose to his feet, throwing the cloth that he'd been using to the floor. 'You are never to use it again, do you hear? Never!' He began to pace the room, rubbing his chin and muttering to himself.

'Why not? Tell me why I can't,' I pleaded. 'What does it mean?'

Pillar paused mid-stride and looked at me. I could feel his vexation and anxiety. What had I said? Why was he so ... so mad at me? No, not mad. It wasn't anger I sensed, but fear. I hardly dared breathe.

He stared at me for a long time. I didn't move. I'd never known Pillar to act like this before. Tears of sheer frustration slowly trickled down my bruised cheeks. I had to know. Somehow, I had to understand what I was, what it was about me that made Quinn and Pillar so afraid.

The first time I'd ever heard the word, something within me had responded. At first I'd believed it was because of its musical sound – Estrattore – but as I'd turned the word over and over in my heart and mind, I'd realised the name was important, not just as a relic from the past, but here, now ... to me.

Silence filled the room. Pillar was not going to tell me; his refusal shouted out at me. His glance bounced from me to the door and back again, over and over, his train of thought as clear as if he'd spoken. A tiny knot of resolve formed in my heart.

I would get my answer.

I waited until he'd sat back down and picked up the cloth, ready to return to his ministrations. I leant towards him and, keeping my head down, whispered, 'If you won't tell me, I'll ask Quinn.'

It was the cruellest thing I'd ever done. His initial fear transformed into a distress so strong it enveloped me. He raised the cloth between us, a tiny, dripping barrier, a shield against my threat. 'You won't. You mustn't.' Around the cloth, his knuckles turned white.

'I will if I have to,' I insisted, glimpsing over his shoulder towards the door. Unbeknownst to her, Quinn had taught me well. I could be stubborn, too; pitiless even.

We sat motionless. Pillar's breathing was heavy and fast. I could tell he was thinking about what to do, what to say. His shoulders slumped and the tension between us wavered. With slow deliberation he wrung out the cloth, placed it on the chest and let out a great sigh. Before I could move, he reached out and cupped my face in his hands. The rough texture of his palms and fingertips against my cheeks were coarse and unfamiliar. His skin had never met mine, not that I could recall in all these years. I could smell smoke, tobacco, a mixture of render, beeswax and the acrid smell of urine and sweat. He drew me closer to him until our faces were just inches apart. Unable to resist, I risked a glimpse. His eyes were shut.

'You really want to know what an Estrattore is?' he whispered hoarsely.

I nodded into his hands.

'It's not who they are; it's what they do that sets them apart.' He began to pull me even closer.

'Pillar? What are you –?' Before I could finish, he opened his eyes. He didn't flinch or turn away.

'Look at me,' he commanded raggedly. For the first time in my memory, I really looked. I met his eyes hungrily.

And like a flower to the sun, his soul opened to me. It was more than I could bear. I swayed and almost fell. But Pillar held my face tight in the palms of his hands.

Wave after wave of raw sensations engulfed me. I couldn't breathe. I hurt all over. I was drowning.

Like a dagger to my heart, the loss of his father, the melancholy vindictiveness of his mother, the hunger, the dread, the cold pierced me again and again. There was shame, followed by dejection as he became aware of his own inadequacy, as he struggled to learn the craft of his father from reticent, resentful strangers who had misguided and misinformed him. The pain of his early burns, the scorching of his initial pour and the joy of his first candle were as real to me as they had been to his younger self. Underneath all of this, buried deep in his conscience was his fledgling awareness that he would never amount to anything. It gathered momentum, rising like a huge black bird, its wings outstretched, its dark beak open ready to consume him.

I tried to wrench out of his grasp, but he wouldn't let me go.

I was swallowed by years of grinding work, of futile attempts to market his wares. Desperate trips to Jinoa. I was momentarily lost in the pain of his one and only love, ripped from him by another man. Then, beneath the endless layers of grief and self-doubt was something solid and new – a tiny bloom in a desert of pain.

It was me.

I couldn't bear it any more. I threw myself backwards on to my bed. Panting, I stared at him in horror, in shared sorrow. I was shaking uncontrollably. My chest ached with unshed tears.

But it was his face that shocked me the most. It was as if all the years of self-doubt, misery and labour had been plucked out of Pillar, transferred to my soul, and then with remorseless exaggeration passed back to him and inscribed upon his face. Lined beyond belief, his cheeks had hollowed, his eyes sunken. The Pillar I knew was no longer there. I was looking at an ancient, broken man.

I didn't know how or what I'd done, only that I'd remade him as he saw himself – in his own image.

He stared at me and I knew that he saw himself through my eyes.

'After that,' he panted, 'do you still have to ask?'

I shook my head. My body weighed by the burden of new knowledge. 'I'm an Estrattore.' One who extracts.

He didn't reply. He just buried his face in his hands and wept.

CHAPTER FOUR
Errands go awry

PILLAR SLOWLY UNTIED HIS APRON. The smell of render clung to his hands and clothes as he made his way to the small alcove where a jug of warm water and a crudely shaped soap awaited. He noticed that Tallow had placed a fresh towel there for him. He released a weary sigh and rolled up his sleeves to scrub his hands and arms.

And, as it often did of late, his mind drifted towards his young apprentice. Pillar knew it was pointless worrying. For the moment, he couldn't change anything. It was only a week since Tallow had emerged from the attic. It had taken four days for the bruises to fade to a pale yellow, the cut on his cheek and the split lip to mend enough to pass for rough play.

Pillar was grateful that no-one seemed to notice that Tallow never joined the gangs of youths who would occasionally spill onto the fondamenta, engrossed in their games – pretending to be soldiers, rolling hoops and chasing each other through the rami. Or, if they did, they never said so openly. Instead, they would mutter, laugh and empathise with Pillar about Tallow's diminutive size, his slender arms and legs, and the acute shyness that meant he always had a downturned face and buried chin. They would reassure him with tales of their own progeny's late development. Pillar always felt uneasy during these moments, and not just because Tallow never mixed with any of the quartiere's children. That was dangerous in ways that made comments about his size, scrapes and bruises insignificant. Worse still was the guilt that always attended these conversations, settling like a mantle upon his square shoulders.

Thank God Tallow healed quickly; he always had. So Pillar's remorse could fade into the background until the next time.

As usual, Quinn appeared to have forgotten or put aside her anger towards the boy; even so, she was adamant that Tallow was not to go near the workshop, let alone any wax. So, while she tended to their meagre business in the shop, she found chores for him to do – things that wouldn't be affected by what she referred to as Tallow's curse. She had him fetching water or changing the sawdust that coated the shop floor – anything that involved tools or an intermediary and prevented Tallow from coming into direct contact with an object. For it wasn't just the candles Tallow made that carried within them something of the boy, but over the last few weeks, almost all the other things he touched as well.

When Quinn couldn't think of anything else for him to do she let Tallow run some basic errands, such as fetching food and drink for the evening meal. Making sure he would never handle the produce, she gave him a large hemp bag and insisted that he make the shopkeepers place the items in there. Under strict instructions to talk to no-one and to keep his face hidden, Tallow would only be gone a half-hour or so at a time.

Pillar didn't like it. But he justified his inaction by telling himself that it was not good business to leave the shop unattended as they had done in the past. And there was no doubt Tallow looked better for having been outdoors. His eyes were brighter and his skin not quite so sallow. It saddened Pillar to see how thin he was. But what did he expect? A growing body needed more than bread, cheese and the occasional pigeon or bowl of watery soup to survive.

One part of Pillar knew it was doing the lad good to get out on his own; after all, it was unnatural for a boy that age to be deprived of company – any company. But another part of him was apprehensive. An overriding sense of unease clung to him that he couldn't shake. Scooping handfuls of water on to his face, he castigated himself for thinking that way instead of being grateful that Tallow was proving his use in other ways. Reaching for the towel, he dried himself, watching his mother busying herself at the table. Why, she was actually humming.

'Where's Tallow now?' asked Pillar, hanging the towel on a hook and picking up the basin of water.

His mother watched him cross the room. 'Running another errand for me.'

Pillar opened the window and, with the ease of years of practice, heaved the dirty water into the canal. 'But Mamma, we agreed. Once a day at the most. It's quiet in the afternoons, but now –' He put down the basin and pushed the first-floor window so far open that the rusty hinges groaned in protest. He looked up and down the fondamenta. There was no-one about. But further up, towards the cross street, there were people milling and calling. Pillar gazed at the lilac sky, noting with concern the low band of thick grey clouds gathering on the horizon. A spidery vein of white shot out of the cloudbank and struck the mountain tops. He reached for his hat and cloak.

'How long has he been gone?'

'A while.'

Pillar grimaced. 'Where did you send him?'

Quinn looked at him. 'Why are you asking me all these questions? Someone needs to maintain the workshop and I need to look after the customers. We can't let him make any more candles, so I put him to use. He's got to earn his keep somehow.' She eyed Pillar caustically. 'We had all of four people through the door today. They're complaining that our standards have dropped – that if they don't improve soon, they'll start buying elsewhere.'

'But what if someone sees him?' Pillar stopped, cursing himself for going so far.

'What?' sneered Quinn. 'You want to go and do the shopping, do you? You're still not fit to be seen. Not after what he did to you.'

Self-consciously, Pillar ran a hand over his face. While he didn't look as bad as he had the night Tallow touched him in the attic, the night he felt his soul flayed open for the world to see, he still bore the physical scars of the encounter: the additional lines, the pinched cheeks and eyes.

Stubbornly, Pillar persisted. 'Where did you send him?' he repeated.

'Oh, where do you think?' Quinn snapped.

'I don't know, Mamma. Where?'

'To Vincenzo di Torello's.'

'You sent him to the taverna?' Pillar's heart seized.

'That's right, for some more vino.'

'Mamma! But there are so many people there. What if one of them notices?'

'Relax, Pillar. If Tallow understands anything, it's that he can't stand around idly chatting or put himself in a position where he's remarked upon. You've been to the taverna with him before. He knows what to do, what to say. Anyway, he'll be back in a moment. Sit down and enjoy an ombretta with me. There's still some left.' She picked up the flagon and tipped the dregs into her mug.

Pillar shook his head. Something was pricking at the edges of his conscience. 'I'm going to find him, bring him back,' he said between clenched teeth.

Quinn put her hands on her hips and shook her head. 'You won't always be able to protect him, you know. He's almost an adult – he's going to have to learn to look after himself, no matter what he is.'

Because of what he is, thought Pillar, refusing to meet her eyes. 'I'm going,' he repeated.

'Don't forget my vino,' reminded his mother and began kneading some dough.

Pillar went down the stairs and back through the shop. He tried not to see the gaps on the shelves where he'd removed Tallow's candles.

Donning his cloak, Pillar stepped on to the fondamenta and closed the door. A sharp wind whipped his cloak and nearly blew his cap from his head. Glancing above the houses on the other side of the canal, Pillar observed the clouds were darker now and coming closer. A low rumble signalled a storm was not far behind.

Holding his cap and clutching his cloak, he set off towards the taverna.

He'd only gone a few steps when a small body came tearing around the corner and crashed into him.

'Tallow!' cried Pillar, recognising the hat and coat. He pulled him away and held him by the shoulders. 'What is it? Why are you running?'

'Pillar!' Tallow sounded relieved. 'There were soldiers.' He swallowed hard. 'They're after me. I've got to hide!'

'Soldiers?' Cold crept over his body. 'What are you talking –?'

'There's been a kidnapping – it's the Doge's grandson, the prince. But that's not all. There was a stranger at the taverna.' Beads of sweat trickled down Tallow's temple as he panted the rest of his tale. 'She kept staring at me and then she started asking questions about a missing girl. There was something about her, Pillar. I didn't stay. I ran. The soldiers ran after me. Perhaps they think I know something about the prince.'

Pillar's throat grew tight and a chill ran down his spine. What if the soldiers followed Tallow? Worse, what if they found him, found out what he was? Discovered you've kept an Estrattore hidden for almost fifteen years. And what about this woman? Coincidence, or more? Whichever it was, he'd just have to make sure that Tallow wasn't found. He began to hurry Tallow back towards the workshop.

'I'm so sorry, Pillar. I really am,' said Tallow, glancing over his shoulder, tripping over the cobblestones. 'You always tell me not to talk to anyone. And I didn't – honest! I just panicked. First the soldiers and then the woman ... I know I shouldn't have run, but I didn't know what else to do. Now they think I know something –' The words tumbled from Tallow's mouth.

'It's all right, Tallow.' Pillar's heart was in his throat. 'Come, we've got to hide you.'

Tallow rushed ahead, his hat askew, his coat falling from one shoulder. 'I led them all around the sestiere, Pillar. I knew not to come straight back here.'

Pillar nodded but he was barely listening as he tried to keep up with the boy. What was his mother going to say? Soldiers on the doorstep, the chance of discovery; then arrest, torture and most certainly death.

'Did you hear me, Pillar?' gasped Tallow. 'I said I made sure I didn't come straight home.'

'Good boy,' said Pillar. His mind raced. He wrenched open the door to the workshop. 'Quick, climb in the tallow vat and don't come out till I tell you it's safe. I'll go and make sure they don't find anything that will –' he glanced at Tallow's red face streaked with perspiration, his unholy silver eyes '– give you away.' He gulped. 'And I'll warn Mamma. Go on! Get inside.'

Tallow paused, hands clutching the door frame. 'I'm sorry, Pillar.'

Pillar didn't seem to hear. His eyes travelled down the fondamenta, his mind on more urgent matters. 'Quickly now, not a sound.' With a heavy heart he locked the external door of the workshop and all but ran back into the shop. Swiftly, he cast his eyes around. Thank God he'd destroyed all Tallow's candles. If there was just one piece of wax left ... He had to get to the attic and check Tallow's belongings – they all reeked of his presence. He had to hide what he could. After all, they might know he had an apprentice; hopefully, they'd never discover exactly what else his apprentice was.

Running up the stairs, he steeled himself for his mother's tirade. Only this time, he knew he had to let her speak, let her rant and accuse and threaten. He couldn't help Tallow this time. No words or platitudes would stop the soldiers or the possibility of detection.

This time, he feared, things had gone too far.

CHAPTER FIVE
What happened in the
workshop

I CROUCHED IN THE STINKING vat, my chin just resting on the surface of the tallow. The rest of my body was totally submerged. Even though I'd heard the story of how I'd been placed in an empty vat all those years ago to hide from the soldiers searching for a baby brought illegally into the city, and so earned my appellation, nothing prepared me for the sensation of being swallowed by my namesake.

I heard raised voices in the kitchen above and then silence. Poor Pillar. My heart quickened at the thought of what Quinn would do to me once the danger had passed. That is, if it did.

What would happen if the soldiers found me? While I had absolutely nothing to do with the disappearance of the Doge's grandson, Pillar and Quinn's other, barely articulated reservations about me began to play on my mind. They'd known all along that I was different, that I belonged in another place, another time. They'd worked hard to erase those differences, render them – and me – invisible. For the first time, I wondered why they kept me. Why would humble candlemakers risk their lives not just to shield me as best they could from others, but to raise me as if I were one of them?

No matter what their reasons were, I'd betrayed those efforts – not by design, but simply because of what I was. Before I could begin to formulate any notions, a dull pounding on the outside of the vat made me jump.

'Stupid boy!' It was Quinn. She hit the sides again. 'How could you do this to us? Your protectors, your saviours – and after everything we've done, all we've sacrificed. You'll pay, boy. Mark my words, you'll pay.' She slammed the wood again for good measure.

She stomped back into the shop, banging the door behind her. I heard her tramp up the stairs, each deliberate step a warning of what was to come. The argument between Pillar and her raged for a long while.

From the time I'd left the house that afternoon and stepped onto the street, I knew something wasn't right. It wasn't just that a storm was brewing in the west; it was something intangible – my scalp crawling across my head, a prickling at the tips of my fingers. It was as if I was being watched. This had happened to me throughout my life. For many years, I'd put it down to my imagination and Quinn and Pillar's constant warnings to stay out of sight. Lately, however, the sensation, subtle but dogged, accompanied me every time I ventured into the sestiere. Sometimes it even partnered my sleep.

I couldn't see a soul. All the doors were closed and the windows shuttered to keep out the cool autumn breezes. The few gondolas gliding along the canal had no passengers, only boatmen who were concentrating too hard on their cargo to notice me. I chided myself for my foolishness. Who would be watching me?

But try as I would to shake off my fancy, the sensation did not leave. In fact, as I turned away from the canal and towards the centre of the island, towards the quartiere's campo, the worse it became. I found myself looking over my shoulder, cautiously, as I had been taught.

There was nothing there.

And yet ... a flash of grey in the shadows, a fleeting movement out of the corner of my eye told me otherwise.

My mouth dried and my pace quickened.

There were people milling in the square. Vendors, hoping to sell the last of their fare before making their way home; aristocrats, promenading before taking their gondolas to dine with friends or attend a performance in the Opera Quartiere down in the Celestia Sestiere. Their talk was of the unusual cold and the approaching storm. Crossing the campo, I passed the Candlemakers Scuola, the place where one day I'd hoped to be formally admitted as a journeyman in the craft, before heading towards the taverna.

For a few days, without Pillar's knowledge, I had been making a second venture from the house and coming to the taverna on Quinn's behalf. It was our secret – the one thing that bonded us in the way that secrets, even those between sworn enemies, could.

The one small thing that made my present life tolerable was fetching Quinn's vino when her supply dried. It was a balancing act that I was learning to perfect. Sober, Quinn was increasingly nasty and looking to find fault. Inebriated, she was the same. But when she drank just a few vinos and moved into that threshold space between, she was almost pleasant.

Keeping my eyes lowered, I entered the taverna and made my way to the corner of the bar. It was full tonight and it wasn't until I reached the bar and glanced around that I saw why. I had walked into a viper's nest.

Dozens of soldiers were lounging on chairs or resting against stools. Most bore insignias that were unfamiliar to me, although I could see some were high-ranking officers from our sestiere, the Dorsoduro. The others I studied surreptitiously. Their uniforms were grand, bordering on decadent even: velvet frockcoats adorned by gold epaulettes, leather breeches, hose whiter than the snows that topped the Dolomites. Their conversation was loud, and it did not take me long to work out that these were men from the Doge's own troops; hundreds had been dispatched from both the palazzo and the garrisons of the Arsenale.

The Doge's grandson was missing – snatched, it was believed, from the nursery that morning. These men were all who remained of the officers sent to our island to search for clues. They were going over what they had achieved so far. Their men, it seemed, were busy combing the local campi, canals and piazzettas for information. They'd tried not to arouse the suspicions of locals, which explained why I'd neither seen a sign of their presence nor heard talk of what had happened before arriving. They did not want to alert the kidnappers that they were nearby.

I couldn't believe it. It was like something out of the stories I sometimes heard Pillar exchanging with the other candlemakers and the soap chandlers; or Quinn's gossip in the shop. It didn't seem real to me, these big men with their plush uniforms and refined manners. Their dark eyes missed nothing, not even me slouching in the corner.

And that was how Vincenzo di Torello, the proprietor of the taverna, found me – perched on a stool gawping at the officers from under my hat. I placed my order for Quinn's vino and turned my back on the room, sipping an ombretta from the small mug the Signor always put in front of me. I hoped he would be quick.

I listened to the conversation of the nearest officers.

'It couldn't be the Jinoans,' said a tall officer immediately to my right. I could just glimpse his long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and his thick eyebrows. 'They wouldn't have the balls, not after the defeat Doge Manin inflicted upon them.'

'Of course not. That was over forty years ago. We've been at peace since then,' exclaimed another officer.

'If you can call it that. All right, if not them, then who? The cowardly Kyprians?' asked a man sitting near the door. He had a deep drawling voice. I turned my head slightly and noticed that he had a thin moustache and even thinner hair. There was almost none left on top of his head.

'Did you hear what Nobile Abbazzio claimed?' chimed in another.

'Yes,' drawled the balding officer. 'That the kidnappers were not of this world.' There was laughter. 'And everyone knows Abbazzio's predilection for the bottle. I'd sooner believe a soothsayer.' More laughter.

'What about the rumour that the child has been taken into the Limen?' added a voice from across the room. It was Padre Foscari, the local priest. The laughter stopped.

'If that's the case, Padre,' said the officer with the thick eyebrows, 'then I doubt we'll see him again in this lifetime.'

'Not unless a Bond Rider comes to our aid,' said the balding officer.

'Unless it was a Bond Rider that took him?'

'For what purpose?' asked another officer. I couldn't help but notice him as he had rust-gold hair and blue eyes, unusual in Serenissima.

'Maybe not for his own,' said the first officer grimly.

'Then whose?'

'Maybe he's working for someone else?'

'Who?'

'An Estrattore, maybe?'

Hearing the word so casually deployed, my blood turned to ice before a rush of heat sped through my body, filling my cheeks with colour.

There were murmurs and some uneasy laughter. 'They're all gone,' said the balding officer. 'No-one's seen or heard of an Estrattore for over thirty years, not since the last one was unearthed and hung in the public piazza on Nobiles' Rise.'

'That's true. There's none left here in Serenissima any more,' said the first officer, taking a sip from his drink. 'But what about in the Limen?'

My heart was thudding painfully. I'd never heard anyone mention Bond Riders – let alone Estrattore – so openly. I longed to hear more. But the conversation shifted.

I did hear the word 'war' being bandied about. That was no surprise. Living in Serenissima, war was never far from anyone's mind. In my lifetime alone we'd clashed with the Kypians and Phalagonians. While our sestiere wasn't as affected as those closer to the seas beyond the lagoon, we still felt its impact. If there was a war, I wondered how Pillar and Quinn would hide me now I was of an age to fight.

But before I could focus on this thought, another conversation caught my attention. A woman's voice, clear but quiet, was asking questions of Signor Vincenzo.

Tall and lean, she wore what appeared to be a tight-fitting skirt and a fitted, functional shirt. It was hard to place her trade or her sestiere. I thought she might be an artist, or perhaps a mercenary. I had never seen anyone like her before. She leant casually against the bar, the tension in her body belying her apparent poise.

I tried not to be obvious in my scrutiny, risking tilting my hat so I could study her better. As if aware of my interest, she turned in my direction and her voice became audible to me as she spoke to the taverna proprietor. I quickly buried my chin in my chest but listened intently. Her questions made me want to draw closer. It took all my willpower to remain still.

'I have spent so many years searching; I am at my wit's end. Do you know of anyone, anyone at all who may know of whom I am speaking? For whom I am looking?'

Signor Vincenzo frowned. 'No, I don't think so ...' His voice petered out. Like most of the people in the quartiere, he was reluctant to talk about his neighbours with strangers, and this woman was clearly a stranger.

I couldn't help it. I slowly turned towards her. Almost immediately, I noticed something unexpected. It wasn't just her appearance; it was something intangible, outlandish even. I'd never come across it before. She was like an unfinished painting, or a candle without a wick. I don't know if anyone else was aware of it, but it was obvious to me. I found it hard to look away.

'I am here to reunite this child with its past,' she said.

Hope began to blossom in my chest. Could it be?

A finger trailed under her eyes, wiping away tears I did not see but heard in her voice. 'Can you help me? Anything you can tell me, anything at all, will be of value.' She leaned towards Signor Vincenzo. 'You do not know what I risk coming here.' Her eyes darted over her shoulder to the men lounging in the chairs.

I held my breath.

Signor Vincenzo started to bluster. He pulled a cloth out of his pocket and began to scrub the counter in small, busy circles. 'Ah, Signora, I am sorry to hear this. Today must be the day for lost children. First the Doge's little grandson and now this child you speak of. Perhaps where one is lost,' he indicated the soldiers, 'another can be found? Is it a boy you look for, or a girl? You have not made that clear.'

'No, I haven't. It's a girl,' said the woman slowly.

My heart contracted into a tight ball. I forgot to breathe.

'And how old did you say she is?'

'I didn't. But she would be fourteen, almost fifteen, by now.' She bowed her head and made a show of reminiscing. 'Such a long time to be apart from your family, don't you think?'

'Indeed,' said Vincenzo, pausing in his cleaning. 'A girl, you say? I'm sorry. I don't know any young women that age. Not now my own family has grown up.' He glanced around the taverna and, spying the person he was after, raised his voice. 'Enrico, do you know of any young girls around here?'

Enrico manoeuvred his way through the tables and deposited the soldiers' empty glasses on the bar. He was standing between me and the woman. My face grew hotter by the second. I quietly exhaled and tried to melt into the bar. The murmuring of the soldiers formed an uneasy descant to my thoughts.

'No, Zio. I don't mix with ragazze. I prefer women myself.' I could see his shoulders straighten as he thumped his chest.

Signor Vincenzo clicked his tongue in disgust. He rolled his eyes and spread his arms. 'I'm sorry I cannot be of more help, Signora, but it's hard when all I have working for me are relatives who are also oversexed buffoons.' He flicked a cloth at his nephew, who jumped out of reach with a chortle of glee.

The woman shrugged affably and turned to study the occupants of the taverna. I willed her not to look at me.

Signor Vincenzo returned to filling the vino bladder when a thought struck him. 'What am I thinking? Not all young men are like Enrico. Some know their place and understand that boys should not dabble in men's business.' He arched his eyebrow at Enrico who spluttered in disgust. 'Take young Tallow here. Unassuming, polite, could do with a good feed, hey? Some more meat and vino to deepen that voice, fill out that skinny chest?' He laughed and slapped his sides as if to take the sting out of his observations. I willed him to stop, to turn away. It did no good. Every word brought him closer.

'Do you know of any girls your age in the area? Anyone attract your attention, a fine lad like you? It's always the quiet ones who notice these things,' he said to no-one in particular. Only the bar divided us now. He waited for me to answer.

I could feel the woman's eyes lock onto me. Unable to help myself, I raised my chin and met her curious gaze. I looked at her with a thousand unanswered questions dancing in my eyes.

All at once, her face paled and she gasped. I didn't know what to do. My thoughts shattered into a million pieces; I struggled to find air. I spun away, knocking over my stool in the process. The rest of the room fell silent and I felt everyone staring at me. I, who tried so hard never to be seen, was suddenly the centre of attention.

'Well?' insisted Signor Vincenzo with an uncomfortable laugh. 'Who do you know, Tallow? A handsome young lad like you must know plenty of girls.'

Instead of giving a polite response or simply shaking my head, I did the most foolish thing of all.

I ran.

Even now, I wonder at my stupidity. What possessed me to do such a thing? I had always been so careful, so measured, when dealing with people. But this time, it was different. I had been faced with the reality of just how precarious my existence was – and not just by a staring stranger, but by the armed soldiers as well – and it frightened me deeply.

But that wasn't even the worst. As I clumsily ran from the taverna, the officers, suspecting everything but the truth, jumped to their feet and tried to grab me. Pillar had warned me that strange behaviour bred violent reactions and during times of crisis, this increased manyfold.

And this was one of those times. With the Doge's grandson missing, every suspicious word, every gesture, had to be investigated – even if it was only a gauche young boy fleeing awkward inquiries. In their minds, my flight response to the most innocent of queries proclaimed guilt.

Before I knew it, the officers were after me, spilling out of the taverna and into the campo, demanding that I stop. When it was clear I wasn't going to do it, they began shouting orders at each other. This, I'm sure, was what saved me. Unused to receiving orders, only giving them, the officers became confused and argumentative. I ran as fast as I could, neither stopping nor slowing. I almost bowled over a couple promenading in the campo and I knocked the basket out of an old woman's hands. But by then, I was far from the taverna.

When I thought it was safe, I backtracked slightly, entering a narrow ramo that I knew led to a bridge. Bent double, I climbed the steps and began to cross. I dared a look when I was only a short distance over. From there, I could see the corner of the campo where the taverna stood. There were some officers still loitering outside but, as I watched, they began heading off in all directions down the wide calle and into the rami. They couldn't be certain which way I'd exited. For anyone but a local, the maze of streets and alleys, never mind the numerous campi, all looked the same. I allowed myself a small, congratulatory smile. This quickly disappeared when I noticed the strange woman standing in the doorway to the taverna. Unlike the officers, she was neither perturbed nor confused. Instead, she was looking across the campo and down the canal, staring straight at me. I ducked, my heart leaping into my throat. When I braved another peek, there was no sign of her.

I didn't delay this time. I raced straight back home. And it was on the fondamenta between our house and the canal that I ran into Pillar and told him about the soldiers and the woman.

Trapped in my vat, I could do nothing but think. The soldiers worried me, but it was the woman who scared me the most. What did she want? What did she know? And why was she here, now, in our quartiere – and when I had only just discovered what I was? Ambivalence warred within me as I prayed that she would both find me and leave me well alone.

And then I remembered the worst thing of all. Whatever the officers asked Signor Vincenzo about the fleeing boy, I knew he would dissemble. Each quartiere protected its own. And he knew that I had nothing to do with the Doge's grandson, regardless of what those officers might think. But what about the woman? After all, unlike the soldiers, she knew my name.

Regardless of the questions that made my head spin, the answers would not be forthcoming. Not now. All I could do was wait.

I DIDN'T HAVE TO WAIT long.

Thudding and shouts soon filled my ears. I could hear the sound of boots on cobbles, fists on wood and the surly responses of our neighbours.

I tried to block out the noises, concentrating on controlling my fear. I slowly extended my arms to the sides of the barrel. While the tallow had been bitterly cold when I first climbed in, it was warm now, and smooth. It was as if I was suspended in a thick soup. I floated there, filling my mind with reassurances that I would be safe. And, as the minutes passed, I began to relax. I just knew that somehow the greasy-grey tallow would protect me.

Lost in my own world, I wasn't prepared when the workshop door burst open and in tramped a group of men. My stomach lurched. I sensed that two others entered through the interior shop door. I could feel them searching, imprudently touching, overturning, lifting and throwing. They didn't care what broke. They had a mission. I gritted my teeth at each crash and crunch. I wanted to shout at them to stop, to go away. I pressed my lips together tightly while a storm of bitter thoughts raged inside me.

'You'll not find what you're looking for in there, Officer,' Pillar called from the shop. I could hear the despair beneath his false bravado as wood shattered against a wall.

'This is a ridiculous waste of time,' muttered one of the soldiers. I recognised the drawl of the bald man.

'Stop complaining, Ziani,' grunted a voice from the far corner. I knew he was near the fire. 'No-one bolts like that for no reason. He was up to something, no matter what the old man in the taverna claimed, and I want to know what.'

I could hear them pulling troughs out from walls, upending barrels.

'Did you hear that?' asked a voice.

'What?'

Silence fell in the room.

'Have you noticed how cold it is in here?' said one of the men quietly. 'It's frostier than a night on the Dolomites.'

'Now that you mention it.'

'Not even the fire is throwing any heat,' noted the bald officer. 'There's something very odd about this workshop.'

'Let's get out of here.'

'Not yet. I want to see what's in here.'

A pair of boots stopped before the vat. Blood roared in my ears. A wail rose in my throat. I heard a scrape as the lid was tampered with. A shaft of light pierced the darkness.

A soldier peered into the vat. He was the one from the taverna with the sunset hair. He stared into my eyes and, reaching into the vat, scooped up a handful of tallow and let it drizzle over his fingers. 'Nothing here but grease.' He shook his hand and the excess flew into my face. 'It's warm.' The lid clattered back into place.

'There's something unnatural about this place,' came the voice from the door.

'You've allowed the talk in the taverna to infect your mind. We're wasting our time. Let's go,' said Ziani.

The boots retreated. Not just the pair beside my vat, but all of them. In silence they filed out of the workshop.

'You were right,' I heard one of the soldiers say. 'There was nothing there.' His voice was distant, detached.

'Well, if that will be all,' said Pillar nervously, sounding like he was trying to muster some authority. I could tell he was eager for the men to be gone.

I didn't hear them leave. I was trying to sort out what had just happened. Why hadn't the soldier seen me? I'd wished him away, all of them. Coldly and with such vehemence, I'd wished they'd all leave and that I would remain undiscovered and Pillar and Quinn safe. And it had worked. But why hadn't he seen me?

I still was trying to figure out what had occurred when I heard Pillar call. At first I thought he was telling me it was safe to come out.

I only realised too late it was a cry of warning.

With none of the usual preliminaries, the lid flew off the vat and, with a strength I didn't know she possessed, Quinn hauled me out and onto the floor. I slid across the sawdust, coming to rest against the side of a trough.

The last thing I remember was the toe of her boot swinging towards my face.

CHAPTER SIX
A visitor in the night

THE STORM WAS RELENTLESS. BUILT up over a period of weeks, it unleashed its fury over the island country of Serenissima. Not one sestiere was spared. Rain thrashed the streets and tumbled into the canals. The water rose rapidly, flooding calles, markets and piazzettas. Some of the low-lying islands, those closer to Nobiles' Rise, had to be sandbagged. Butchers worked side by side with nobiles, soldiers with philosophers, children with courtesans, all intent on saving their homes and livelihoods. Lightning flung itself out of the sky and for days afterwards, people spoke in hushed tones of huge fires blazing on the mountains, fanned by the wind but not quenched by the rain. The Doge's fleet, anchored at the Arsenale, was tossed together and sustained so much damage it would be weeks before the ships were fit to sail again. Private craft, tied to their striped palines, were torn adrift as the water rose. Trees were uprooted, houses blown over and lives lost. But what disturbed the people most were the bells in the disused Basilica Estrattore that, once the wind started, tolled the entire night.

Sorcery, some said. The wrath of forgotten gods, warned others, sent to punish us for neglecting them over the last centuries. But these notions were muttered quietly, among friends and families, huddled together for protection by hearths, away from unfriendly ears that would construe heresy where there was only superstition.

A DISCORDANT HOWLING SERENADED ME back into the waking world. The tempest raging outside echoed how I felt as I lay there, trying to recall the events of the last few hours and take stock. My room was utterly dark. I could not see the hand I waved in front of my eyes, so I set about exploring the wreckage of my body by touch. My fingers were stiff, cramped with pain as I slowly tracked the course of Quinn's fury. The distant rumble of thunder and the crash of falling masonry accompanied the discovery of each new bruise and fresh cut. Faint cries and screams attended the violent song of the rain. I could even hear the clanging of heavy bells. Lights began to dance before my eyes and I tried to imagine that I was lying beneath a starry canopy far from my room. But the pain was too great; it steered my imaginings away from the firmament and back to my wounds.

Slowly, I propped myself on an elbow and tried to sit up. My head began to spin and the contents of my stomach rose into my throat. With almost no warning, I vomited all over the floor. I wanted to weep, but I couldn't – not yet. I tried to stand up, to move away from my shame, but I was shivering so hard, my legs refused to cooperate.

A sharp wind whistled through the attic, driving into my flesh and making my torn, sodden clothes cling even more tightly to my broken and bloodied skin. I managed to get to my knees and began to claw the blackness, trying to locate my mattress or my chest, something that would guide me towards my tinderbox. But the familiar had suddenly become strange. The storm grew louder, seizing my senses, shouting at me to surrender. I had no intention of challenging anything or anyone. I needed help and light. I felt a sob build inside me, expanding my ribcage; I cried out as agony exploded. I clutched my side. Where was everyone? Why had Pillar left me alone up here in the cold, hurt and terrified?

Unable to orientate myself, I sat back down. The attic floor was drenched. If it hadn't been for the familiar smell of damp and rats, I would have sworn I'd been caught and thrown in the Doge's dungeon.

I tried to regulate my breathing, calm myself. As I did, I became aware that a window had been left wide open and the rain was pouring in. Agony or not, I couldn't allow this to continue. I braced for my body's response and struggled to my feet stumbling against the pane, clumsily pulling it shut. I almost lost consciousness as the room spun. I grabbed the sill for support. The force of the water as it lashed the thick glass was fierce. There was something unnatural about the elements tonight.

A scrabbling noise to my right distracted me. It stopped for a moment and then continued. 'Hello.' My voice sounded strained, ruined. The rats were struggling to get into the barrels, out of the cold, away from potential harm. They too were afraid. My heart contracted. They didn't understand. I lowered myself onto my hands and knees. My temples were aflame and my ribs protested with every breath. Crawling towards where I thought my bed was, I could not comprehend the amount of water on the floor. Why, there must be at least an inch.

Instead of my bed, I ploughed into one of the empty barrels. It didn't matter; I knew where I was now. I pulled myself upright and prised off the lid. Sure enough, sitting under some old sacks were my blankets. Pillar must have hidden them when the soldiers came. I pulled one of them over the lip and wrapped it around my shoulders. I reached deeper into the barrel and, propped on one of the internal ribs, found a rush light and my tinderbox. I grasped them tightly and, with shaking fingers, tried to extract the spill and flint. I was about to strike the flint when raised voices below stayed my trembling hand. Pillar and Quinn were arguing again and I had no doubt what it was about. Their voices were harsh above the rain.

I finally managed to light the candle. I held the light aloft and examined the room by its dull nimbus. My bed had moved slightly, but the chest was still in place. There was water everywhere; bits of rubbish and the contents of my stomach floated in eddies. I felt it flip again.

Just then, another voice cut over Pillar and Quinn's. I forgot my nausea.

'You can deny it all you like, but I happen to know Tallow's here.'

It was the woman from the taverna.

Before I could move, footsteps echoed on the staircase and the door to the attic burst open. Dim light from the kitchen below filtered into the room.

Startled, I dropped the rushlight into the water. Its flame extinguished with a slight hiss as I slid behind the barrel. 'You have no right to come here!' screeched Quinn from the bottom of the stairs. 'We don't want your kind in our house!'

'No?' said the woman. I heard a splash as she stepped into the water. 'What kind is it that you do want?'

There was a flash. The woman had drawn a dagger.

It took her seconds to find me; I didn't stand a chance. Instead of being dragged out as I expected, the woman reached for me ever so gently and with cautious tugs, led me towards the doorway. Much to my discomfort, she studied my face. I learned later that a livid bruise stretched all the way from my temple to my chin. I knew my left eye had swollen shut and the split across my lips, only just healed, had opened again. My tongue worried it, tasting blood. My body began to tremble uncontrollably; my legs to buckle.

The woman's hand on my arm allowed me to feel the emotions building inside her. They exploded in a hoarse rush.

'By the gods! What have you done to her?'

'Her? We keep telling you, there are no girls in this house. This ain't no her. It's a him. And he only got what he deserved,' mumbled Quinn, who had mounted the stairs and now leant against the doorframe, arms crossed defiantly.

In one swift movement, the woman released me. I fell against the wall as she brought her knife to rest under Quinn's neck. The blade sank into the loose flesh there. Behind his mother, Pillar cried out, but the woman held up her hand, making him freeze in his stride. Quinn gave a small shriek that was quickly cut off as the blade sank deeper.

'Spare me!' she whimpered. 'It wasn't me, I tell you. In the name of God, I swear, I didn't touch him. I wouldn't! Not dear little Tallow. It was him.' Her eyes darted towards Pillar who stood a few steps down, arms folded, his lips firmly pressed together. 'He did it.' With a sinking heart, I realised Pillar had no intention of defending himself.

'So,' said the woman with a low chuckle. 'You really do think I'm stupid, don't you. You, whose boots match the pattern imprinted on the child's cheek. You, whose cheap jewellery –' she lifted Quinn's fingers, the stone in her ring catching the light, and let them drop '– is marred by dried blood, did not do this? You, who possess talons for nails and a temper to match?' She pressed herself against Quinn, forcing her back against the wall opposite me. 'You, who reek of spirits and ill-will towards the child, did not do this to her?'

Quinn lowered her eyes. Blood trickled down her neck and dripped onto her dress.

'I did it for his own good. To teach him a lesson.'

'A lesson! Is that what you call it? What sort of lesson does this teach?' Her free arm gestured towards me, propped upright by my grip on the doorframe. 'No. You're nothing but a coward and a bully. You would even turn against your son rather than face the consequences of your actions.' The woman snarled, her face transforming. 'Listen to me very carefully, Quinnatta Pelleta –'

'How do you know my name?' gasped Quinn.

The woman laughed. 'I know everything about you and let me tell you, if you ever lay a finger on this child again, by the gods, by your God, I'll have your head. Do you understand?' Before Quinn could reply, the woman drew her blade along Quinn's neck. At first nothing happened, and then blood began to flow.

'Mamma!' Pillar wailed in horror and ran to her. 'Leave her alone!' he cried, pushing her assailant with his shoulder. Stepping out of the way, the woman slowly wiped and then sheathed her weapon.

Quinn put her hands to her neck and when she saw the blood that stained them, she swayed. Pillar caught her just in time.

'Y– you don't understand,' he stammered. 'How could you? You, who have nothing to fear –'

'Nothing?' the woman sneered. 'How little your kind understands.' She looked contemptuously at Quinn. 'Get her out of my sight.' Pillar ignored her at first, pulling out the ends of his shirt and using it staunch the blood. The woman clicked her tongue in exasperation. 'It's only a flesh wound. It'll stop bleeding. It's certainly no worse than what's she's inflicted on this child.'

She turned back to face me, the energy of her earlier actions controlled as she slowly cupped my face and tilted it towards the light again. I winced as she rotated my chin. 'More than a few times, from the look of these scars. Get her away before I change my mind and take her head now!' Pillar scooped his sobbing mother into his arms. 'And then join us. I need to talk to you.'

She waited until Pillar had left the attic before she spoke again. 'Are you all right to walk?' The kindness in her voice brought tears to my eyes. My chest became heavy, my throat tight. Only Pillar had ever spoken to me like that before, and only when we were alone. I couldn't respond – the words wouldn't come, not yet. I nodded.

'Come then, we'll get you downstairs in front of the fire, tend your wounds and feed you.' She arched an eyebrow. 'But not before we wash you. You stink!'

It was then I realised I was covered in filth – grease, sawdust and strings of vomit. I glanced over her shoulder at the floor. 'I was sick.'

'I can see that,' said the woman. 'With everything you've been through today, I'm not surprised. You need care and rest – lots of it!' The woman looked me up and down, the gentlest of smiles on her lips. 'So, you're called Tallow?' The woman looked at me so boldly, unafraid, relaxed even. It took my breath away.

'Y– yes.'

Before I could move out of reach, she ran a finger down my arm. My nerves were aflame. She lifted it to the light, examining the grey fat and grit that coated the tip. 'How appropriate,' she said. 'Unoriginal, but appropriate.' She smiled again and I found my lips curling until the split on my lip tightened; I winced, my hand rushing to my mouth to prevent any sound escaping. 'Come on,' said the woman, frowning, but not in anger. 'Your wounds won't heal themselves. Not yet, anyway. The old bitch has seen to that.'

Wrapping an arm around my waist, she practically carried me down the stairs. While I wanted to focus on the feel of her body next to mine, her warmth and strength, I couldn't move past what she'd called Quinn. I didn't know whether to discourage or cheer her. I was dumbfounded by the turn of events. For some reason, this miserable night had brought a champion to my room. But I decided that I would keep my counsel, at least until I knew why this woman was here.

'By the way, my name's Katina,' said the woman as we reached the kitchen. She pulled a chair closer to the fire and sat me in it. She kneeled beside me. She was so tall that our faces were level. I immediately lowered my head and dropped my eyes, but my heart fluttered. Katina placed a strong finger under my chin and forced it up. 'Look at me,' she whispered. 'Don't be afraid.'

I grew hot and then cold. My pulse pounded in my ears. But something within me began to respond to Katina's coaxing. Against my better judgement, against all that I'd had drummed into me my entire life, I threw aside caution and slowly returned her earnest gaze.

There was a sharp intake of breath. 'By the gods!' said Katina, staring. 'I thought I was right when I saw you at the taverna, but I never expected ... What the legend says is true. The child with mirror eyes.' She placed her warm palms on either side of my face and gave a long, heartfelt sigh. 'Do you know how much trouble you've put me through, young lady?'

'I'm no lady ... I'm a –'

Katina cut me off. 'You can stop that particular pretence right now, my girl. I know exactly what you are and so do you. It's time at least to think of yourself as female. You owe yourself that.'

I wanted to leap from my seat and run into the night. I wanted to put as much distance between me and this woman's treacherous words as I possibly could. My mind raced, my body tingled. I wanted to deny her, accuse her, most of all escape her. But another part of me whispered of liberation. Somewhere, deep in my heart, something unlocked. I allowed myself, for the first time in memory, to feel – not only my body, but my real self. The me I'd kept buried and hidden my whole life. It was not Katina I needed to fight, it was myself.

I screwed up my eyes as my lips began to tremble. I slowly raised my hands until they covered Katina's. She gave a soft gasp and with great care slipped them out from under mine until my own flesh rested against my battered face.

Tears spilled and trickled over the back of my hands. I followed their course with my fingers, ignoring their sting. A huge sigh escaped me and I opened my eyes. It was over. My masquerade was finished.

'You're right. I ... I'm a girl.' The idea was strange, foreign. I wasn't even sure I liked it very much. 'I'm a girl.'

Katina gave a half-laugh that sounded more like a cry. 'Ah, my poor ragazza. What have they done?' As she leaned closer and pressed her forehead against mine, I allowed my hands to drop into my lap. 'I've been to hell and back for you.' Katina's fingers replaced mine once more and, as she stroked my cheeks, I winced. Her calloused fingers passed over bruises and grazes, but I relished the unaccustomed caresses.

I didn't know what to say to her. 'I'm sorry,' I finally whispered and closed my eyes again. The weight of Katina's forehead pressed against my own. It was warm, reassuring; a melding of flesh and perhaps, I fancied, even minds. Katina's breath circled my cheeks, the silkiness of her hair tickled my nose. I sat perfectly still, not daring to speak, to breathe, lest the moment end, lest my confession be proved false somehow and break this unaccustomed intimacy.

'Don't be sorry. I'm not,' said Katina finally. 'Not now – about anything.' My eyes flew open and she sighed deeply and then smiled. I noticed she had a dimple. 'You see, Tallow, I've been waiting for you for a long, long time.' So many lifetimes.

And then this strange, wonderful woman did the most shocking thing of all. She released my face abruptly, sat back on her knees and, taking my filth-coated hand in her own, she kissed it.

CHAPTER SEVEN
Secrets revealed

I COULDN'T MOVE. I JUST sat there. The soft pressure of Katina's lips against the back of my hand and the tender touch of her fingers in mine made me shiver. I didn't want the sensations to stop. But they did. She rose and, with a pragmatism that belied her last gesture, slapped and pulled her skirt into some kind of order before striding into the kitchen to take stock of what was there.

I knew that particular moment would be burnt into my memory forever.

Pillar rejoined us only when I was clean and wrapped in a blanket, my cuts dressed and my ribs bandaged. I was sipping a mug of cafe – something I'd only ever tasted a few times in my life. Katina had even added something from a small flask she kept in a satchel she'd brought with her. It made my insides burn.

'Do you want some?' Katina offered Pillar as he closed the door at the end of the room and stood behind the chair opposite mine.

Ignoring Katina, he addressed me. 'She's sleeping now. The cut wasn't as bad as it looked. Long but not deep.' I watched Pillar's fingers march along the back of the chair before they closed around the wood in a white-knuckled grip. 'It's the shock more than anything. No-one has ever done anything like that to her before.' His eyes slid to where Katina now sat, a tic in his cheek working rhythmically as he spoke.

'Maybe if they had, she wouldn't be so free with her hands and feet,' said Katina. Not waiting for Pillar to respond, she poured another mug of cafe, adding a generous splash from her flask. 'Come on, sit down. I know you're furious with me, but it's hard to tell you anything with you standing over me like a thundercloud.'

Pillar glanced towards his mother's room, at me, then at Katina. Emotions played across his face, colour flooded his cheeks, but he pulled out the chair he was holding and sat down hard. Katina pushed the mug towards him.

Pillar stared at it for a moment and then took a cautious swallow. He coughed a bit and smacked his lips appreciatively. Again, he addressed me, talking to a point just over my shoulder as was his custom. 'Makes a difference, a little bit of spirit in the cafe. Warms you up. Good for the soul on a wild night like this.'

Katina didn't seem to be at all concerned by Pillar's lack of manners. On the contrary, she studied the room – whether in disdain or appreciation, I couldn't tell. The fire played against her auburn hair, throwing a glowing halo around her head, making her seem even more mystical and unreal than she already did. She had enormous brown eyes that were speckled with silver. Strange eyes. They missed nothing and I could see by the way she was scrutinising Pillar that she was constructing a history for him. Slender, she was also muscular. Veins ran in cords along her forearm and wrist, newly defined as she lifted the mug. She hesitantly placed her full mouth against the rim and tipped the mug. Her cheeks changed shape as she tasted the drink, savouring it before drinking like a thirsty sailor. She wasted no time refilling her mug and emptying it again. She must have been parched.

It was hard to tell how old she was. There was something timeless about her. I don't know how else to describe it. She was lined, not in the weary way that Pillar and Quinn were, but in a way that made me think of sunshine and darkness all at once. And, as I'd noticed in the taverna, there was something incomplete about her. The strength of her personality was almost overwhelming, but what I sensed lacking was more to do with spirit – as though she'd exhausted some ephemeral part of herself that could never be recovered. I wondered who she was and why she was here. And, above all, I wondered why she'd kissed my hand.

'Drink up, boy,' said Pillar, nodding towards my cafe. 'It's good.' He'd all but finished his.

'You can drop the pretence, candlemaker,' said Katina, her lips curling into a half-smile. 'Tallow and I have already had this conversation. I know she's a girl. Why, she's practically got breasts.'

I almost dropped my mug. Pillar did. It fell from his frozen fingers and rolled on the floor before coming to stop before the fire. He didn't pick it up. He just stared at Katina, his tic working overtime. Katina was right. I had breasts – small ones, yes, but breasts all the same. They were bandaged flat to my chest under my shirt. My hands rose self-consciously, as if to protect them.

'What do you mean?' asked a horrified Pillar.

'Come on! You can't be that ignorant! The girl's growing, changing. Why do you think she's suddenly started broadcasting her abilities all over the place? Why do you think that after fourteen long years of searching, I was finally able to find her?'

We both stared at Katina. I tried to hide the anticipation rising within me. Pillar forced a blank expression onto his face.

Katina looked from me to Pillar and back again. She groaned and dropped her head into her hands. 'Of course,' she mumbled. 'Now I am being stupid. You either don't know what you are or, if you do, you're not going to admit it, are you?'

I hesitated. If I answered either of her questions, we'd all be in trouble. If I stayed silent, she would think me a fool and judge Pillar more harshly than I sensed she already had. Instead, I dissembled.

'I'm not sure what you mean. I'm a girl ... and I'm a candlemaker's apprentice.'

Katina sank back in the chair and shook her head. 'We're not going to play this game, are we?' Neither Pillar nor I answered. 'Right. That's all you are. A girl, masquerading as a boy, who makes candles.'

I shrugged.

'Why do you disguise her as a boy?' The question was aimed at Pillar.

He shrugged. 'It seemed the right thing to do. And, anyway –'

'Yes?' prompted Katina.

'When I first found her there were some very odd people, soldier types and others, looking for a baby girl. We didn't want them to take her. So, we figured, Mamma and me, that if we said we had a boy, we wouldn't be bothered by them – and we were right.'

'That's not the only reason though, is it?' persisted Katina. 'Boys can be put to work. Girls, well. Apart from domestic duties, they just cost money, don't they?'

'Well, yes, I guess.' Pillar flashed me a guilty look. 'But you're putting words in my mouth. I didn't care what Tallow was, boy or girl. I wanted to keep him ... her. I wanted to teach her. The child has real talents. He ... she,' he corrected again, 'would have earnt her keep, no matter what.'

Katina arched a brow. 'And what sort of talents are these, Tallow?'

I didn't answer immediately. The question was designed to trip me up. 'I don't know,' I began cautiously. 'I'm good at making candles. At least, I was.' Memories of my recent efforts taunted me.

She tipped her head and regarded me solemnly. 'Let me tell you what I think. I think you know you're ... let's say, different. That you're capable of doing things, wonderful scary things, but you don't know how to control the urge to do them or what happens afterwards.'

'I don't know what you mean,' I said belligerently.

Katina stifled a laugh. 'Oh, come on. You're telling me you don't feel what others are feeling? That whenever you touch an object, its entire history, its emotional and physical life, its very essence, doesn't burn its way into your own heart and mind? Are you going to tell me that you can't catch hold of those feelings and make them stronger or change them? And that this hasn't been happening more over the past few weeks?'

How could she know so much? I tried to keep my astonishment and fear from showing.

'Your guardians know.' She jabbed a finger towards Pillar. 'They know what you are and what one day, with the right training, you'll be capable of doing. All Serenissians do. That's why you're forbidden from meeting people, from looking at them. That's why you've been beaten ...'

'That's not true. It was only –' began Pillar, and then stopped.

My heart began to thump so hard that it caused me both pleasure and pain. At last, my curiosity was being assuaged. Pillar's protests were meaningless. This woman knew – she knew it all. The question was, how? And why was she here?

'Tallow keeps her head bowed,' Katina pressed on, 'and her eyes lowered. You trained her well – or should I say, you made her too afraid to do anything else.' She flashed Pillar an accusatory look. 'But when you know what you're looking for, eyes like that stand out. Yet it was still a while before I got to stare into them, before I knew for certain.' No-one spoke. The fire crackled. Katina reached down and picked up Pillar's mug. Banging the residue out of it, she refilled it. This time, she left out the cafe.

'Knew what?' I asked quietly, knowing deep down what I would hear.

'That you, my dear Tallow, are an Estrattore.'

Pillar drew his breath in sharply. Outside, the rain fell in a steady rhythm against the window. The wind roared, yet it didn't come close to matching the noise in my ears.

There, someone else had said it.

I am an Estrattore. An outcast, a heretic; one of those doomed by law to die. I summoned my courage. If Katina was right, then I wanted to know exactly what I was. 'Who are the Estrattore?' I asked. 'What are they? What am I?'

Katina rose to her feet and took time to gather her thoughts. Finally, she turned towards me. 'Estrattore are born, not made,' she said. 'They're part of an ancient bloodline, one, according to legend, that descends from the original inhabitants of this world of Vista Mare – the first gods.'

'You mean God,' muttered Pillar. 'There's only one.'

Katina ignored him. 'It's said they carry the old magic deep in their blood. The power of the ancient gods themselves.'

Magic! I couldn't believe I'd heard that word uttered under this roof.

I heard Pillar mutter a prayer. I wasn't sure if it was because Katina dared to speak so openly of pagan gods or the Estrattore. But I knew he considered her words blasphemous.

I didn't. I relished every single one of them. Even though they scared me, these words were starting to fill the enormous blank that was my life until now.

Katina changed tack. 'It used to be easy to tell an Estrattore from everyone else. All Estrattore are born with silver eyes. It's said they don't look out on the world the way ordinary mortals do, but inwards, to its very core.' She leant towards me. 'Your eyes are the purest silver I have ever seen. They reflect everything – objects, people.' She tore her gaze away.

'Seeing you now, I can understand why those not expecting to find an Estrattore wouldn't have seen one. It would be easy to convince someone they were mistaken.' She glanced towards Pillar. 'Hasn't anyone ever been curious about Tallow?'

Pillar raised his head. 'Not really. As you pointed out, he – she – knows to avoid people, to hide her face – those eyes – to look the other way, not to draw attention to herself. There have been no awkward questions, only observations. That he's unusually shy, gauche, immature, a bit small for his age.' He sighed. 'We didn't enlighten them.'

Katina nodded. 'Wise of you.'

We fell into an uncomfortable silence. I didn't like it, there was too much I wanted to know.

'I thought all the Estrattore were killed or forced into the Limen,' I said matter-of-factly, defensively almost.

'That's right,' agreed Katina.

'Well, what am I doing here?' I asked.

'You're here because of a Bond Rider.'

'A Bond Rider!' Almost everyone gossiped about Bond Riders, but it was mostly hearsay. No-one really knew what happened to them once they made their pledges and entered the Limen – at least, not any more. They were the subject of much private speculation and curiosity, but rarely spoken about openly. But now that Katina mentioned them, I found something tugged at my memory. A dark, windswept night, bitter cold, caustic whispers of death. It was if the images were lodged deep in the walls of the room.

Pillar half-rose out of his seat. There was a wild look in his eyes. I thought he was going to insist Katina stop, but he remained mute. He sank back into his seat and closed his eyes.

It would be a long time before I found out what it was that had alarmed Pillar – a long time indeed.

'What was his or her Bond?' I asked.

'It's not polite to ask that question,' said Katina. She hesitated. 'Let's just say, that a Rider – Filippo was his name – along with some other Bond Riders, found a child. A very special child. But then, they found them.'

'Who?' I asked.

'The Morte Whisperers.' At the mention of their name, the fire guttered and the room darkened. A shutter blew open. I jumped. Pillar leapt to his feet and quickly closed it, bolting it from the inside.

'Morte Whisperers,' I repeated. Once again, I felt that familiar tug at my memory. Repressed images snapped at the edges of my consciousness. 'I've never heard of them. What are they?' I cast a glance in Pillar's direction, but he just shook his head and shrugged.

'Servants of death, soul-slayers. Call them what you will. They're unnatural creatures, summoned from realms beyond our own; they haunt and hunt a soul until they are no more.' The light from the fire made her hair and eyes blaze.

Pillar broke his silence. 'And these Morte Whisperers, they were after the Riders?'

'No.' She turned away from the fire, her face thrown into darkness. 'Not the Riders. They were after the child.' She looked directly at me. 'They were after you.'

My heart seized. I placed my hands around the mug, drawing comfort from its warmth. I didn't dare speak. I didn't dare think.

Katina began pacing the room. 'Filippo took the child and tried to escape. But he couldn't. He was left with no choice. He gave the child to someone he thought could protect her.' She swung to face Pillar. 'He gave the child to you.'

Pillar's face paled. 'I didn't know about those Morte creatures. But I reckon I felt them.' His eyes glazed for a moment as he dragged long-buried memories into the present. He gave an involuntary shudder. 'I think it's time for me to tell my tale. It might take some time.'

Katina sat in the chair opposite, turning expectantly towards Pillar.

It took him a while to find the courage to speak. Slowly, and with great care not to upset me, Pillar told his version of that night on the mountain. Katina never took her eyes off Pillar.

Neither did I.

There were gaps in his story, and I knew there was something he wasn't telling. But, when he finished, Pillar pressed his lips firmly together. For now his tale would lack an ending – or a beginning, I was uncertain which.

Absorbing what she'd been told, Katina sank into her chair. 'I always thought Filippo would last longer in Vista Mare. It must have been too much, all the crossings he made in an attempt to outwit the Morte Whisperers and the oth– To ensure the future. His life-force must have been spent.' She stopped and seemed to collect herself, remembering where she was and to whom she was speaking.

My imagination burned with thoughts and images. My curiosity about the Bond Riders wasn't sated by these snippets of information, but rather fuelled. I could see that Pillar was hanging on her every word as well. I didn't want to interrupt with the questions I was so eager to ask lest she stop talking. I waited, forcing myself to keep completely still.

'All these years,' she continued, 'I believed he'd taken you to someone who would recognise what you were and nurture your talent, prepare you. No wonder it's taken me so long to find you. I was looking in the wrong places.' She laughed. 'A candlemaker. Who would have thought?'

Her laugh was harsh, false even. I thought of Quinn.

Shaken, I slowly stood, biting my tongue as my body protested and pain shot through my limbs, and threw another piece of wood on the fire. 'How come you were looking for me?' I asked over my shoulder. 'You still haven't told us that.'

Katina took a long drink from her flask and then poured some more into all of our mugs. I returned to my chair. 'Because, just like Filippo, I have no choice.'

I looked at her quizzically.

'I am also a Bond Rider.' My heart quickened. 'And, like my brother, I am Bonded to you, Tallow.'

'To me?' I whispered. The room began to contract around me and my heart beat loudly in my ears. 'Why would a Rider Bond to me?'

Katina didn't seem to hear. 'Only, unlike my poor Filippo, after all this time I now have the chance to fulfil my Bond.'

'How?'

'I ... I've been told I must try to train you, Tallow. As for the rest of my Bond,' she shrugged and went to the window. 'All I know is that you are the key to so many things, and that I must prepare you for what lies ahead.'

'And what is that?' I asked softly.

Katina gave a twisted smile. 'The usual – war, heartache and, hopefully, return.'

'Of the Estrattore?'

Before she could respond, Pillar interjected. 'How can you train her?' He rose and joined her. The rain lashed the window. 'For what purpose?' Then a thought occurred to him. 'By God! Are you an Estrattore, too?' Pillar took a step backwards, bumping into the wall.

'Not exactly,' said Katina, smiling. 'But I am the descendant of one. I have been given enough knowledge to unleash many of Tallow's latent abilities and train her in ways to hide them as well. For when an Estrattore reaches puberty – in the case of a girl, menarche – then she also starts to come into her powers. That's why I was able to sense you. To one trained to look, traces of your abilities are everywhere. You've lost your first blood, have you not?'

I lowered my eyes and remembered that time, over six weeks ago, when I'd awoken with severe cramps and found my mattress stained with blood. I nodded. It had been frightening the first time, but Quinn had told me it was normal. The curse of our kind, she'd said. I wasn't sure what she meant, but just accepted there was nothing untoward occuring. It had only happened twice so far and wasn't hard to hide.

Pillar coughed. Katina struck the table in triumph. 'Then that explains why I sensed you. And why others can, too. We have to be very careful from now on.'

Recollections of hunger-filled whispers and that overwhelming sense of being watched filled my mind. I shuddered and wrapped my blanket tightly about me.

Folding her arms, Katina regarded me critically. 'It's a good thing you disguised her as a boy, Pillar. Him. I mean him. I have to remember that from now on. I will adopt your way. Refer to Tallow and think of you only as a boy. You might be a woman, but we'll work hard to make you a man. It might be the only thing that keeps you safe.'

I shrugged. I'd never thought of myself as other than a boy, so whatever Katina did made no difference to me. I'd already begun strapping my chest and my shirts and vest were big anyway. I was a boy – a strange boy, perhaps – and I didn't know how to be anything else.

'I just hope that today doesn't trigger more omicidi, more allegations and murders of innocents,' said Katina, more to herself than to me or Pillar. 'The soldiers weren't looking for Estrattore; they were searching for kidnappers.'

'Do you know anything about the kidnapping?' I asked.

Katina didn't answer me immediately; instead she went to the window and stared into the night. 'Me? No, why should I? It was just a coincidence, that's all.'

There was something about the way Katina answered – her flippancy and lightness of tone – that didn't ring quite true.

Before I could question her further, she continued. 'They may have been tracking the Doge's grandson, but the Estrattore weren't far from the soldiers' minds, they never are. If I could feel you, chances are there will be someone out there who is trained to look, a padre or someone who may yet report back to –' She paused when she saw the look of concern on Pillar's face. 'I'm sorry. In my excitement, I grew careless. It's my fault the soldiers came here.'

'It wouldn't have made a difference,' I reassured her. 'I've been taught not to engage with strangers, no matter what. You would have had to force me to interact with you.'

'Who do you think might be searching for Tallow?' Pillar interjected. 'What do they want? One Estrattore is not a threat, surely?' Pillar took a step closer to the table, more at ease with Katina now he knew she was only the descendant of an Estrattore.

'Good questions,' said Katina. 'They're ones I keep asking myself. Though let's not forget the poor man they accused all those years ago. He wasn't even an Estrattore, yet he might as well have been. They didn't hesitate to kill him. As for those searching for Tallow, it could be the Doge, or someone connected to him. Remember, it was the Church that persuaded old Doge Alvisio all those centuries ago to get rid of the Estrattore in the first place, convinced him they were a threat and their practices and beliefs heretical. Even now, there are people in the clergy trained to detect them.'

I recalled Padre Foscari in the taverna that afternoon. Clearly, he had been working with the soldiers. I repressed a shudder. Was he one of those trained to find and destroy Estrattore?

'The padres are the worst,' said Katina, seeming to read my mind. 'They're afraid of what will happen should the Estrattore ever return; if the legend comes true.'

'Legend? What legend?' Pillar resumed his seat and picked up his mug. He downed the contents in one mouthful.

'I'm not surprised you haven't heard of it. It's in the Church's best interest that it's kept secret. But those with access to archives – the nobiles, philosophers and others within the Church with an interest – know it well. The legend says that one day, an Estrattore more powerful and dangerous than ever before will be born into the world. This Estrattore will unite and lead the exiles triumphantly home and, in so doing, will restore balance to the world.'

'The world is out of balance?' Pillar wondered 'What do you mean? How can you say that?'

Katina raised her eyebrows and leant towards Pillar. Her eyes glowed. 'You need to ask? Can't you feel it?'

Outside I heard the wind screaming. The rain lashed the building, and thunder and lightning tore apart the sky. And, beneath it all, like a persistent melody, was a chorus of murmurs. Faint but nonetheless discernible, it hissed and moaned. The words were not clear, but their meaning was. My head filled with images of dying children, weeping sores and a barren vista of ruins scorched by a pestilent sun. I knew by the expression on Pillar's face that he saw them too. They transformed into pictures of dried canal beds, filled to the brim with bloated toads feeding on swollen corpses.

I shuddered and deep inside me I felt the lure of capitulation. Don't fight it. It's all inevitable. Nothing can be changed. After all, death comes to everyone, eventually.

'The world is out of balance,' repeated Katina.

The whispers ceased.

'And the legend says this child can restore it by bringing the Estrattore back?' asked Pillar, his words slightly slurred.

'Indeed, it does.'

'Do you believe in the legend?' I asked.

Katina looked at me carefully. 'I do now, with all my heart.'

'Who ... who is this child, then?' I already knew the answer, but I needed to hear it from this strong woman's mouth.

'Haven't you been listening to a word I said?' Katina shook her head at me, but I could see she wasn't angry.

'It's me, isn't it?' My voice was too small for such a large task.

'Indeed, it is you.'

CHAPTER EIGHT
On the Mariniquian
Seas

'HE'S DEAD. YOU'VE KILLED HIM,' cried Lord Beolin Waterford as he strode across the deck, oblivious to the stares of the sailors or the sting of the sea spray slapping his face.

A tall, cloaked figure standing alone on the poop deck swung at the sound of his voice. Lord Waterford bounded up the steps towards him and then faltered, blame written all over his face.

'You exaggerate, my Lord,' hissed the figure from beneath his hood. 'He is not dead. He is merely severely incapacitated.'

'Why is there no pulse then?' persisted the flustered nobleman. 'I cannot find a pulse. Explain that to me, if you dare, because you'll certainly have to explain it to Queen Zaralina.'

The skeletal being began to shake. He was laughing. Waterford bristled. 'Do not mock me. I don't understand your ways, but I know you've woven your dark magic over the lad and taken the gods know what from him. Unless we bring him to Her Highness alive, then all this has been for nothing.'

His arm swept the deck of the swift Kyprian corsair, the ship they had hired from a merchant who had been not only keen to take their gold but curious about their purpose. Moments after they'd left the isle of Kyprus, their local agent had ensured the merchant did not live to speak of the transaction. Lord Waterford imagined his bloated body was little more than fish bait now.

A gust of wind swept Lord Waterford's hood from his head and his cloak billowed behind him. He quickly pulled the hood back over his hair and held his cloak together with one hand; his other never released its clawlike grip on the rails. By the gods, he thought, glancing at the tortured sky and the tossing seas, it was as if the elements themselves were shouting disapproval at their unnatural deed. Glancing at his companion, he noticed that neither the creature's hood nor cloak even fluttered in the savage winds.

Unnatural indeed, he brooded.

The creature gave Lord Waterford a mock bow. 'As you are well aware, the boy breathes. He is comfortable; he is safe. That is all that matters. His heart is not your concern.'

Turning aside, Waterford gave a deep, pained sigh. Caught by the wind, it was ripped from his lips and lost in the wide, watery expanse. He too had gone astray, so far from home, so far from those who were familiar to him. Though lately, he reminded himself, home was becoming as alien to him as those he used to call friends. Still, anywhere would be better than drifting on the sea with an unconscious foreign prince and the queen's latest confidant for company.

Instead of dwelling on his current misery and uncertainty, Lord Waterford thought about what lay ahead. Once he was back in the city of Albion, he would present the queen with the fruits of this journey: the Doge of Serenissima's grandson, Claudio Dandolo.

Months of careful planning had gone into the kidnapping. The hiring of the Kyprian ship, which really amounted to stealing and ensured that if their plot was discovered – or worse, foiled – then blame for snatching the princeling would rest solely on the shoulders of Kyprus rather than Farrowfare. The bribing and, later, slaughter of those within the Doge's palazzo who had provided access to the child also ensured their tracks were covered. While he didn't approve of murder, he could at least understand that potential witnesses could not be left alive. Not when a country and a queen's reputation were at stake.

Staring out over the green-blue sea, Lord Waterford wondered, not for the first time, why Queen Zaralina wanted this particular boy. Sure, one day the child would inherit the throne of Serenissima and that made him significant; but there were other, easier ways to grasp power. Serenissima was not averse to forming treaties and trade agreements – not when they worked in the Doge and nobiles' financial favour. Surely there were more subtle ways of establishing supremacy than kidnapping the heir to a throne? That merely invited open hostility.

Farrowfare might lie beyond the Limen, but even that stretch of no-man's land no longer guaranteed protection from invasion – or worse, he thought, glancing at the cloaked figure beside him.

And what did the queen want with a child anyway? Would she demand a ransom? Whatever her intentions, she'd been very clear that the boy was not to be harmed. And while his companion might mock his concern for the prince's wellbeing, at least, he reassured himself, he was adhering to orders.

The ship pitched and Lord Waterford tightened his grip on the rail. Spray rose up over the deck sending a shower of salt water over him. It was cold but he welcomed it as a respite from his fevered thoughts. His eyes flickered towards the creature. Apart from a brief spell below with the boy, he'd maintained the same position – to the left of the wheel, his eyes fixed straight ahead – since they fled Serenissima that morning. Waterford noticed the strange grey skin that stretched over the elongated fingers and the spine-like protrusions of the hand splayed on the railing. Though the ship was rolling on the storm-tossed seas and most of the sailors were tied to the sides, or at the very least holding on to something for stability, the creature merely rested his hand. It was if he were a part of the deck, thought Waterford, or a part of the very air.

He was but one of many – the queen's newest allies. They were more shade than human. Dry beings, they seemed to be a part of the earth and yet distinct from it as well.

Appearing unexpectedly at court almost fifteen years ago, the willowy, cloaked creatures, who spoke in breathy whispers and moved with unearthly grace, had been warmly welcomed by the queen. It was almost as if she expected them. Certainly, they behaved as if they'd been summoned.

After their arrival, everything changed: his queen, his country and indeed, his own position at court. Lord Beolin Waterford suddenly found himself, after a number of unfortunate accidents befell his superiors, elevated from minor nobility to the Queen's Council. Not one to miss an opportunity, he made himself indispensable. Learning from the mistakes of his predecessors, he neither questioned the creatures' presence nor his queen's increasing reliance on them. And he was rewarded for his discretion.

Now, Waterford, her most loyal servant, was reduced to nothing more than a kidnapper. He cringed whenever he thought of the boy's mother and father. Already he could imagine their grief, their anger, and most of all their regret because all they would remember over the coming years would be the final punishment they inflicted upon their boy before he was cruelly snatched away. Forever they would wonder about him; their every act from here on would be coloured by the boy's absence: by what Waterford, at the behest of their queen, had done.

And how old was the child? Six? Seven? He frowned, recalling the child's neatly combed brown hair, his blue eyes and ready smile. Why, the boy had welcomed them as they entered the nursery, heavily cloaked and with their weapons drawn. Even the creature, this godforsaken Mortian who had insisted on accompanying them, did not seem to alarm the child. In the end, it had proved a good thing the Mortian had come, for it had quickly dispatched the nursemaid and tutor who had run to the boy's aid, shouting and screaming for help. But help was either out of earshot or dead.

All the boy had done was observe them with his large round eyes. He'd watched as the Mortian killed first his tutor and then his robust nurse. The only time he flinched was when the creature's abnormally long hands had gripped his little chest. Then a small cry had escaped and, his face drained of colour, he'd collapsed. Odd behaviour for one so young.

Would Waterford's own son have been so composed? Unlikely. His Karlin knew far too much, had seen too much in his seven short years. And yet, how would he feel if it was Karlin so white and barely breathing below deck? Whisked away from his family by a group of murderous strangers to a place he'd probably never even heard of, where they spoke an unfamiliar language and followed peculiar customs ... No, he would not rest until he found the culprits. He had no doubt that Claudio's parents would do the same. But it would all be in vain.

Waterford's mind traversed treacherous paths. How could his queen do this to a child? This was out of keeping with her usual methods. And though he'd lied for her, killed for her, and he'd most likely die for her, Waterford didn't like this at all; but he knew from past experience not to show his displeasure – especially not in the company of the Mortian.

The Mortian turned to him. Waterford recoiled. 'You will arrive in Albion in approximately two and a half months' time,' hissed the creature. 'The boy will not wake until he is safe within the castle. You are not to alarm yourself over this, my lord. Your job was to bring me to the child. You have done this admirably. My duty is to bring the boy to the queen. Alive. Despite your concerns, I will see it done.'

Lord Waterford was surprised. It was the most the Mortian had ever said to him.

'Very well,' he said. 'Do your –' The words froze in his mouth. The Mortian had disappeared. He spun around and checked the poop deck. Apart from the captain standing by the wheel and two sailors in the rigging above, it was empty. The only sign of the Mortian's passage was a grey swirl of mist that quickly dissipated into the evening shadows.

He let out a long, jagged breath. Seconds later, his body began to shake. It was always the same, and not just for him. Uncontrollable tremors and bone-deep chills afflicted anyone who spent too long in a Mortian's company.

For the thousandth time he asked himself: what was his queen up to? Why was she associating with the likes of these creatures? And why, after years of conquering lands to the north and east, was she venturing to the other side of the Limen? No good could come of it. The Limen was there for a reason. Everyone knew the adage:

The Limen shimmers, a force that divides
Revere its power and keep to one side
Respect this for wealth and peace to abide
Breach the gods' rule, and woe betide.

Following the gods' laws for generations, the people of Farrowfare had achieved their promised wealth and happiness. Then Queen Zaralina, despite counsel to the contrary, had decided to breach the Limen and trade with the cities of the Mariniquian Seas, Kyprus, the bountiful Konstantinople and exotic Phalagonia. At first, resistance had been strong, but, as more money came into the country and peace prospered, the adage was conveniently forgotten. But Waterford hadn't forgotten and nor had the others, in spite of their silence.

The Limen had been breached so many times. But now they were bringing someone innocent – a mere child, an unwilling pawn in a deadly political game – through with them. Would the gods allow this? Lord Waterford was not usually a superstitious man, but this was beyond even the gods' archaic laws. This was different. This was life or death. And he knew that one day a price for their disobedience would be extracted.

FINDING SLEEP ELUDED HIM, WATERFORD stayed on deck as night closed in and wrapped its dark arms around him. The long-promised storm passed over them, breaking somewhere to the north. Nevertheless, they were caught in its tail end as the wind howled and the seas rose. Lanterns were lit and the ship, despite strong gusts that assailed them, pushed on through the reefs. While they believed they'd been successful in their escape, they knew they would not be safe from pursuit until they made it back into the Limen.

Passage through the vast gloomy expanse that formed a border between nations – and, some rumoured, worlds – was usually forbidden to mortals like himself. In the past, only death had awaited those foolish enough to brave its unfathomable paths.

The Mortians, however, had changed that. They were able to sunder a road through the Limen. Holding it open just long enough for the ship to pass through, the Mortian ensured it closed behind them, like a hungry dog snapping at their heels. Waterford still didn't have the nerve to watch. On this voyage from Albion, he'd tried but, afraid of inhaling the unnatural air of the Limen, he'd held his breath to the point of almost blacking out.

While he might have avoided losing consciousness, the looks on the sailors' faces as he'd slowly recovered told him he'd lost his dignity. Better to endure the journey below, where no-one could see his fear, than stand on deck and pretend a bravery that all knew he didn't possess.

Peering into the encroaching darkness, Waterford was grateful that their passage through the Limen was still weeks ahead.

The wind tore through his cloak. Once more, his hood refused to stay on his head. This time, he let it fall. The rain combining with the salt spray tumbled on to his uncovered hair. Water poured down his cheeks, gathering in his eyes and the hollows of his chin and neck. He didn't wipe it away. A splinter of moon pushed its way through the ragged clouds offering little more than a brief sense of direction for the beleaguered crew. But it was enough. Gulls seeking sanctuary lit on the rigging and crow's nest. Their cries gave voice to Waterford's thoughts. Woe betide, they said, woe betide.

Waterford could stand it no more. He went below deck to find some wine and a brief respite from his misgivings.

CHAPTER NINE
Family Bonds

THE STORM BLEW ITSELF OUT overnight. Up before dawn, Pillar and Tallow set about repairing the worst of the damage while Katina prepared breakfast. Quinn stayed hidden in her room, merely calling for cafe in a tremulous voice that stilled the moment Katina dumped a steaming mug at her bedside.

Despite the wind and rain, not much in the house or business was damaged. The workshop had suffered minor flooding, and one of the shutters had torn away from its hinges. A pile of debris had gathered outside the shop, but that was quickly swept away.

Over a late meal of dry bread, cheese and more cafe – a luxury Tallow was quite sure she could become accustomed to – Katina laid out her plans.

'Whether you like it or not,' she began, 'I'm going to be staying a while.' She glanced towards Quinn's room, a wry smile on her face. 'So we need to come up with a story as to why I'm here – one that will satisfy your neighbours.' She took a bite out of her bread. 'I've been thinking we should say that I'm a cousin or distant relative. Do you have any?'

Pillar nodded. 'In Jinoa. Though it's been years since I've seen them, you know, with the tensions between Serenissima and Jinoa being what they are. None of them has ever made the trip to Serenissima before.'

'Good,' said Katina. 'Then it will be more convincing. I don't have to pretend to have changed.'

'Why are you here, then?' asked Tallow, playing along.

Katina thought for a moment. 'We'll say I'm recently widowed and on my way to my husband's family in Kyprus. That way, when I come and go, we won't have to keep giving explanations.'

'You'll be going?'

'At some stage I'll have to, Tallow. I'm a Bond Rider, remember. I can't afford to stay out of the Limen for too long.'

Tallow stored away that piece of information for later. She was going to find out as much as she could about Bond Riders.

'Speaking of affording,' said Pillar, studying his hands closely. 'We have a small business, one that doesn't ...' He searched for the right words, his face reddening as he stumbled over them. 'I'm not sure how we can feed –'

'Stop right there.' Katina rose to her feet, looking for her satchel. Picking it up, she pulled out a small purse of coins. 'Here,' she said, tossing it to Pillar. 'I don't expect you to keep me. That wouldn't be right. I know how hard it is for you and I always pay my way. I think that ought to be enough.'

Pillar balanced the bulging pouch in the palm of his hand, his eyes widening at the weight. He kept jiggling it, reluctant to look inside; a disbelieving smile started to play upon his mouth.

'Don't toy with it! Open it,' urged Katina.

He finally upended the pouch on the table. At least two dozen silver lire and one gold ducat rolled onto the table. Tallow and Pillar's jaws dropped.

'I've never seen so much money,' said Tallow breathlessly.

'A ducat!' said Pillar. He picked it up and turned it over and over in wonder before biting down on it firmly. 'A real gold ducat!'

'Not so fast.' Katina snatched it out of Pillar's fingers. 'This one is for a specific purpose.'

'What's that?' said Pillar, not taking his eyes off the coin.

'The first thing you must do is take this, go to the Glassmakers Quartiere in the Canne Sestiere and order a pair of spectacles for Tallow. You're not to return until they're ready, either. They're to be made from premium-quality glass, so make sure you use the Vuranos, they have the best reputation and it's well deserved. For centuries, they've blown the finest, most durable glass, and they're discreet. Oh, and you're to ask for brown lenses. Pale, golden brown, like honey.'

'Spectacles!' exclaimed Tallow.

'Golden brown?' Pillar shook his head. 'What's all this about? Why waste a perfectly good ducat? Tallow doesn't need spectacles. His eyesight's fine! Anyway, if he does wear some, won't he just draw unwanted attention?'

'Not as much as she will if she doesn't have any. Spectacles are the perfect way to hide those eyes.'

'They are indeed,' said Pillar. 'I wish –' He grimaced.

'You could never have afforded such a luxury,' said Katina bluntly. 'Instead, to protect her, you've taught her to bury her head and ...'

'And to be ashamed of what she is,' finished Pillar.

Katina offered him no challenge. 'Spectacles may draw attention, yes – but not as much as a teenage boy who can't look anyone in the eye. What you and your mother have encouraged may have been necessary, but frankly it's also cruel.'

Pillar remained silent. Katina's accusations cut him deeply.

Katina watched him a moment longer and then reached over and looped her arm through Tallow's. 'Once we disguise those eyes, you won't know yourself.' She studied Tallow's face closely. 'Yes, the golden-brown hue will hide the silver best. We'll redo that mop of hair so it falls across your face differently – it's long enough to tie back. That should help too.'

Before anyone could argue, Katina released Tallow and plucked a few lire off the table and placed them in Pillar's palm. Then she gave him orders to purchase more food, bedding, clothes and other necessary items. Throwing the rest of the bread and cheese into a piece of cloth, she tied it in a bow and handed it to him. Pillar stood there dumbstruck, the cloth dangling from his large fingers.

'Well?' demanded Katina. 'What are you waiting for? Off you go.'

'What about my mother?'

Katina frowned. 'Well, I'm afraid you're just going to have to put aside your suspicions and trust me to care for her now, aren't you? Anyhow, Tallow will be here to make sure I do. Won't you, Tallow?' Pillar's eyes slid incredulously to Tallow's face. All he could focus on was the vivid imprint of Quinn's boot, the cut lip and bruised cheeks.

Sensing his ambivalence, Tallow spoke. 'I'll look after her, Pillar,' she said reassuringly. 'It's all right. Really.'

'See? That's settled. The sooner you go, the sooner you'll return,' said Katina and, before he could reply, she placed a hand in the small of his back and marched him down the stairs.

THE DOOR CLOSED BEHIND HIM and the small bell chimed. Bewildered by Katina, the money and his tasks – never mind how quickly things were moving in his previously lumbering life – and worried how Quinn might react when she discovered he'd gone, Pillar stood on the fondamenta, gentle rain falling on his face. He watched his neighbours patching their broken windows and shutters; a few were on their rooftops, picking up plants and mending broken tiles. Others called out and he waved vaguely in return.

He looked back up at his house and workshop. There was no point worrying about Quinn, Tallow or the business today, or for the next few days for that matter. Katina would do what she wanted with whomever she wanted and, as for candlemaking, everyone would be busy repairing the damage left by the storm. They would stay home and burn their stocks of candles. But after that, they would need to replenish what they'd used. Then, even his candles would be in demand.

Fingering the coins in his pocket, Pillar wondered at how quickly circumstances altered. Once, sudden change had made him ache with despair and anxiety. This time, a sense of freedom welled inside him, something he'd rarely experienced in his forty long years. Change might be a good thing, after all. It was with a skip in his step that Pillar went to the nearest fermata and waited for a traghetto. He would attend to his tasks and get home as quickly as he could. There was work to do and, he thought as Katina's tawny hair and dark eyes flashed into his mind, more importantly, a Bond Rider to get to know.

IN THE MEANTIME, KATINA AND Tallow cleared away breakfast. They worked in companionable silence for a while, Tallow sneaking glances at Katina out of the corner of her eye. She couldn't believe how, from one day to the next, her whole life had transformed – and this was only the beginning. Remembering the look on Pillar's face as Katina pushed him downstairs, she chuckled to herself. Hers wasn't the only life that was changing.

She stole a glimpse at Quinn's closed door. Quinn was so subdued: so angry and unable to act upon it. A part of her felt guilty about the cut Quinn had suffered at Katina's hands. But another part of her was glad that Quinn was at someone else's mercy. Tallow's cheeks reddened. It was such a disloyal sentiment; she shouldn't have those kinds of thoughts. Quinn was family, wasn't she? Not for the first time, she wondered what it would be like to have a different family, one that didn't include Quinn.

Then, something occurred to her. She recalled Katina's conversation with Signor Vincenzo at the taverna yesterday.

'Katina,' began Tallow hesitantly, putting away the last of the plates.

'Hmm?'

'There's something I've been meaning to ask you.'

'Well, don't stop now,' said Katina good-naturedly, wiping her hands on a cloth. 'What is it?'

'Yesterday, you told Signor Vincenzo that the foundling you were looking for had a family.' Tallow shuffled her feet, trying to find the right words. 'I ... I couldn't help wondering if that part was –'

'Oh,' said Katina, sitting down. 'I see. You were wondering if that was true.'

Tallow didn't speak. She just nodded and looked down at her hands.

'Tallow,' said Katina softly. 'It's all right, you can look at me. I know what you are and I won't turn away. You have to get out of this habit of lowering your head all the time – it makes people more curious than you realise – especially in a young man your age. All right, about your question. The fact is, I don't know of any specific family you might have.'

Tallow's shoulders visibly fell.

'I'm sorry,' said Katina quickly. 'I really am. My questions were just a ploy to extract some answers, a clue to your whereabouts – anything. I didn't mean to hurt you. Don't forget, I didn't expect you to be right there, listening to me.' Katina laughed. 'That was certainly a surprise.' Aware Tallow wasn't sharing her mirth, Katina reached over and took her by the hand. Tallow drew away, but Katina's grip was too firm.

'But Tallow, while I don't know any of your family myself, what you need to realise is that Estrattore all descend from the same root. Do you understand? Estrattore aren't like the Pillars and Quinns of this world, connected only by marriage and birth. Estrattore are connected by blood, birthright and by the power that they all share. You have a family all right, Tallow; you just have to find them.'

Tallow looked at Katina carefully. The Bond Rider wasn't simply telling her a story to placate her; she was telling the truth. Tallow could literally feel it; it flowed from the tips of Katina's fingers, along Tallow's arm and nestled in her heart. A smile tugged her lips and her spirit lightened.

Katina tightened her hold on Tallow's rough fingers and smiled. Tallow squeezed back, her eyes shyly locking on to Katina's. Without warning, Katina's soul opened up to her.

The long, aching years of Katina's existence – the early thrills of riding the Limen and discovering the limits of life itself, of endless energy – poured into Tallow. Her body shuddered as she shared Katina's resistance and confusion over making her Bond. Her muscles grew taut then slackened as she experienced the curious leeching that occurred every time the barrier between the Limen and Vista Mare was breached so Katina might recapture what she came to learn she'd lost – her friends and family who, unlike her, were susceptible to the passage of time.

Each time Katina left Vista Mare, the need to return home grew and so she nourished those urges, only to watch family and friends age and die. But when back in Vista Mare, the need to leave became more urgent. Life itself slowly leaked from Katina's bones. The depth of Katina's grief for her brother, Filippo, flowed between them as did her love for her fellow Bond Riders and her horse.

In her core, the very substance of Katina's Bond emerged. The blood she had sacrificed to the pledge stones, the huge rocks on the mainland upon which all Bonds were sworn, in order that her soul might be freed to fulfil a promise, no matter how long it took.

Tallow tried to probe deeper, push further, but something blocked her way. It was crepuscular and solid. Puzzled, she moved around it and there, near Katina's very centre, Tallow became aware of something she never expected.

She snatched her hand away and stared at Katina in shock.

'I'm there,' she said in a shaky voice. 'I'm inside you.' She pointed a trembling finger at Katina's chest.

Pale and drawn by what Tallow had unwittingly done, Katina raised an equally shaky hand to her heart, protecting it. 'I know.' Her voice was uneven. She cleared her throat. 'I've lived with you for over three hundred years. I guess I'm the closest thing to family you've got at the moment.'

Tallow's eyes widened. Three hundred years. No wonder Katina seemed fragmented in a way that only Tallow seemed to be able to see. It wasn't anything manifest – it was inside her. Her energy, her very life-force was stretched way beyond that of an ordinary person's. She'd lived longer than anyone Tallow had ever heard of; she'd been alive when the Estrattore were destroyed. And she'd sacrificed some of her very life blood to the pledge stones in order to find Tallow.

'You have the blood of the Estrattore in you,' said Tallow quietly. 'I felt it. It called to me.'

'As I told you yesterday,' Katina said, 'one of my very distant relatives was an Estrattore.' She shook her head. 'They leave their impression where you least expect it. We're Bonded and blooded in more ways than one, Tallow.' She laughed but it turned into a volley of dry coughs. When she had finished, she sat back and smiled. 'I'd hold you, cousin, but I might not live through another encounter. Your powers are remarkably strong. You began to draw from me, extract my emotions, without even knowing you were doing it. I think I'm beginning to understand what you must have done to Pillar.' Tallow's face registered surprise. 'I could tell simply by looking at him that he's been handled by an Estrattore. An untrained one at that.'

She reached for her satchel and pulled out her flask. 'The sooner we get that particular talent under control, the better. The first thing I'm going to teach you is how to touch people and things without drawing from them, before it kills me – or someone else.' She took a long drink. 'Give me a moment to recover and then we'll get started.'

After a few more swigs, the trembling ceased and Katina managed to catch her breath. Tallow watched, alarmed at what she seemed to have caused. But then another emotion coursed through her – something unfamiliar that caused her heart to thump and her eyes to sparkle. She wanted to leap up, throw open the window and shout out greetings to the entire sestiere.

She wouldn't, of course. Instead, she privately relished every little thrill, because Tallow – the candlemaker's apprentice – wasn't alone in the world. Not any more. For the first time in her life, what she'd always suspected had been confirmed. She had family, not only out there, as Katina had said, but right here, across the room from her, within arm's reach. Cousin, Katina had called her.

One day, she would find the rest of her family, too. And when she did, she wouldn't have to hide what she was any more. Like the legend said, she'd unite her family and bring them home.

While Tallow revelled in her new-found joy and waited for Katina to recover, she wondered if she should ask about what else she'd sensed within the Bond Rider. It had sat there, dark and uninviting, closed in ways that other parts of Katina weren't. Instinctively Tallow knew it wouldn't be right to probe further, not yet anyhow.

All the same she was curious about what it was and, more importantly, what it meant.

CHAPTER TEN
The apprentice learns
a new art

THREE DAYS AFTER PILLAR SET out with his list of purchases, he returned. Even Quinn, who had remained in her bedroom while he was gone, ventured into the kitchen, curious to see what he had bought with the rider's money.

Pillar unpacked his parcels and sacks scattering the contents across the table and over the floor. There were blankets, two down pillows, clean breeches, skirts, a couple of blouses for Katina, aprons, shirts, a leather vest and even a pair of sturdy new boots for Tallow. Tallow could not believe her eyes. There were wedges of cheese, pickled onions, peppers, sugar, butter and sacks of grain and flour to fill the empty barrels upstairs. Tallow thought fleetingly of her skinny rats and how happy they would be. There was even a huge leg of mutton and two scrawny chickens.

It took Tallow a moment as she picked over the various goods to notice that Pillar was grinning at her rather stupidly, his hands hidden behind his back.

Catching her eye, he swung his arms in front of him, dangling something. It was a pair of spectacles.

Tallow looked at him solemnly and then at Katina. Katina nodded and Tallow reached for them.

'Won't hide what you are, you know,' muttered Quinn darkly from the other side of the table.

'What did you say?' asked Katina. One finger stroked the hilt of her dagger. 'You really need to speak up if you want to be heard.'

Quinn snarled at Katina but didn't dare reply. Instead, she broke off a lump of cheese and sat nibbling at it by the fire, casting sour looks towards the Bond Rider.

Taking the spectacles in her hands, Tallow was amazed at how light they were. There were no frames, only a pair of beautiful smoky umber lenses, connected by the tiniest bridge of gold lace. Towards the outer edges of the glass, the lacework continued. Two arms of twisted gold ran at right angles to the lenses, curling at the ends to sit snugly around Tallow's ears.

'Don't just hold them. Put them on!' urged Katina.

With barely repressed excitement, Tallow did as she was told. They settled against the bridge of her nose and the whole world changed. The kitchen, lit by sunlight and the glow of the fire, transformed into a world of rich honeys and coppers. Whirling on the spot, Tallow looked at everything with fresh eyes. The staircase was now a deep mahogany, the floor a rust colour, the table held all the subtle tones of beeswax – everything was altered.

Tallow turned to face Katina who bent down to scrutinise her closely. Under Tallow's fresh gaze, the Bond Rider's large eyes and tanned skin became tawnier, whorls of amber and cherry-brown.

'They're good, very good,' said Katina finally. 'Have a look, Pillar. Tell me what you think.'

'Don't be such a fool, Pillar!' screeched Quinn. 'Don't look at him! You know what will happen!'

'Perhaps you'd prefer to, then,' offered Katina. Quinn sank back into her chair, muttering angrily.

Pillar stepped forward, swallowing a few times. 'It's all right, Mamma,' he murmured. 'It's all right.' His lips kept moving as he repeated the words like a talisman. Slowly, Tallow turned to face him. The candlemaker studied Tallow's new boots for a while, before finally raising his head and meeting her eyes. His lips froze.

For a full minute he said nothing.

Then he nodded, a cautious grin transforming his face. 'They work wonders, they do. No-one will ever know, Tallow. You look like one of those rich boys from Casa Guichio over at the piazzetta – too good for the likes of here.'

Quinn snorted. 'Don't put those ideas in his head, for God's sake!'

Pillar opened his mouth to say something else, and then changed his mind and turned to fossick in his bag some more. Only Katina saw him wipe away the tear that had escaped to trickle down his cheek.

Much later, after they'd all finished a fine meal of chicken, pasta, peppers, bread, cheese and roasted apples, and were relaxing with a glass of mead as evening fell, Pillar asked what they'd been doing while he was gone.

'I see that the house is restored.' His eyes took in the room. 'Looks very nice too. But ... er ... how's the training going?'

'We don't want to know!' hissed Quinn. 'If they want to do devil's work, that's their business.'

Katina began to laugh. 'Shut your ears then, Quinn, because I'm going to tell Pillar. And if you don't like it, or want to hear about it, I suggest you leave.'

Quinn sat forward in her chair. 'You won't always get away with speaking to me like that, you know. Think you're so mighty and important – but you're not. You may think you know everything, but you don't. How can you? You haven't been part of this world for over three hundred years. If you teach that boy what should no longer be taught, teach him what has been forbidden by the laws of our rulers and by God, then you're a bigger fool than I thought! Even if you had a soul, it couldn't be saved.'

Quinn took a deep breath. 'If you proceed, then you'll be as trapped as we are,' she pointed at Tallow. 'Even more so since, like your brother, you were stupid enough to Bond to him.' She glared at Katina and took a long, deep slurp of her drink before leaning back into her chair, staring at Katina defiantly.

Tallow sank into herself with every word the old woman uttered. Katina placed herself between Quinn and the table and raised her voice. 'Training has been going very well, Pillar. In fact, Tallow has progressed a great deal. In just a couple of days, I've managed to teach him the rudimentary arts that all Estrattore learn.' She paused. 'Only, we've struck a bit of a problem.'

Pillar shifted in his seat. His eyes flickered towards the window. It was shut, as was the door to the attic. He didn't want one word, one whisper to escape. His hand unconsciously slid beneath his shirt to clutch the small wooden carving that rested against his heart. A talisman he'd purchased with Katina's lire, his guarantee against what might happen. 'What's that?' he asked uneasily.

'I'll tell you what it is!' said Quinn, leaping to her feet. Tallow jumped. 'The problem is allowing this sort of thing to go on under our roof! That's the problem! It's wrong. You should both be hung and put to the flame, not sitting there, drinking my vino and eating my food –'

'Actually, Quinn, it's my food. I paid for it,' said Katina.

Quinn spat on the floor. 'I don't give a pig's arse who paid; you're in my house and you should respect my rules, my faith, my God. Tallow's got all cocky since you came with your fine ideas and poisonous ways.' She swung towards Pillar. 'Ever since you left, they've been strutting around here like they own the place. Using my kitchen; walking in and out of the shop, never mind your workshop. Your father's workshop,' she added, knowing what would hurt the most.

'But I'll have no more of it, I tell you! First thing tomorrow, I'm going to the mayor. I'm going to tell him all about you.' She pointed a bony finger at Katina. 'And you.' She faced Tallow but was unable to meet her eyes. 'Believe it or not, I'm sorry, boy.' Tallow wasn't sure whether she was referring to her or Pillar. 'I don't want any part of this, not any more. I'll not have it. It's wrong, now we're aiding and abetting. It has to stop. And I want you, Signora Bond Rider, and your blasphemous talk out of my house.'

Katina stood up and walked over to where Quinn stood, quivering in equal measures of terror and fury. Pillar slowly rose, ready to go to his mother's or Katina's defence, he wasn't sure which. Katina lifted her arm and Quinn flinched. 'Don't touch me!' she cried, her hands flying to cover her neck.

Katina didn't answer. All she did was take the empty mug from Quinn's hand and refill it. Then, she gently pushed the old woman back into the chair and wrapped her bony fingers around the mug's handle. Placing her arms on either side of the chair, she put her face close to Quinn's.

'You would sacrifice all of our lives – yours, your son's, mine and Tallow's – for your faith? Or because you want me gone?' She didn't wait for an answer. 'What if I could guarantee that if you allow me to stay and keep teaching Tallow, not only will no-one ever find out, but I could make you a great deal of money – I mean, a lot. How would you feel about me and the work of an Estrattore if it brought more lire and ducats into this house than you'd ever dreamt of?' Katina slowly took her hands away and stepped back, her eyes never leaving Quinn's face.

For a moment, no-one spoke.

'What're you talking about?' said Quinn finally, eyeing Katina warily. Pillar looked from Tallow to Katina and back again. Tallow held her breath; she didn't dare glance at Pillar. Everything depended on how Katina presented this.

'I mean,' continued Katina, 'I've worked out a way to conceal Tallow's powers such that they will benefit you and Pillar for years to come. What do you say about that?'

'God forgive me,' said Quinn, gulping her drink. She wiped her mouth slowly and then crossed herself. 'Go on.'

'Wait,' said Pillar. He knelt by his mother's side. 'Are you sure, Mamma? Once we start this, there's no going back, no matter how much lire or how many ducats are involved. As you said, this goes against everything we believe in ... God may forgive us, but the Church? And what if we're caught? I mean, like you said, before we just hid Tallow. This is different, no matter how much money –'

Quinn brushed him aside. 'Let's hear what the Bond Rider has to say, Pietro.'

Tallow's eyes widened. It had been years since she'd heard Quinn call Pillar by his proper name. Pillar sat down. The small grin that momentarily appeared was quickly controlled. Tallow looked from Pillar to Quinn in astonishment. Why, Pillar had deliberately taunted his mother with the notion of riches to ensure she at least gave Katina an ear.

'Well,' said Katina, returning to the table. She stood beside Tallow and placed a hand on her shoulder. 'It's like this. As you know, the Estrattore have the ability to extract emotions from anyone or anything. What you may not know is that the process works in two stages. First they "read" the object. They use their empathic abilities to sense the feelings embedded within it and draw them out, extract them. It's from this that Estrattore get their name. Once they have collected what they want, the second stage begins.' She rubbed her chin thoughtfully. Tallow had grasped everything so quickly. The breadth of power she'd demonstrated humbled and even, if she dared admit it, alarmed Katina.

'Tallow is incredibly talented.' Yes. Even the history books don't mention Estrattore who are as sensitive to every nuance as Tallow is. Not only can she capture feelings and magnify them, she can draw upon them and refine them in such a way that they take on their own characteristics, become naturalised. And, when returned, the essence of the object itself is changed.

'You're not making any sense to me,' said Pillar, interrupting her thoughts.

Katina sighed. 'I forgot you're no longer used to having Estrattore around. For us Bond Riders, it's as if time has stood still. We may not know the Estrattore anymore, but our memories of them, of our interactions with them, are as fresh as if they occurred yesterday.' She grinned at Tallow. 'Of course, for me they did.' Neither Pillar nor Quinn shared the joke. Katina refrained from rolling her eyes.

'Sorry. Let me try again. I'll give you an example. Today, when we were in the workshop –' She looked defiantly at Quinn, who pursed her lips and shook her head, her disapproval of what they'd been doing clear. 'It's all right,' said Katina, deliberately misunderstanding the look. 'The workshop is the best place to teach – it's out of the way and relatively private. And anyway, Quinn wanted to ready the shop for opening tomorrow.'

'If you think you're going to perform your dirty little tricks in my shop –' blustered Quinn.

Katina held up her hand. 'Your shop is quite safe from us, I can assure you. As I was saying,' she continued, 'I was teaching Tallow to separate the emotions she'd extracted from a piece of wood.'

'Wood?' It was Pillar's turn to scoff. 'What emotions can a piece of wood possibly have? It's dead!'

'Yes and no,' explained Katina. 'To you and me, it's dead. But to an Estrattore, it's alive with numerous sensations.' She glanced at Tallow. 'Perhaps you can explain?'

Tallow had been both dreading and longing for this moment. Dreading it, because she was afraid she wouldn't be able to do justice to what she was learning: the intricacies, the delicacy of the process. Longing, because she wanted to give voice to what she was experiencing. Katina's instructions last night had been clear. She had to demystify the power of an Estrattore for Pillar and Quinn – put it in rational, clear terms that wouldn't alarm them. If she wanted to continue her training and remain safe in Serenissima until such time as she was ready to search for the remaining Estrattore, she must convince them the practice wouldn't bring the wrath of God upon them or, more importantly, be detected by soldiers or priests.

Aware they were waiting for her to speak, Tallow nonetheless took her time. She moved to stand by the fire, gathering her thoughts, then turned to face the others. Firelight and shadows danced across her spectacles.

'I'll try to explain. It– it's hard, though.' She glanced at Quinn who was sipping her drink, her face turned to the wall. 'As Katina said, Estrattore extract and distil the essence of objects and the emotions of people, breaking them into their various parts.' She looked at Katina, who nodded encouragement. 'It's like what an alchemist does with chemicals, really. I've only been practising on things at the moment –'

'Well, that's a relief!' said Quinn.

Tallow faltered but, with a look, Katina urged her to continue. 'Th– the wood that Katina gave me today came from the prow of an old gondola. Katina taught me to touch the objects and then – this is difficult to describe – I open myself to them, sort of let them inside me and, because of w– w– what I am, I can tell its history and every thought or feeling of anyone connected with it.'

It was only three days ago that Pillar had left and Katina had lifted the teapot off the table and placed it in Tallow's hand. 'Training starts now,' she'd said. 'Feel this and describe to me what you sense.'

Somewhat surprised, Tallow had done what she was told. She took the teapot in her hands and ran her fingers over the porcelain along the chipped spout.

'It's smooth – except for here.' Her fingers rested on the damage. 'There's a piece missing.'

Katina had burst out laughing. 'Not like that. Feel it. Open your heart and tell me what you feel. I know you've done it before, Tallow. You must have, to have survived this place. And anyway, Pillar's face is living proof. So do it again now. Do it for me.'

And she had.

With a deep breath, she'd rested her eyes on the teapot and, for the first time, really looked at it. The crazy glaze with the faded red, blue and ochre pattern expanded in her vision. She'd slowly felt herself sinking into the varnish, through the artwork on the exterior and into the very pores of the ceramic. Each fragment of sand took on a life of its own; like a colony of sponges, each had absorbed aspects of the life around it, holding it within like a buried treasure that she now proceeded to unearth.

As a dew-kissed flower shyly opens to the sun, so her mind had unfolded to the teapot. Not only had she felt the thoughts and emotions of all those who had touched the teapot, but images had accompanied the sensations. She'd seen and felt Quinn, her face bowed over the spout, her fingers splayed around the base as she spent long, miserable nights waiting for her husband to return. Slowly, the image had segued into an anxious Pillar, making a brew that would help sober his mother. And behind those strong images, others had battled to be seen, to be felt: a proud ceramicist, lifting his cooled creation from a quiet kiln; a greedy shopkeeper, rubbing it to keep the shine and wondering how many lire he could charge now that his careless nephew had chipped the spout. But soon, the images had been swallowed by another: once again, a lonely Pillar had emerged, swilling the tea while thoughts of love and a different sort of life teased him.

'Well?' Katina's question had broken her thoughts. 'What do you feel?'

Putting the teapot down with more care than before, Tallow had tried to find the words, but, somehow, she didn't feel right sharing what she'd sensed. No, more than sensed. Borne witness to. It didn't seem ... honorable.

She had shaken her head and shrugged. 'Just stuff.'

'Just stuff,' repeated Katina. She'd regarded Tallow carefully, her hands on her hips. 'You're not going to tell me, are you?'

Tallow shook her head.

Katina sighed. 'But you did feel something, didn't you?'

Tallow had raised her chin. 'Oh, yes. I felt something all right. It was as if it were alive.'

Katina had reached out and ruffled her hair. 'All right, then. Let's go and find things that aren't quite so personal for you to practise on. Maybe then you'll tell me what you sense. Until you do, I can't teach you how to extract or distil.'

After that, they'd gone down to the workshop and it had been easier. There'd still been some very personal memories locked in the things she was given but, as the hours passed, it had become easier to share. Katina was a good listener and Tallow wanted to learn. Fresh waxes, bits of wick, a broach, some render, even an apple core discarded on the fondamenta and the wooden heel of an old shoe Katina picked up from the calle that ran behind the house – Katina had made her read them all. The piece from the gondola had come two days later.

'What did you feel when you touched the wood from the gondola?' asked Pillar quietly. He was curious. Hearing Tallow speak was like being given insight into the type of place that Serenissima once had been, into what, if Katina had her way, it could be again. Was that what he wanted? His fingers tightened around the cross under his shirt. God forgive him, he wasn't sure.

Tallow gave him a small smile, grateful for the support. 'As I touched it, I knew the gondolier that had steered it through the canals of Serenissima. I was aware of his joy in the water, his love of singing and his knowledge of the canals.' As Tallow spoke, she forgot where she was and who she was speaking to and began to relive the memories held in the wood.

'Then, as I probed deeper, I sensed the disease that ate at his bones, the pain of his last years as he got in and out of the boat.' She winced in memory. 'Beyond the gondolier, I could feel every single passenger that had ever sailed on board. The emotions of lovers, the calculations of businessmen, even the joy or indifference of children.' Tallow became excited now. 'I even found someone full of guilt for a crime he was about to commit – a murder, and he was sure he wouldn't be caught. There were so many histories, so many lives – too many to remember.'

That wasn't true; but Tallow didn't want to admit that she could remember every last person, every last emotion.

She paused and took a deep breath. What she had said didn't do the experience justice, but for the moment it would suffice. How do you describe a love that makes your breath hurt and your heart ache with longing? How do you describe desire that makes your loins burn with white-hot heat and your throat grow tight? How do you describe despair that makes you want to destroy and break ... even yourself? Tallow couldn't, but she knew she could reproduce it, every last impression, every single sensation, if she had to. Everything she had experienced over the last few days had opened an entirely new world to her. She felt like an explorer in uncharted territory. It thrilled and awed her, but also instilled within her an awareness of the depth and breadth of human emotions. Understanding what they all meant and how to use them would take time, she respected that, but she also yearned to find out more, to feel and grow within herself.

A slight noise brought her back to the present. They were waiting for her to continue. 'Beyond the people, there was more. There was the tree that the gondola was carved from. But it was one of many in a mighty forest that grew close to the Limen. It had been touched by things that no living creature should have to endure. Its roots had struggled to survive in an environment that seeks only to nullify and render barren.' She looked around the room; she even had Quinn's attention. 'It wasn't a dead piece of wood, Pillar. It was alive in a way I never could have imagined, with a past, a present.' And I know if I wanted it to have one, a future as well.

No-one said anything. Pillar tried to absorb what Tallow had just told him. It terrified and exhilarated him all at once. His little Tallow, his apprentice, an Estrattore. So much talent. So much power. No wonder, over three hundred years ago, that the Patriarch of the Church had been afraid.

Quinn's voice broke the silence. 'Well, I don't give a God's damn about any of this. I don't care about no tree, no gondola or a bit of bloody wood. Call it alchemy if you want. I know what it really is and I want to know how it can make me rich.'

Katina laughed. It was a bitter sound. 'We're getting to that. As Tallow was explaining, what she felt in the wood she was also recreating – not everything, just aspects of it. Don't ask me how; that's what Estrattore do. What they have to do, what they are born to do. To withhold that from them, that's unnatural. But once they reach adolescence, their ability has to be contained, controlled, and that takes time and training. Tallow has been given neither – and not through any fault of yours.'

Quinn huffed.

'But that is why Tallow was broadcasting her talent everywhere and that is why you were being placed in danger. Unable to distil specific objects or people, she aimlessly collected and distributed emotions – some, it appears, even being redistributed into the wax she moulded.'

Pillar looked over at Tallow. 'So that's what was wrong with your candles ... that's why they made us feel so strange. You'd distilled what you'd extracted from other things, from us, into the wax.'

'I didn't do it deliberately,' said Tallow quickly. 'I didn't mean to. But I know that's what must have happened. I'm so sorry,' she finished quietly.

'Fancy that.' Pillar shook his head. 'We wondered, me and Mamma, but we didn't know what was happening.'

'Wish we'd known,' grumbled Quinn. 'Cost us a fortune in wasted materials – in wasted years of training you to be a candlemaker.'

'Ah, perhaps not.' As one, Pillar and Quinn turned to Katina. 'This is where I think I can help you,' she said. 'None of your time in apprenticing Tallow or teaching her the art of candlemaking need be wasted.'

'What do you mean?' asked Pillar hopefully.

'I believe, that with a little bit more training and refining – and with your help, Pillar – we can teach Tallow to distil what she extracts into the candles –'

'No,' protested Quinn. 'Absolutely not! That was the problem in the first place! Francesca's milk soured, Giovanni complained about a sore throat – and that's when Tallow didn't mean to do it! What's going to happen when he's doing it all the time? We're certain to be caught. Do you want us all killed?'

'Listen to me.' Katina raised her voice, demanding attention. 'I'm not talking about the willy-nilly way Tallow was doing it before. I'm talking about skill – about careful selection and measured distillation of what Tallow extracts. Something needs to be done or she will be detected by soldiers, or worse, the others that seek her. Then all your threats will be meaningless, Quinn, and what you predict will come true. You'll be tried and convicted for not only hiding an Estrattore, but for treason as well. It will be a very public and painful death for all of us unless we do something about her talents and we do it now.'

She softened her tone. 'It's your choice. Let her distil into the candles. It will be subtle; it will be refined. I'll make sure of it. And if we continue to be careful as you have been, then no-one, not the soldiers, not the padres – not even your God – need ever know.'

This time Pillar began to object. Katina held up her hand.

'Let me finish by painting a picture of what could be for you. Imagine lighting a candle in a room full of unhappiness only to find that as the wick burnt and the wax melted, the unhappiness disappeared. Imagine burning a candle where there was anger only to replace it with calm. What about turning hate into love? But in such an indefinite way that no-one knows what caused the change. Is that bad? Is that –' she paused for dramatic effect and looked straight at Quinn, '– really evil?' She didn't wait for a response but ploughed on, saving her most irresistible proposition for last. 'What if everyone suddenly desired to burn your candles and only your candles? What if they never wanted to buy from anybody else?'

Pillar's eyes lit up. 'You can do that?'

'No. But Tallow can. At least, she could if you allow her. It's up to you.' Katina nodded towards Pillar and then Quinn. 'Both of you.'

'It's wrong,' insisted Quinn. 'I don't care what you say, I'll always believe anything to do with the Estrattore is evil. The Church forbids it. They kill his kind.'

'That's true – now,' said Katina. 'Once, a few hundred years ago, when you worshipped different gods, that type of gift was respected.'

'It's against the law,' insisted Quinn.

'So are a lot of things – like wilfully hiding an Estrattore. But unlike that sin, this will make you a lot of money.'

Quinn sat still for a moment then she began rubbing her chin, sitting on the edge of her seat. Pillar fingered his hidden carving, his mind racing.

'A lot of money,' reminded Katina softly and rose to hang the kettle back over the fire.

Quinn drained her mug and then looked at Tallow carefully. Katina turned slowly and waited. Tallow held her breath.

'It would, wouldn't it?' said Quinn finally. She rocked back and forth in her chair. 'Are you sure people would only want our candles?'

'Yes.'

'And they wouldn't know why? They'd just buy them?'

'If we're careful.'

After what seemed like a very long time, Quinn held her mug out to Katina. 'I'm tired of this. Got any more in that container of yours?'

Katina grinned and, opening her flask, poured a generous amount into Quinn's mug. Quinn raised it to her. 'I think I might like you after all, Bond Rider. I think I might like you after all.'

Pillar had a dazed look on his face and Katina knew he was trying to picture the future she'd presented. Finally, he nodded. 'All right, if that's what Mamma wants.' His tone was uncertain.

The tension slowly left Katina's body. She'd done it. She'd convinced them to at least try her way. But she'd kept her mouth shut on her reservations. Tallow's powers were such that not only were they beyond Katina's limited realm of experience, they were nothing like she'd been warned to expect, either. She'd never seen or heard of talent like it. At least by encouraging Tallow to distil into the candles she could buy them both some time. She would return to the Limen as soon as she could to seek advice from the Elders, those who had known and studied Estrattore first-hand.

Most importantly, however, she'd given Tallow time to hone her skills and develop self-confidence. She was going to need both if she was ever going to be able to do what was required, let alone protect herself from the dark forces that sought to claim her.

Tallow was still standing in front of the fire, only this time she was staring into the flickering flames. Not she, Katina reminded herself. He ... If she were to be safe, it had to be he, even in her thoughts.

Tallow's face, silver eyes hidden behind the spectacles, was inscrutable. Katina still could not believe that she'd found her – the child who was the stuff of legends. But looking at her ... him now – his thin arms and legs, his peculiar angular face, tumbling dark curls, his soft mouth and little white teeth – who would believe that such a diminutive person could hold so much power? Who could credit that within that tiny frame rested the hope of a new future? Katina knew she couldn't tell Tallow what else the legend said about him, what the Bond Riders wanted of him – not yet. She had to give the boy time to grow into his new identity and learn to feel comfortable with what was burgeoning inside him.

Pillar and Quinn didn't understand who it was they'd raised. And, thank the gods, Tallow didn't understand either. For if he knew, Katina had no doubt the pressure would cripple him. She lifted her hand and held it in front of her. Good. The telltale trembles hadn't started yet. Her life-force was still intact. Yes, she'd bought some time – something they all needed. Katina pushed her thoughts aside as Pillar began to talk to her in earnest.

WHILE PILLAR AND KATINA DISCUSSED the finer points of candlemaking, Tallow watched the crackling flames. With only half an ear on their conversation, she tried to think about what had just happened. She was being given permission to openly manipulate people. Wasn't that what got the Estrattore into trouble in the first place – the very thing that signed their death sentence?

But Katina had talked about turning hate into love, anger into calm, evil into good. That couldn't be wrong, could it? No matter what the Church said or the old Doge and Patriarch did all those hundreds of years ago. Not if you made people happy. And it did mean that Tallow could keep practising and perfecting the craft she'd grown to love.

Watching Pillar, Katina and Quinn join each other in a toast, she pushed aside her reservations. Why, even Quinn had stopped her moaning; a crooked smile had replaced the usual smirk.

Maybe, thought Tallow, this was what she'd been born to do – combine her abilities with her candlemaking skills and change people's minds about the Estrattore. For now she had the chance to become what she'd always wanted to be. The best the sestiere – and even Serenissima – had ever seen.

She would be the candlemaker's apprentice.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
The candlemaker's
apprentice

THE MOMENT I BEGAN DELIBERATELY distilling into the candles, everything changed. I remember it as though it were yesterday.

While Quinn remained upstairs, Pillar, Katina and I went to the workshop. Making sure all the doors were locked and the shutters closed, we lit some rush lights. Katina told me to pretend for the moment that she wasn't there; she wanted to observe me. That was difficult. Her presence was unsettling, but I donned my apron and stoked the fire beneath the cauldron, as I always did.

Pillar began to melt more tallow, stirring it gently and holding the sieve to scoop out any of the more obvious impurities before the proper straining. With the fire blazing, I went to the other side of the workshop and began attaching plaited wicks to one of the broaches. When the tallow was ready, I carried the broach over and, standing on a small stool next to the vat, dipped the wicks repeatedly. After a few generous coats were applied, I suspended the broach over one of the troughs in the middle of the room to drain away the excess fat. While the first broach dried, I prepared another, and so on until we had more than sixty candles hanging from five broaches. By the time I'd finished, the first dozen wicks were ready to be dipped again. As I returned the first broach to the cauldron, Katina stopped me.

'How many times do the wicks get dipped?'

'Numerous times. Depends on how thick we want the candle or taper. Why?'

'What do you feel when you touch the wax, Tallow? No, don't tell me yet. I'm thinking that if the candles get dipped repeatedly, then you'd be better to distil in the early stages, now, before the candle reaches its final shape. That way, if there's untouched tallow to cover what's been adjusted, it will decrease the candle's overall potency. I think it may be a way of controlling the depth of the distillation. Do you know what I mean?'

'Yes, I think I do.' I was excited. This made a strange kind of sense to me. Then a thought crossed my mind. 'But what about as the candle burns? Whatever I've placed within it will be released and it will be strong.'

Katina shook her head and gently touched the broach I was holding. 'I'm not convinced of that. Let's call this one an experiment.' She looked to Pillar for permission. He nodded. 'Do what I have taught you to do. Really feel the essence of what you are handling. Extract the goodness from it and, when you're ready, separate it. Suppress anything negative, control what remains, enhance it, and then put it back in.'

'Are you sure?'

Katina laughed. 'No, but until we try, none of us will know.'

I didn't argue. Instead, I filled a metal jug with the melted tallow and brought it over to where the first broach was suspended.

'I'm not going to dip this time,' I explained to Pillar and Katina. 'I think I'll pour. I think I'll be able to control what I'm doing better.'

Pillar grunted in approval. Basic tapers could be made by either dipping or pouring tallow onto the wicks. Dipping was quicker, but, until I was better trained in the art of an Estrattore, I wanted to control what I was doing. Through the jug's handle, I could feel the hot liquid tallow. Opening my mind to it, I could sense the agony of the animals, the sheep and cattle that had been slaughtered for food, clothing and this fat so that one day candles might light human homes. I threw myself into their torment, collected it, tasted it and almost gagged.

The sickly-sweet tang of copper filled my mouth, but I concentrated even harder. These candles would not reflect the animals' pain. I pushed those feelings aside and then plunged deeper, further into the tallow, searching for something positive to latch on to. Images flooded my mind. I saw fields of rich green grass, oats and water aplenty. Sunshine and rain and the soft nuzzling of calves and lambs. I witnessed them gambolling about hillsides and nestled together in a dark barn once night fell. Contentment and pleasure washed over me.

'That's it, Tallow,' whispered Katina. Her long fingers rested gently on my shoulder. 'What else do you see, do you feel? Capture its very essence as I have taught you and let it flow.'

I concentrated harder, narrowing my vision, forcing myself to extract the most potent of positive emotions from the experience. The grazing animals fed, birds swooped and sang, and butterflies flittered between flowers. It was missing only one thing ...

All at once, a shaggy, chocolate-coloured dog, curled up beneath the long grass under a tree, raised his head and allowed his tongue to loll out. I smiled and extended my will, capturing the moment. 'Happiness,' I answered. 'And safety. I feel safe.'

Before I could become lost in this pastoral pleasure, Katina spoke in a husky voice. 'Tallow, release what you sense now.'

I gathered all that I felt and saw and, with a slight push of my will, allowed the emotions to pour into the tallow. As if they were another additive, I mentally measured the amounts and fed them in equal portions, balancing the outcome against the flow. Finally, I tipped the jug and watched as the tallow coiled over the thickened wicks. The liquid warmth glowed, each layer richer than the last, ripened with life's simple pleasures.

Finished, I put the jug down and watched as the excess fat pooled in the trough. Instead of its usual grey, the tallow was a soft creamy colour. I inhaled. The foul smell of the fat had been replaced by the fresh scent of dew-spangled grass. I sighed and smiled at Katina and Pillar.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Their eyes were glassy and their cheeks flushed. They stared at the broach.

It was Katina who composed herself first. 'Whoever lights these candles and breathes their scent will experience the delights of a world and time too quickly snatched away.' She tentatively placed a finger in the cooling fat, staring at the small cream dot that stuck to the end of her finger. 'A time before knowledge.'

Pillar looked from me to the candles and back again, his eyes wide with respect and fear. 'I envy them already.'

AFTER THAT, I NOT ONLY made candles and tapers, but I was allowed to create rush lights, and, for the first time for sale in the shop, the thick moulded pillar candles from which Pillar earned his nickname. In the meantime, I continued to extract the essence of the tallow and its history and, if necessary, change it. Gradually, the first vat was replaced by another and then another as Pillar and I made candle after candle.

It didn't take long for word to get out that Pillar was selling pale creamy candles with the most marvellous scents for the same price as tallow candles. Locals came in droves. Their surprise when they found out these waxy candles with their high sheen and pleasant odours were actually made from tallow was most amusing. Some refused to believe it, but they didn't quibble too hard in case Quinn charged them extra. Over the next few days, customers returned for more and brought friends with them. For the first time in my memory, the shop was crowded.

Even the chandlers who had provided the tallow and their competitors came to set eyes on what they'd heard but could not believe. Candles made from tallow always smelt terrible, and generally looked grey and distasteful; but not Pillar's candles. It didn't take long for the other candlemakers to become first curious and later jealous of Pillar's success. Spies were hired to discover our trade secrets. But we always knew who they were – even if I hadn't been able to tell immediately. They weren't very discreet and Katina had a knack for fossicking out nosy people.

Coins were exchanged, shelves emptied and I was kept very busy. Everyone who burnt our candles complimented us on the smell and how, for the duration of the burn, a general ambience of contentment would descend on even the most fraught of houses and businesses. One customer said that he felt as though the sun had chosen to rise and set in his house; another said that she was reminded of her childhood in the mountains, which always made her feel at peace with herself and the world.

Whereas bee and bayberry waxes had once been a luxury, I was now using them with regularity, relishing the sweet scents, their perfection. I continued to extract and distil, ridding the wax of any negativity and infusing it with a magnified version of its own wholesomeness. Often, especially when working with beeswax, I didn't need to discard or even magnify anything. Bees lived uncomplicated and fruitful lives; likewise, bayberries grew on bushes, secluded and long-living. The essence of these waxes was inevitably one of harmony and peace. It was a pleasure to extract this and hide it deep within my candles.

And that was the way I spent my days. Working with the materials I so loved and learning to become an Estrattore. Katina was an odd teacher. She didn't so much show me what to do as make suggestions and allow me to find my own way. I soon overcame my concern that I might fail her and began asking my own questions. Sometimes she couldn't answer, but she assured me that she would find the solution.

Over the weeks, Katina's promise to Quinn finally came true. In less than a month, our paltry sales had more than doubled. With the onset of winter, and shorter days, we had back-orders waiting for me to fill. I loved making the candles and the love that I poured into my craft also went into the candles. The customers felt it; we all did.

Only once or twice did I accidentally take a negative emotion and place it in the candles. Usually after Quinn had drunk too much and made dark threats. But it didn't happen very often.

Gradually, Pillar and Quinn's fears that I would be discovered lessened and with my spectacles firmly clamped to my face, I was allowed to venture further into the quartiere than I'd ever been before. I was able to explore my island, meet the people that lived beyond my calle and even be greeted by those that recognised the boy in the large hat with the golden glasses. 'That's Pillar's apprentice,' I would hear them say as I passed. 'That's the boy who helps Pillar make those wonderful candles.' I would hide my smile and return their greeting.

I was so caught up in the joy of my new life that I missed what was happening right under my nose.

CHAPTER TWELVE
What Tallow heard

AS AUTUMN SEGUED INTO WINTER, and the nights grew longer and the days bitter and short, business boomed. What had once been for Quinn a lonely vigil in an over-stocked shop frequented more through charity for Pillar than need was now a fraught, customer-filled day.

The woman who had once complained of being isolated from her quartiere was now permanently occupied, even popular. Quinn's head burst with the stories she was told; her tongue twisted with gossip, and she derived a peculiar pleasure from deceiving her customers. Each time her fingers clenched their lire and she passed them their newly purchased candles, her secret knowledge of their unwitting blasphemy gave her a dark thrill.

'Have you listened to a word I've said?'

A strident voice penetrated Quinn's thoughts. Halfway through wrapping a set of moulded candles for a customer, she looked around. Francesca Zonelli, the fruiterer's wife whose milk had once soured and who had a reputation as a notorious busybody, leant over the counter and pushed aside the woman Quinn was serving.

Quinn smiled at the customer apologetically and handed over her candles. 'Thank you, Signora. Please come again,' she called chirpily as she placed the shiny silver coin in her special tin and slid it back beneath the counter. She looked at Francesca and sighed. 'Shouldn't you be in your own shop instead of disturbing my customers?'

Francesca frowned. 'No, Giuseppe is there. Anyhow, I'm not disturbing the customers. I am a customer.' A few of the remaining patrons cast bemused looks over their shoulders and shook their heads; they were used to Francesca's ways. So was Quinn. She looked at her friend.

'You were right,' she admitted. 'I wasn't listening. What were you saying?'

Francesca beamed. 'I was saying that all she does is pine for him day in and day out!'

'Who?' asked Quinn.

'My daughter, Lucia,' said Francesca, affronted Quinn had to be told again. 'I can't get her to eat and she cries herself to sleep every night.' She suppressed a sob. 'See what it's doing to me? I cry at the smallest thing. Her pain is so great. I can't stand to see my daughter like this. So, I say to myself, what can you do, Francesca? You tell me, Quinnatta. What can I do?' As she spoke, Francesca began combing the shelves, taking candles and placing them on the counter.

Quinn began sorting them, stifling a yawn. She was exhausted and Francesca was making her feel worse. As she listened to her neighbour moan about her daughter, her hand brushed against her tin of money under the counter. It didn't move. There was a time when the merest touch would have sent the old container flying. Now it was as so laden with coppers and lire, it needed two hands to lift it. Quinn smiled. That Bond Rider had been right. Teaching Tallow how to control her special gifts and utilise them while making the candles had worked wonders. 'Praise be to God,' said Quinn under her breath. And no-one had a clue what was going on. She chuckled wickedly. What did she really care? So long as they kept filling her little tin, she was happy.

Francesca was indignant. 'I don't think my daughter's broken heart is anything to laugh about. You of all people should appreciate that!'

Quinn scowled at that barb and tried to pay attention. While she enjoyed a good gossip at the best of times, the stories about Francesca's daughter were tediously predictable. 'I wasn't laughing at what you said, Francesca. My mind was temporarily on other matters.' She weighed and wrapped Francesca's candles and tallied the amount on her abacus. It wasn't till she'd calculated the total that she noticed the expression on Francesca's face. The woman looked quite stricken. Quinn relented. 'Perhaps she should speak to this boy, let him know her feelings?' she suggested.

'That's what I tell her,' said Francesca, slapping the counter, eager to engage. 'But will she listen to me? No. She flutters her eyelashes and smiles. But he doesn't see. It's not love that makes men blind. It's stupidity! He doesn't have a clue!'

Quinn started. Francesca was echoing her thoughts.

Francesca threw her hands up into the air. 'Anyhow, I couldn't just let her fade away to nothing, could I? So,' she said, leaning forward conspiratorially, 'I took matter into my own hands. What do you think I did?'

Knowing it was expected of her, Quinn responded. 'I don't know, Francesca. What did you do?'

By now a couple of other women in the shop had paused to listen.

'I invited him around for supper. That's what I did!'

'You did?' asked Helena Sarapotini, the fishmonger's wife, heaving her basket on to the counter. Quinn noticed with pleasure that it was full of rush lights and tapers.

'I did,' said Francesca slapping the counter again.

Quinn slid the abacus in front of Francesca, hoping the woman would take the hint. 'That will be one lire and four coppers, thank you.'

Francesca reached into her basket for her purse. 'He comes the day after tomorrow. So, I think to myself, I must put on a feast – a show to make my beautiful daughter look even better. I tell her, she must also put on a good show – between us, we'll show him what he needs, what he wants.'

'That's the way to do it.' Helena nodded sagely. 'Sometimes men need that – to be shown. And I'm not just talking about what they put in their stomach.'

They all laughed.

'They don't always know what they need,' agreed Rosa Barcola, joining them. 'My husband, he knows nothing, except what I tell him. Bruno, we need a maid; Bruno, we need a cat; Bruno, we need a baby. He just says yes, Rosa. Afterwards, he wonders what the cat and child are doing there. Men!' Rosa rolled her eyes.

'Exactly,' said Francesca. 'So, in order to set the most perfect table, I need not one, but two of your candles. You tell your son I want two beautiful bayberry candles. Green for good luck.'

'Green for envy!' said Helena.

'Green for the poor boy who doesn't know what's coming,' quipped Rosa. The women cackled hysterically.

'Bayberry!' exclaimed Quinn, her eyes widening as she mentally calculated the cost. But Francesca could afford it. Her husband was the only fruitier in the quartiere.

Francesca's stories suddenly became more interesting.

Behind the workshop door, her ear pressed firmly against the wood, Tallow listened intently. She was taking a small break while Pillar and Katina picked up some more tallow from the Chandlers Quartiere.

When Francesca first started talking, Tallow had almost turned away. But, as she described her daughter's anguish, Tallow's heart swelled. She felt sorry for the poor girl who languished night after night, all because of a boy who didn't know she existed. She could hear the boredom in Quinn's responses and it was all she could do not to dash out and console Francesca. Then she heard Francesca place the order for the candles. After that, the conversation changed focus. Tallow sighed. Candles don't make themselves, she thought, looking wryly at the waiting broaches and the bubbling pot of tallow. Returning to the cauldron, she stirred slowly, preoccupied with what she'd heard.

It wasn't fair to have such feelings and not have them returned. She tried to picture Francesca's daughter ... what was her name? That's right, Lucia. She was a pretty blonde, with grey-green eyes and a thin mouth. She seemed nice enough. What was wrong with this boy that he didn't notice her? Perhaps the women were right and he just needed a little encouragement to open his eyes to what he was missing.

Well, Lucia deserved happiness – everyone did. Looking thoughtfully at the block of bayberry wax atop one of the vats, an idea began to form in Tallow's mind. One she couldn't discard.

She knew she wasn't supposed to distil without Katina's permission or knowledge, but this was different. Anyhow, it wasn't such a big deal. All she was going to do was alter the distillation slightly from what she had been doing. No-one need ever know. It wasn't as if she was doing anything bad. As Katina had reassured Quinn, there was nothing unnatural about doing something you were born to do.

When Katina and Pillar came home later that day, Tallow didn't say anything, but that afternoon, as she made the special bayberry candles, she distilled something a little extra into the early layers: something she'd stored from when she held that piece of wood from the gondola, something to which only a besotted girl and indifferent boy would respond.

LYING IN BED THAT NIGHT, Tallow felt gratified by what she'd done. Not only was she bringing a general air of happiness to the community with her candles, but she was doing something specific to help her neighbours as well. She tried to imagine the look on Lucia's face when this boy admitted he loved her. She tried to picture what Francesca would say ... maybe she would buy more bayberry candles. That would make Quinn even happier than she had been tonight at dinner.

Feeling content with herself, Tallow eschewed her usual midnight stroll on the rooftop and fell into a deep sleep.

Hovering near the workshop the next day, she tipped her hat to Francesca when she came to pick up the candles.

Spying her by the door, Francesca gave her a big smile. 'Ah, you're, Tallow, aren't you?' she said holding the lovely green candles aloft. 'These look beautiful.' She ran them under her nose. 'Smell wonderful too. They're for a special occasion. Should work a treat. You must thank your master for me. He's very clever, that one. A late bloomer. But he's more than making up for it.'

'Grazie mille, Signora Zonelli,' said Tallow, swallowing the laugh that gurgled in her throat. 'I will tell him.' She quickly bowed her head and shuffled back into the workshop. She felt reckless, but also liberated in a way she had not known before.

'What's up with you?' Katina was watching Tallow curiously. Tallow spun around. 'Something's on your mind. Want to share?'

Tallow coloured immediately. 'No. I mean, there's nothing on my mind.'

'Is that right?' said Katina. 'Well, I hate to tell you this, Tallow, but if there's one thing you're not, it's a blank slate. I can tell you're up to something. If you don't want to tell me, that's entirely up to you. Now, come on, shut the door and get back to work. Young men don't exchange pleasantries with older women – not unless it's Carnivale or they're up to something. There are still plenty of orders for you to fill and techniques for you to refine.' She waited for the door to be closed. 'You're not a Master Estrattore yet, you know,' she added.

Without another word, Tallow joined Katina, aware the Bond Rider was studying her closely. To dispel suspicion, she worked extra hard, spending the next four hours learning to rid both wax and tallow of any negativity until it came as easily as breathing.

At the end of the day, Katina wiped her hands on an old rag and, smiling, draped an arm across Tallow's shoulders. 'That was good work,' she said. Tallow noticed Katina's arm was heavy along the back of her neck and she could feel her shaking. For the first time in days, Tallow took a proper look at her mentor. Katina was pale and drawn. There were dark shadows under her eyes.

'Are you all right?' asked Tallow.

'Hmm? What? Oh yes, me. I'm fine.' Katina gave a forced laugh and, pulling her arm back from Tallow, sat on one of the barrels. 'Just tired, that's all. Nothing a good night's sleep won't mend.' She sighed and rubbed her eyes. 'Tomorrow I'll teach you how to draw on the negativity you extracted and distil that too.'

'So soon? I thought you said we didn't want me refining negative emotions yet. I thought you said you weren't entirely comfortable –'

'Who's the instructor here, Tallow?' snapped Katina. 'You or me?'

'You, of course. I –'

'Well,' said Katina, lowering her voice as she looked over her shoulder to see where Pillar was. 'While balance is important, it's also time to teach you that there's more to being an Estrattore than sweetness and light.' Before Tallow could pose the questions that brimmed within her, Katina shook her head and placed her finger against her lips.

'How about you go upstairs and see how Quinn's going with supper,' said Pillar. He had approached so quietly that Tallow hadn't heard him. But Katina had. She shot Tallow a warning glance.

'Yes. All right. Sure,' said Tallow, untying her apron. What did Katina mean? She cast another worried glance in Katina's direction. The Bond Rider looked awful. How had Tallow not noticed before? Surely this couldn't have just happened. Why, Katina could barely even lift her head.

Noticing her concern, Pillar escorted Tallow to the door. 'Get cleaned up. We'll be with you shortly.'

'But Katina –'

'She'll be fine. She's just run down. You're not the only one working hard, you know.' Pillar winked.

Pillar never winked.

Uneasy now, Tallow crossed the floor of the shop, turning just as she reached the stairs. Pillar hadn't shut the door properly and it had swung open slightly. Through the gap she saw Pillar stand in front of Katina. He looked at her for a moment before taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tipping her face towards his. Tallow couldn't hear what he said, only the tender tone with which he spoke. He was very worried and, it seemed, not without some justification. Her heart contracted.

One foot poised above the stairs, her hand pressed into the wall, she saw Katina smile, shrug and slowly rise to her feet. Pillar dropped his hand and opened his arms. Katina hesitated only a second before falling into them.

TALLOW FOUND IT DIFFICULT TO swallow her food. She kept stealing glances at Katina and Pillar. Sitting opposite each other, there was nothing in their manner to suggest anything was different between them. No secret glances or smiles. Preoccupied with what she'd witnessed, Tallow found herself spending more time pushing her food around her plate than eating it.

Quinn noticed her lack of appetite. 'What's wrong with you?'

'Nothing,' said Tallow quickly. 'I'm just not hungry, that's all.' She tried not to look at Katina.

'Fine for some,' snapped Quinn. 'Now that we've got ducats and lire coming in you think you can leave food on your plate? What you don't eat now, I'll serve you tomorrow and the next day and the next until you learn to appreciate what's put in front of you. I don't stand over that fire sweating like a smithy for pleasure, you know.'

'It's all right, Mamma,' said Pillar, reaching over and picking up Tallow's meal. He scraped her remains on to his own plate. 'I'll finish it. Tallow's been working very hard these weeks. All he needs is a good night's rest. Isn't that right, Tallow?'

'Yes. Yes, that's it,' said Tallow. 'I'm tired. I think I'll go to bed.' She stole one last glance at Katina, who gave her a weak smile. Tallow was about to say something when she changed her mind. Something was wrong – more than wrong. She knew it. And, from the look on Pillar's face, he did, too.

To the sound of Quinn's clucking and cursing, Tallow reluctantly made her way to the attic.

A wind whistled through the room, making Tallow shiver. Despite the cold, she grabbed one of the blankets off her bed and climbed the stairs up to the rooftop garden. Framed by a low wall with a thick ledge, it was no bigger than a small yard.

Sitting on the ledge, Tallow gazed out over the city. The moon was just rising, casting a sheen over the snow-covered Dolomites. A gibbous moon, it looked too large to heave itself into the heavens. Its light was muted but carried a long way, and Tallow could see the symmetrical outlines of buildings as far away as the Butchers Quartiere.

She looked up into the velvet night and saw a scattering of familiar constellations. She started counting them, but, because she could only count to forty, it didn't distract her for very long. She tried to listen to the usual nocturnal chorus of dogs, owls and bats, and the occasional mewl of a cat in heat. But, apart from the low chanting of padres in the seminary of the main basilica of the sestiere, tonight an eerie silence gripped the quartiere. None of it, however – the view, the moon, the stars, the unusual silence – kept her mind off Katina ... and Pillar! Were they more than simply friends? Was she reading too much into Pillar's concern and shows of affection towards Katina? After all, she was an attractive woman and Pillar's appearance had certainly improved with their new diet. Her two mentors had grown very close to each other over the weeks, and trust between them had bloomed. Pillar was grateful to Katina for their new prosperity as well, while Katina ... what did Katina, a Bond Rider, see in Pillar? Tallow pondered. Was it anything more than pity?

Ever since the Bond Rider appeared, Tallow had seen a different side to the browbeaten candlemaker. He'd revealed hidden aspects of his character that were only now being taken out and given a shine – humour, some decisiveness and even inner strength. He'd stopped slouching and his laugh came more easily, especially at meal times.

Tallow ran her hands over her body. The fresh and plentiful food hadn't done her any harm either. Her scrawny arms and legs had more definition and fullness, her waist had curves and as for her breasts – they'd grown. She gently squeezed them, wincing at their tenderness. What a nuisance they were, she thought. Unable to flaunt them, only hide them beneath yards of itchy, tight fabric, what use were they? When she'd complained to Katina, the Bond Rider had laughed and assured her that one day, perhaps, she would not feel that way about them. An image of Katina from that afternoon, with her glossy hair and wide mouth, filled Tallow's head. Sadness rose within her.

For all the weight Tallow was gaining, it seemed it was falling away from Katina. Pillar was very worried and even Katina's bravado around her condition was so evidently forced. Yet she'd still been so insistent that they begin learning something new tomorrow.

Katina's abrupt loss of energy, the whispered conversations with Pillar that mostly ceased when Tallow was nearby, and the Bond Rider's resolve that Tallow learn new things all pointed to one conclusion: Katina knew her time was running out.

Tallow's heart was heavy. Life had been so different since Katina had been with them, and she didn't want to imagine what it would be like if she wasn't. Katina was more than just her teacher; she was a link to a past and a future that Tallow had never thought possible. If Katina left or, worse, never returned, what would she do?

Was she ready to seek out her destiny by herself? Tallow shivered, but whether it was from the icy wind that swept across the rooftop or fear of her future, she couldn't tell.

Slipping off the ledge, she stood and faced the mountains. Beyond their ragged line, somewhere in the darkness, was the Limen. Surrounding Serenissima on the land side, the numinous border that divided their world and that kept the country safe from mainland invasion rose into the heavens. While Tallow knew it was there, she'd never really thought about it much. She knew that at its closest point near Serenissima, the Limen was less than a day's ride, while at its furthest, somewhere past the Dolomites, it was weeks away. She also knew it was a strange place, one that no mortal person, except those who had sundered their souls, could venture into and live. But now it held a new significance for her. Not only was it a barrier that separated countries and kept enemies at bay; it also marked the boundary between her past and present – between her current life and her future.

The milky peaks of the ranges caught the moonlight, sending a sparkling reminder of their presence, of the deep winter to come. Tallow searched for a sign of the Limen, for something that indicated it was really there. Almost as if it called, Tallow turned her head and listened. Past the line of the closest mountains, she thought she saw a faint silver shimmer rising in the sky, soaring into the nothingness above.

A chill sped through her body and she wrapped the blanket more tightly around her, trying to set the image in her mind; to establish it as a shrine to which she would one day make a pilgrimage. For she had no doubt, regardless of the danger it posed, that she would have to find a way to enter into – and remain – in the Limen.

The other Estrattore had. They lived there now and she had, too, once upon a time.

Just as she existed only because of the Limen, she knew that unless she was able to uncover its secrets, that enigmatic space could one day extinguish her life as easily as one doused a candle.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The alchemist's story

BY THE TIME KATINA JOINED us in the workshop the following day, dishevelled and sleep-weary, it was mid-morning and Pillar and I had already completed two dozen broaches.

I was pouring some moulds when she opened the door. Glancing behind her, I could see ladies milling in the shop and hear Quinn's sharp voice calling out prices – a good sign. But Katina's appearance wasn't. A night's rest appeared to have done little to improve her health. Her face was ashen; her eyes had sunk deep into her skull. Even her usually full lips seemed to have receded from her teeth. I opened my mouth to comment, but a look from Pillar and a slight shake of his head stopped me.

Instead, I kept a close eye on Katina's every move. Each time she crossed the workshop, she grabbed the side of the vats and relied on Pillar's arm when she lowered herself on to a stool. As she quietly instructed me in the extraction and distillation of negative emotions, her hand braced against the wall in support. My heart contracted as I saw just how drained of energy she'd become. Even her voice had lost its usual robust confidence and her body seemed independent of its limbs. Instead of listening to what she was telling me, I was alert to any telltale signs of flagging energy. Every time I went to say something, proffer a helping hand, my instincts told me not to. Until Katina acknowledged what was wrong with her, there was nothing I could do.

As the day wore on, Katina seemed to improve, even laughing heartily at a story Pillar told about a particularly repugnant chandler when we paused for lunch. Pillar and Katina retreated to the relative tranquillity of the calle to eat their bread and cheese and linger in the sunshine. I made excuses to remain in the workshop. But as I broke my bread and sipped my vino, something happened to take my mind off Katina. I heard Francesca Zonelli in the shop. She had her daughter, Lucia, in tow.

On the pretence of preparing another broach, I worked as close to the shop as I dared, praying that Quinn wouldn't notice the door left ajar. Fortunately, 'sotto' was not a word in Francesca's vocabulary, so I heard everything she said.

'A success?' she exclaimed in response to Quinn's query. 'How can you doubt it, Quinn! It was as if the blinkers the boy had been wearing all these months fell away from his eyes. One look at my Lucia and I don't think he saw another thing all night.'

I heard a small giggle from Lucia.

'The entire family sat at the table, but we might as well have been pieces of furniture. He didn't pay attention to a word anyone else said, did he, Lucia?' Lucia didn't get a chance to answer. 'At any other time, I would have thought his manners disgraceful, but, under the circumstances, we indulged his new passion with delight – after all, it was my daughter!'

Lucia stifled a laugh. Quinn said something, but I couldn't quite catch it.

'Not just the ordinary kind. Undying love, Quinn! He declared undying love for my bambina. Can you imagine that? Look at her face! Have you ever seen such happiness?

Why, it's palpable. It's as though his love for Lucia has infected the entire house.'

I drifted away, a smile of satisfaction on my face. For the rest of the afternoon, I basked in a contented glow. I had, of my own volition, managed to use my talents to help someone. Lucia and her reluctant paramour now shared a love. I couldn't help it; I felt a sense of pride and worth. I know it imbued everything I touched that afternoon, but Katina either didn't notice or didn't care. And I didn't shut out my emotions; I gleefully included them in every candle I poured and dipped.

The day passed very quickly. Before I knew it, shadows had fallen and it was time to close the shop and retire for the night. Quinn had already gone upstairs with her precious tin of coins and was preparing dinner. Tantalising smells began to waft down the stairs, making me realise how hungry I was. I began restocking the shelves. Katina remained in the workshop sitting on a stool, talking softly to Pillar who was lifting the excess tallow out of the troughs and placing it back in the vat. I was all but finished and about to lock up and go upstairs when the door to the shop opened. Stepping inside out of the cold was a young couple. I was about to explain that the shop was closed when I saw their faces.

The woman looked grief-stricken, the young man, desperate. Instead of shooing them away, I waited patiently for them to speak. But they simply stood there, clearly uncomfortable not only with their surroundings but with whatever had led them into the shop in the first place.

I could stand it no longer.

'How may I help you?' I asked, stepping forward, wiping my hands on my apron.

The woman let out a sob. The man placed a loving hand on her arm.

'Shush, Lizzetta. It's all right.' He turned to face me and gave a little half bow. 'I am sorry to disturb you at so late an hour, kind sir, but we were wondering if you would have any tallow ... um ... er ... remnants for sale.'

I was surprised. Only the very poor asked for remnants and it was clear from their dress and manners that these people were certainly not destitute.

'Remnants?' I exclaimed before I could help myself. 'Can't I interest you in something else, something more ... appropriate?'

'We are not in a position to purchase anything else,' the man said, suddenly finding his boots very interesting.

It was then the woman, now composed, took over the conversation. She removed his hand from her arm and I could see from the circlet of gold on her finger that she was his wife. 'Please, if you could spare anything, we would be extremely grateful.'

'Do not confuse our humble request for begging,' said the man firmly. 'We can pay you –' he reached inside his coat and pulled out a skinny purse. He upended it in his palm. 'I have two coppers. Please,' he repeated as I stared at his hands. 'This is all we have.'

The woman's shoulders heaved and I noticed a tear trickle down her cheek.

The man was about to speak again when I raised my finger and placed it against my lips, shaking my head in warning at the same time. His eyes widened and he nodded. He patted his wife's arm. She raised her head and saw me standing there, signalling for them to be quiet. She looked at her husband in astonishment. I knew my behaviour was strange, but I wanted to help these people and, if I could, find out what had reduced them to their current condition. Tiptoeing over to the workshop door, I softly closed it. Then I ran to the stairs. The door at the top was also closed.

I swiftly returned to the couple and gestured for them to step closer. 'I can give you remnants; that's not a problem,' I whispered. 'But you can keep your coppers.' I closed the man's fingers over his coins. I went behind the counter where I knew a box of broken candles was kept. There was even a valuable bayberry one in there, knocked off a shelf on a crowded morning. Quinn had forced the customer to pay for the damage. I upended the box into an old cloth and tied it up. I placed the now empty box back under the counter. When Quinn went to add to it tomorrow, I would simply tell her that I had melted the contents.

I handed the quite bulky cloth to the man. 'There. That should light your home for a while.'

The woman took my hand and raised it to her cheek. 'Grazie, kind sir, grazie mille. What can we do to repay you, since you won't take our coin?'

I thought for a moment. I was still affected by my earlier feelings of accomplishment and benevolence regarding Lucia, filled with a sense of goodwill and power. This made me say something rash, bold even. 'Perhaps you can tell me why you are so sad.' The words surprised even me. But since I'd taken the first step, I plunged recklessly ahead. 'I've always been told that a burden shared is easier to carry.' I'd never been told that, not directly. I'd overheard Padre Foscari telling Francesca's husband that on the fondamenta two days ago. Regardless from whom the sentiments originated, they seemed to work.

The couple hesitated. But I pressed my point.

'You never know, perhaps I can help?' I raised my eyebrows and forced a smile on to my face. This couple had piqued my curiosity as well as my new-found desire to test my skills further.

'Thank you, but you've already done so much,' said the man finally. 'We don't want to burden you with our tale.' They turned to go.

I did something then that was as risky as it was foolish. I touched his arm and compelled him to look at me. I allowed my glasses to slip down my nose so only a fraction of my eyes were revealed. It was reasonably dark in the shop. The couple of tapers I'd lit were guttering and the moon cast only a dim light. I stared first at the man and then at his wife, willing them to tell me.

One after the other, their eyes widened and, from my fleeting physical contact with the man and my swift effort at extraction, I became aware of confusion and great sorrow followed by terrible guilt. While I was responsible for the first emotion, the others were so strong that I pulled away lest I inadvertently began to draw his sorrow from him; in case I began to reveal myself.

'Please,' I beseeched them, using my most persuasive tone.

It was the lady who capitulated. 'Why not?' she said. 'He's been so generous.'

The man thought for a moment, his eyes still fixed on my face. He bounced the knotted cloth in his hand a few times. Finally, he shrugged his capitulation. 'You're right. What harm can it do? '

My heart raced. If Katina happened to wander in and saw them, she would know immediately what I'd done. I would be in deep trouble. I quickly ushered them out on to the fondamenta. It was cold outside. Not only was Katina a concern, but I didn't want to risk Pillar, or worse, Quinn, catching them with the bag of remnants. 'Wait a moment,' I said and ran back into the shop.

'Pillar, Katina?' I called, opening the workshop door. They both looked up at me – Katina wearily from the stool, Pillar from behind the trough next to her.

'What is it, Tallow?' said Pillar.

'I'm stepping out for a moment. I'm just going to show some people how to get to the campo.'

Pillar frowned. He still didn't like me venturing out by myself. 'Can't you just give them directions?'

'They're not from this sestiere.' I shocked myself. How easily the lies tripped off the end of my tongue. 'I won't be long,' I added.

Katina laid a hand on Pillar's arm and gave a quick nod. 'All right then,' sighed Pillar. 'But be quick.'

I shut the door and, donning my coat and hat, went outside.

Together with the young couple, I stood on the cobbles. 'Where do you live?' I asked, intending to walk with them towards their house.

'The Alchemists Quartiere,' replied the man.

The Alchemists Quartiere! Why, that was a fair distance – a good thirty minutes' walk at least. My lie wasn't so outrageous after all. 'What are you doing here?' I exclaimed, surprised that they should come so far for mere candles. The Alchemists Quartiere was only small, but it was located on the verge of the Barnabotti Sestiere and both areas had candlemakers.

'To buy some of your candles,' said the woman simply.

'My candles?' Alarm was building inside me. Her next words extinguished my fear.

'Well, not yours, per se.' She gave an apologetic smile. 'But those made in your workshop. We have heard how the candles burn longer, how they are so much brighter than any others, how inexpensive they are. We thought that since we can no longer afford to be so irresponsible with our coin, and we were in the vicinity –' The woman's voice faltered.

'Hush, bella,' said the man. 'I will tell him.'

We began to walk along the darkening streets. As the frosty winter night descended, the implications of people from the Alchemists Quartiere travelling to our sestiere to buy our candles teased the edges of my thoughts. I knew their own candlemakers would not be happy to learn that we'd impinged on their territory, even if it wasn't deliberate. Pushing aside my misgivings, I listened to what the young man, whose name I learnt was Antonio Gramizia, had to say.

Passing by shuttered shops and houses, folk travelling home ard the occasional stray cat, I soon lost myself in Antonio's story. It turned out that he was an alchemist who, as the latest in a long line, learned the art from his father, showing amazing promise. He was able to work wonders with metals and powders, learning to coat and refine jewellery by dipping it in various acids and alkalines, producing vivid colours and altering shapes.

But what developed his reputation was discovering a highly combustible powder that, when placed in a metal casing and fired from a cannon, produced devastating results by killing soldiers, sinking ships and destroying fortifications. During a recent skirmish between Serenissima and Phalagonia – and later, between the victorious returning fleet and some unfortunate pirates – his powder had all but saved the entire armada. After that, the orders and money began to pour in. Antonio and his wife, Lizzetta, became wealthy. They were also feted. I didn't understand all that he told me, but he was modest in his recounting and I had no doubt that his abilities were far greater than he was indicating. This was confirmed when he came to the crux of his story.

Unhappy that the art he so loved was being used to maim and hurt, he turned his attentions to something that would help people rather than destroy them. He decided to pursue what all alchemists had dreamed of discovering since Serenissima had been marshland – the secret of turning base metal into gold.

In order to follow his dream, Antonio needed more money. Although he and Lizzetta had enjoyed the fruits of success, his refusal to equip the Doge's arsenal any longer meant his fortune quickly ran dry. Gone also was his popularity. His wife's family refused to contribute anything further to what they perceived as their son-in-law's disloyalty to the throne.

Just when it seemed that Antonio would have to forego his work and return to making weapons, a wealthy merchant from the Traders Quartiere heard about his new gold-making venture and agreed to help. This merchant loaned Antonio a vast sum of money to continue his experiments on the proviso that he be repaid with interest and a share in the results. He gave Antonio twelve months.

'That was almost two years ago,' continued Antonio. 'I thought a year would be enough, but I learnt differently. A year is but a second –' he snapped his fingers to emphasise his point '– in my field. I was so close, so close. But this Signor Gallame, he did not understand. He measures his life in coins; he does not appreciate that, for people such as me, these things are meaningless.'

Antonio's wife was silent throughout his explanation and I wondered if she agreed with her husband.

'Anyhow,' he sighed, pausing for a moment and adjusting his cloak. 'When the twelve months had passed and I had very little to show, Gallame demanded I repay him – without delay. I explained that I needed more time – that I didn't have the money – but he wouldn't listen. He demanded we sell our possessions. We did sell some, but he wasn't satisfied. Next he insisted that we sell all my equipment, some of which has been in my family for generations. At first, I did not agree, but then he sent some friends of his to convince me.' He indicated a wound that cut along the top of his head, close to the hairline, and I noticed that the flesh around one of his eyes was puffy and yellow. My heart went out to him.

'Still Gallame is not happy. He has seen us reduced to penury. He has taken everything I need to even try to re-establish myself and my reputation, but he wants more – always more.' Antonio bowed his head.

'Even though we have nothing but a few clothes and our old gondola, we are forced to sell our beautiful casa.' Lizzetta sighed. 'Our house. After that,' she shrugged, 'we do not know what we will do.'

Antonio shook his head. 'I fear that Lizzetta may have to throw herself on the mercy of a convent. I will go to a monastery. I believe that there are some orders that still allow the practice of alchemy.'

We had been walking so slowly, stopping every now and then as the story continued, that we hadn't come very far. Pity rose in me for these two foolish people, one at least of whom believed that gold was a product of human-induced changes, and who had lost everything because of that.

'Couldn't you make the explosives again?' I asked after a while.

Antonio looked at me, a bitter smile upon his face. 'While I may have lost my material possessions pursuing a dream, at least I have not lost my soul – not this time. No. I would not. I could never consider such a thing again.'

Lizzetta squeezed his arm.

We walked in silence for a short time, crossing the small campo, passing Vincenzo di Torello's taverna. A few people entered, allowing the warm air and light inside to briefly escape and enfold us. A soft snow had begun to fall, but I barely noticed as my mind set to work. If I could help Lucia achieve her heart's desire, why couldn't I help these two? Surely, it would be a matter of just using my abilities, extracting a bit here, distilling a bit there and ensuring the merchant was present when the candle was burnt.

Before I could change my mind, I acted.

'Listen to me,' I said, holding up my arms up in front of them, forcing them to stop. They both looked surprised – Lizzetta, a little alarmed. 'I think I can help you,' I said.

Antonio laughed. 'How can you help us, boy? Look at what we've been reduced to, telling our tale to a mere candlemaker's apprentice. You are young; you still have your dreams. Treat it as a cautionary tale. Do not see it as an opportunity for heroics.'

I was a little taken back by his tone, but I persisted. 'No, you don't understand. I really can help you.'

'What can you possibly do for us except what you have already? You have listened. We cannot expect more.'

'There is something I think I can do, but you can't ask any questions. You simply have to trust me. Can you do that?' I stared at them earnestly through my spectacles.

Lizzetta looked at her husband and shrugged. She gave a small laugh. 'Why not? What else is there for us to do?'

'Good,' I replied, looking over my shoulder, making sure no-one was watching. 'You must wait here for me.'

'Out in the snow?' said Antonio, waving his arms in a circle, catching the flakes as they fell.

I wanted to slap my forehead. What was I thinking? They would freeze. I reached into my coat pocket. Tucked in a corner was a lire – a present from Katina. Insurance, she called it. Well, I had no need of it, not now anyway, whereas Antonio and Lizzetta did. I placed it in Antonio's hand and remembering what Katina had told me about being more assertive, gave commands. 'Go to the taverna and buy yourself a meal and a drink. Meet me by the well in two hours.' I pointed towards where it stood in the middle of the campo.

Before they could argue, I disappeared into the night.

As soon as I was out of their sight, I raced back home, flinging off my coat and hat and taking the stairs two at a time.

'Sorry I'm late,' I said as I barged through the door and fell into my seat at the table. Quinn and Pillar sat in silence, empty bowls before them. 'Where's Katina?' I asked, slurping the bowl of broth in front of me. It had cooled considerably but was still very tasty. Quinn just frowned at me in disgust and pushed her chair back.

'Her ladyship has taken herself off to bed. Like you, she doesn't think my fare good enough for her delicate stomach any more.'

I saw Pillar flinch at his mother's caustic words. 'That's not the way it is, Mamma, and you know it. Katina's not well,' he said. He shook his head slightly, discouraging me from asking questions.

Quinn shot him a poisonous look and took her empty plate to the basin, throwing it in the water. 'You're always defending that woman, Pillar. I tell you that some things, like ingratitude, are indefensible!'

'Katina is grateful for your food, Mamma. We all are.'

Overcoming my surprise that Pillar had dared to contradict his mother, I simply nodded agreement and finished my soup. My eyes drifted towards the curtained area where Katina's bed lay. Ever since she'd arrived at the house, she'd taken Pillar's bed. He stayed up in the attic with me. It wasn't just in name and clothing we maintained my gender pretence. Even our sleeping arrangements gave nothing away.

Katina must have been feeling very ill to turn down food. She'd always had an extraordinary appetite. Still, Katina's absence meant that I had only Pillar and Quinn to persuade. How I was not only going to justify returning to the workshop, but also create a candle that would overturn Antonio and Lizzetta's misfortune? I ate slowly, mulling over my dilemma. Quinn was sitting by the fire. She pulled her tin on to her lap and began counting the day's earnings. An idea started to flower. Summoning up the courage, I laid the foundations of my deception.

'Pillar,' I began cautiously. 'You know those people I directed to the campo ...'

'Nice people.' Pillar was definitely distracted. He never even saw them.

'Well, they were quite well off. Came to our shop from the Alchemists Quartiere, can you believe it? Said our fine reputation brought them all this way. Anyhow, they've commissioned us to make them a whole batch of candles – beeswax, too.'

'Is that right?' Pillar was watching his mother distractedly.

'Yes. And, because these candles are extra, you know, on top of the back orders we already have to fill, I thought I might get started on them now, tonight, as soon as I've finished eating. That is, if it's all right with you.' I held my breath.

'What?' said Pillar, suddenly snapping to attention.

My heart sank.

'What commission?'

'Oh, for a batch of candles – a dozen beeswax, to be precise.' My cheeks started to reflect the magnitude of my lie. I prayed he wouldn't notice.

'Beeswax?' repeated Quinn, forever alert when money was at stake. She dropped the coins she was counting in her lap.

'Yes,' I said slowly. I turned to face her.

'And they came here? From the Alchemists Quartiere?'

'That's right,' I replied eagerly. My idea was coming together nicely. 'I thought I might get started on their candles tonight so they don't interfere with our other orders.'

Pillar shook his head. 'No, Tallow. You work too hard as it is. Katina and I have been doing a lot of talking lately –' His mother shot him a sour look. Pillar cleared his throat. 'She's made it very clear to me how important it is that we take care of you – make sure you don't overwork yourself. These candles can wait. Anyhow, you have to rise early. All being well, you and Katina are going to the markets, or have you forgotten?' He seemed not to care whether I had or not. His eyes drifted to the curtained-off corner where Katina slept and he frowned.

'No, I hadn't.' While I was looking forward to going to the markets that took place each week in the piazzetta between the Candlemakers and Chandlers Quartieri, Pillar's response made me despondent – and a little desperate. I'd asked Antonio and Lizzetta to wait for me – I had to get my hands on some candles tonight!

'If the boy wants to work, let him!' said Quinn suddenly.

I couldn't believe it. Support when I least expected it, and from a usually antagonistic quarter.

'But Mamma –'

'No buts. Seems our reputation's spreading nicely. Let it spread even further. Tallow's young and full of energy. Let him work.' She ran her fingers through the coins.

Pillar shrugged. 'All right, then ... if that's what you think should happen.' Once again, his eyes drifted to where Katina slept and then back to his mother.

'It's all right, Pillar,' I said, 'I don't need you to supervise me. I'm all right on my own. Can I make a start?'

It was then I did something that I'd never done before, at least never with such intention.

While I knew I wasn't to use my talents on humans, at least not until Katina had taught me how, I was confident that my touch was light enough that I could at least try. After all, I only wanted a tiny bit, a fraction of the sadness and division emanating from Pillar's every pore. I reached out and gently touched his hand, which was splayed on the table. I drew from Pillar, anxious to see if he noticed anything.

He didn't flinch or speak. Preoccupied, he just stared blankly ahead. After a moment, he simply moved his hand out of my reach.

Suppressing my excitement, I rose to my feet and took my plate to the basin, washing it quickly and placing it back in the cupboard. I took a deep breath. I knew what I wanted to do next, but my courage began to desert me. Then I thought of Antonio and Lizzetta. They needed me to be brave. So I moved towards the stairs making sure that as I left the room, I brushed Quinn's shoulder. 'Thank you,' I said, letting my fingers rest momentarily on the coarse wool of her shawl, extracting from her as she counted her coins. If she knew what I'd just done, I would be beaten within an inch of my life – Katina or no Katina.

Full of exultation, more than a little pride and other emotions that I didn't dare unravel, I crept down the stairs. I knew what I wanted to do was a gamble. But something told me it was also the right thing. I was ready to start making my own decisions. Use my candlemaking and other abilities to help those I wanted to – and not just for money.

I don't know where I'd come up with the story about an order of beeswax candles and I knew, as I entered the workshop, that I'd be in a great deal of trouble when they discovered the order didn't actually exist. But I would worry about that later. For now, my falsehood had succeeded in giving me time on my own. All I needed now was to find a perfectly good tallow candle and, while they still resided in my heart and mind, distil the essences of Quinn's avarice and Pillar's empathy for Katina and anxiety about his mother.

I RETURNED TO THE HOUSE some time after midnight, filled with the same glow of satisfaction I'd experienced that morning when I heard the results of my first attempt to help people.

Antonio and Lizzetta had been waiting for me as asked. Antonio unwrapped the candle and then burst into hysterical laughter. 'A candle! What can this possibly do, boy? Look, Lizzetta, the boy asks us to put our miserable lives on hold, and what for? A candle!' He laughed so hard he cried. 'For a moment there, I was stupid enough to believe in you.' He composed himself, wiped his eyes and sighed. 'May God love and protect you, boy. A candle!'

I hadn't thought about how ridiculous it would look. I shifted uncomfortably in the snow. 'I know it doesn't seem like much, but I'm sure some people would doubt the efficacy of your powders and potions, too,' I said.

Antonio paused and looked at me intently. 'That's true.'

'Well, candlemaking is an art that also has its secrets. Ones I cannot share. Please, from one craftsman to another, do as I ask. Invite the merchant to your house and, while he's there, make sure to burn the candle. It can't make things any worse, can it?'

They didn't say a word.

I didn't escort them back to their gondola. Instead, I watched them depart the campo, the falling snow soon obscuring them from view.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A sudden departure

IT WAS A SLEEPLESS NIGHT for Tallow. Before dawn, she rose and stole onto the rooftop. Chasing away her nocturnal demons, she watched as dawn infused the Dolomites, drinking in the pleasures of the changing sky with its soft blush tones. She tried to absorb the atmosphere around her, a precursor to the candlemaking she knew awaited: doves cooing in their nests before winging their way towards the last stubborn stars clinging to the dawn, the faint strains of gondoliers singing as they hauled their cargo along the canals, the chanting of the padres at morning prayers. Turning slightly, she gazed in the direction of the campo, the telltale steeple of the basilica rising above any other building. Today she would have the leisure of strolling among the markets there and, if Katina allowed, bartering with the vendors as well.

Once the sun had begun to spread its thin fingers across Serenissima, Tallow headed downstairs to wake Katina. Approaching the curtain cautiously, she called softly. 'Hey, sleepyhead, get up. We're going to the markets today!'

There was no reply.

'Katina, are you all right?' said Tallow. With a feeling of foreboding, she gently parted the curtain. The Bond Rider lay on her back, arms by her side, legs together. Except for the rapid rise and fall of her chest, she didn't move.

Taking a cautious step towards the bed, Tallow noticed that Katina's breathing was loud and shallow.

'Katina. What is it? What's wrong?' Unable to see her mentor clearly, she flung open the casement window. Turning back towards Katina, she froze.

Lying in the bed was an old woman.

'Wh– what – who?' began Tallow, her voice betraying her rising panic.

The old woman raised a trembling hand. 'T– Tallow. It's me.'

Tallow bent over and peered at her closely.

Her jaw dropped. 'Katina,' whispered Tallow. 'It is you. But how is this possible? Your face!'

Tallow knelt beside the bed. Katina tried to raise her wizened hands, but she couldn't even lift them off the quilt. She gave a few moist coughs before settling into a harsh wheeze.

Tallow rose to her feet. 'I have to wake Pillar, get the dottore –'

'No!' The word was quiet but firm. Tallow looked down and saw that Katina held her wrist. She could have pulled away, but the urgency in Katina's tone prevented her.

'Please. Get me m– my satchel.'

Tallow ran into the kitchen and grabbed Katina's satchel. She tipped the contents onto the bed, revealing a copper-coloured flask. Katina gave a whimper. Tallow uncorked the flask and raised it to Katina's mouth. Much of the ruby liquid spilt over her nightgown, but some found its way between her lips.

It took Katina a couple of minutes to regain her voice, but when she did, she spoke quickly, as if afraid she wouldn't last long enough to finish what she had to say.

'Tallow, you have to help me. Remember I said that a Bond Rider can't be away from the Limen too long?'

Tallow nodded. She didn't trust herself to speak.

She lifted her hand feebly and indicated her body. 'This is why.' A volley of coughs wracked her frame. Tallow watched in despair.

'You see, Tallow, time catches up with all Bond Riders eventually. We who defy it and think we've defeated it have just postponed the inevitable. If I don't return to the Limen now, I will die.' She lifted a preternaturally aged hand and stroked Tallow's cheek. 'And I cannot do that yet. My Bond is not complete. There is still work for you ... for me to do.'

Tears streamed down Tallow's cheeks. 'What can I do?'

'You must take me to the nearest pledge stone. Someone will come for me.'

'Pledge stone?' Tallow knew of the ancient stones upon which Bond Riders made their promises. They both repelled and fascinated her.

'Yes,' whispered Katina. 'A pledge stone. Take me, please.'

It was as if someone had tied a great weight to Tallow's heart. 'C– Can I not do something? Use my powers to ...?'

Katina shook her head, her eyes widening. 'No, Tallow. You're not far enough in your training to lay hands on a human yet – not for this.' Tallow bowed her head, afraid that somehow Katina would know what she had done, detect her underhandedness from the night before.

'Don't think it didn't occur to me,' continued Katina with a half-smile. 'But I think if I let you, you would kill me. That can't happen. Not because of me, but because of you. Listen to me, Tallow.' Katina raised herself on one arm, swallowing a few times at the effort and beckoning Tallow closer. 'Estrattore must never touch a human with the intention to hurt or kill. Do you understand?' She coughed again and fell back against the pillow. Tallow could hear the liquid bubbling in her chest. 'Will you take me, Tallow?'

Tallow nodded. She didn't have a clue where the ancient stones might be, but she didn't dare argue.

'When?' she asked quietly.

'Now. Before the others awake.'

'How?'

'How what?' asked a voice. Pillar's sleep-wracked face appeared. Relief washed over Tallow.

'Pillar!' she exclaimed. 'Look at Katina.'

When Pillar saw Katina's condition, he leapt forward. 'By God! You said this would happen. Why? Why did you leave it so long?' He folded Katina's fingers into one of his hands and pressed the fingers of the other against her forehead.

'She needs to get to a pledge stone.'

Pillar frowned. 'I know where there's one. It's on the other side of the Circolo Canal, on the mainland opposite the Cheese Quartiere. We can get there in less than an hour.' He let go of Katina and began to gather her belongings, randomly throwing them in her satchel. 'Tallow, go and hail a traghetto, quickly. Don't bother with the fermata. There's a set of disused water stairs just outside old Romano's shop. Make it stop there.'

Tallow hesitated. Unchecked tears streamed down her cheeks. She didn't want to leave Katina's side for even a second.

'What are you waiting for? Go! I'll attend to her and meet you there.'

Tallow turned on her heel and raced down the steps and through the shop, flinging open the door. She ran to Signor Romano's candle shop and, sure enough, there was a set of water-stairs, just as Pillar had said.

She looked up and down the canal, wiping her eyes with the back of her sleeve. Even though she'd left her coat behind, she didn't notice the crispness of the morning, the snow lying on the pavement or the mist rising off the water. She was too focused on willing a boat to appear. She didn't have to wait long before one of the big old traghettos emerged out of the mist. Waving her hands to attract attention, Tallow began to shout.

At first the captain, sitting in the stern, ignored her. He'd left the Wood Quartiere before dawn and, after delivering a couple of journeymen and a merchant to the Tanners Quartiere, was keen to get to the main part of the canal where he could make real money. That annoying boy could shout all he wanted; he wasn't going to waste his time picking up a tardy apprentice. But when Tallow's cries became more desperate and a tall man appeared with a frail old woman in his arms, he reluctantly steered the boat towards the stairs.

'Thank you,' said Tallow breathlessly as she jumped aboard, relieved to see there were no other passengers. She turned to help Pillar, who passed her Katina's satchel and her small leather scabbard. Pillar gently lifted Katina over the railing and placed her on a seat before leaping over himself and scooping her back into his arms. Tallow noticed he'd changed her out of her nightgown and put on her leggings, shirt and coat. There was no disguising what she was now.

The captain's eyes widened, but he said nothing. The oarsmen began to rise to their feet.

'Did I tell you to stand? Sit back down. I don't pay you to gawp,' he shouted. He spun to face Pillar. His eyes flickered over Katina. 'Where do you want to go?'

'The Pledge Stone of Casa di Maggiore.'

The captain's eyebrows rose. 'Don't be a fool! No-one dares to go there. I'd lose my licence.'

Pillar didn't say anything. He reached into his pocket and flicked a ducat towards the captain.

The captain caught it neatly and looked from the coin to Pillar and back again. 'You want to go there badly, don't you?'

'It's not for me,' was all Pillar said.

The captain glanced at Katina and grunted. He bit down on the ducat. 'Very well, but you'll bear the consequences if we're caught.' He began giving orders to his oarsmen.

Pillar took Katina through the stuffy little cabin to the bow, laying her on one of the benches that followed the shape of the boat, resting her head in his lap. Tallow was surprised. She'd never seen Pillar so attentive or tender before. She sat on the other side of Katina, not knowing what to do or what to say. Once again, sadness overwhelmed her. She knew Katina was leaving them. She tried not to be selfish, but she couldn't help but wonder what would happen to her training; what would happen to her?

Don't leave me, Katina, she pleaded soundlessly, afraid she would never see her mentor again.

Just then, the captain appeared and flung a blanket at Pillar and an oilskin coat at Tallow. 'You'll need them,' was all he said and disappeared.

First helping Pillar cover Katina, Tallow gratefully put on the oilskin.

The journey didn't take long. There wasn't too much traffic on the Circolo Canal at this time of morning. Rowing into the sun, it was difficult to see where they were going, but Tallow tried, anything to keep her mind off Katina and her suffering. Why wouldn't the Bond Rider let her use her talents? Surely she could have helped her in some way – ease her pain; make it so she didn't have to go.

Along the right bank, houses and shops met her watery gaze. There were even some grand casas lining the canal, rising from their stone bases to form elegant marble cliffs that glinted and shone in the morning light. Servants were beating rugs out of windows, their noses and cheeks glowing red, their breath as they called to each other curling into opaque shapes that gradually dissolved. Beside the fondamenta, vendors glided past, their gondolas laden with meat, fruit, wood and other goods. The distant mainland was dotted with farmhouses, vineyards, olive groves and vast meadows, which rose into the foothills of the snow-covered ranges of the Dolomites. Cows and herds of longhaired sheep grazed peacefully, unaffected by the frost that coated the grass and their backs. As they drew closer to the other side, Tallow saw a big jetty on the waterfront where workers from the Fishmongers Quartiere jostled for space in their boats. Their voices carried over the water as they argued best prices with the mainland farmers or traded meat and dairy for their ocean fare.

Pillar looked neither left nor right but attended to Katina, holding her close every time a cough wracked her body, gently wiping the spittle that formed in the corners of her mouth. Tallow watched them out of the corner of her eye, uncertain and confused about Pillar's attentions to the Bond Rider.

After a while, the captain reappeared.

'We'll be there shortly. I suspect you'll want us to wait?'

Pillar nodded. 'Yes, please.'

The captain grunted and stuck a pipe in his mouth before disappearing into the cabin.

'Tallow,' Katina whispered hoarsely.

Tallow jumped to her feet and knelt beside Katina's head. 'I'm here, Katina.'

'Tallow, I'm so sorry.'

'What for?' All the self-composure Tallow had worked hard to gain over the last twenty minutes began to disappear.

'For leaving you. I thought –' She struggled for air. It was a while before she could speak again, 'I thought I'd have longer. We'd have longer.'

'But you'll –'

'Shush.' Katina placed her finger against Tallow's lips. 'Now is not the time for you to speak, but to listen.' She paused, her breath coming in great shallow gasps. 'Do not use your talents any more than you've been taught, Tallow. Not yet. You're not ready. That means no human subjects.'

'But I –'

'No.' The word was strong. 'Pillar and I have discussed this. If something should go wrong ... no. You mustn't. I will return to you, Tallow, and then we will continue with your training. I'll teach you what else you need to know. You must be ready for what you have to do.'

Relief flooded Tallow as knowledge that Katina would return began to sink in. Tears brimmed in her eyes. 'You're coming back.' It was not a question.

'Of course I am ... as soon as I can. But until then, you practise what you've learnt so far. Do not be tempted to take it further. Please. Swear to me you won't. You can't risk discovery. Not now, not when we are so close.'

Tallow gulped, swallowing her sadness. 'I swear,' she said quickly.

Katina tried to sigh but it turned into a liquid cough. 'And, whatever you do, Tallow.' She caught her breath. 'Do not touch a pledge stone. None of them. Not yet. Promise me this. Not like before. This time, as if you were a Bond Rider making a pledge.' Katina stared at her with such intensity, Tallow almost recoiled. 'Promise!'

'Yes. Yes, I do,' said Tallow hastily.

Satisfied, Katina dropped her hand, the volley of coughs that convulsed her preventing Tallow from questioning her further. What did Katina mean? Why did she make her promise like a Bond Rider? Why would she want to touch a pledge stone anyway? And what did Katina mean when she said Tallow had to be ready for what she had to do?

They were thrown forward as the traghetto hit the embankment. In the last five minutes, a dense mist had descended, obscuring the view. The captain poked his head out of the cabin. 'I'll wait thirty minutes – not a moment more.'

Pillar wasted no time. Gathering Katina in his arms, he stooped through the cabin and marched across the plank connecting land to boat.

'Thirty minutes,' the captain repeated as they passed him.

'I'll make it worth your while,' replied Pillar firmly.

Tallow stepped ashore and looked around. Above the mist, the peaks of the Dolomites loomed. It was quiet on this part of the mainland. There were no farms or any other sign of inhabitants. Trees divested of their summer foliage grew right down to the water, their roots plunging into the murky depths. This was a wood devoid of birdsong and the rustle of small animals. There was nothing to distract them from their task. All around, grey tendrils of fog weaved their way through the trees, drifting upon a blanket of air. Gazing back across the canal, Tallow could see little more than a white band of mist. No wonder the captain had agreed to take them. It would be hard for anyone on the other bank to see them from this point.

'This way,' said Pillar and began forging a path through the vegetation. Tallow picked up Katina's satchel and scabbard and followed.

They made their way through the wood, the crunching of leaves underfoot disrupting the almost sacred quiet of the area. There was something unnatural about the silence. Tallow tried to focus on where she was going but found her mind drifting towards the dark spaces between the trees. Once more, a sense of being watched returned to plague her. The further into the wood they went, the more the sensation grew: a flickering shadow in the corner of her eye, the impression that someone was waiting just beyond her vision. The cold wind that blew carried with it hollow whispers and soft promises. The hair on the back of Tallow's neck began to rise. She increased her pace.

The trees ended abruptly and standing in the clearing before them was a huge stone; the fog didn't even venture into its space. Rising from an enormous base to thirty feet in the air, it was the shape of a lopsided triangle. Slowing her pace as they approached, Tallow had time to study the rocky mass. It was grooved from top to bottom and covered in human-made patterns that looked at once familiar and exotic – hallowed symbols that spoke of eons of commitment and trust between humans and Estrattore. Tallow stood in its shadow, trying to gather her thoughts. She was having difficulty concentrating, as if one part of her were here, with Pillar and Katina, while the other was elsewhere, searching, roaming.

'The Pledge Stone of Casa di Maggiore,' said Pillar softly, his face awestruck. 'We're here, Katina.'

Katina's eyes fluttered open and she slowly looked around. She nodded and sighed. 'Thank you. Thank you both.' She shuddered. 'Please, put me down here and leave. I will be fine now.' Pillar dropped to one knee and gently placed her at the base of the stone.

'Leave?' Tallow was incredulous. 'But you'll die if we leave you here.'

'No, Tallow. But you will kill me if you remain. The Bond Riders won't retrieve me and take me back to the Limen until you're gone. You must go.'

'Katina –' Tallow turned to Pillar for support. They couldn't just leave her! What if no-one came? But the candlemaker simply took the satchel and scabbard out of Tallow's arms and laid them beside Katina.

'We can do nothing now but as she tells us. Who are we to question the ways of the Bond Riders?' Pillar's voice was low, his tone both bitter and tinged with great sadness. Tallow was astonished to see tears in his eyes.

'Katina –' Tallow knelt beside the Bond Rider and wrapped her arms around her. 'Come back to me, please.'

'I will, Tallow. As soon as I'm allowed, I will. Now go.'

Pillar gripped Tallow by the shoulder and with gentle pressure, pulled her to her feet.

Together, without a backward glance, they plunged into the woods.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Pledge Stone of
Casa di Maggiore

WE HADN'T GONE VERY FAR when Pillar stopped in his tracks and darted behind a tree. Peering around the trunk, he indicated for me to do likewise. I joined him, puzzled by his behaviour.

He pressed his lips against my ear. 'I want to go back, make sure Katina's all right, that this Bond Rider comes,' he whispered. 'But we mustn't be seen.'

There was something in Pillar's voice that made me think he wasn't quite telling the truth. But why would Pillar lie? 'You can't ... Katina said we musn't. And what about the traghetto?'

Pillar gave me a crooked smile. 'Don't worry about what Katina said, or Captain Carlosa. For another ducat, he'll wait all day if he has to.' We began, cautiously, to retrace our steps, me somewhat reluctantly. I had grave misgivings. We were betraying Katina's trust. We said we'd leave and here we were sneaking back to spy on her. What if we jeopardised her safety?

There was something about this place that made my head ache and my chest flutter. I couldn't focus my thoughts, there were voices inside my head intent on being heard, but they whispered with such vehemence that their words became mingled and senseless. I wanted to shut them up, tell them to go away; but of course I couldn't. I didn't say anything to Pillar. I didn't want to cause him additional worry.

And so, with great care, we returned to the outskirts of the clearing, watching where we placed our feet, looking all around us. Even so, I was certain that Katina – or worse, someone or something else – would discover us lurking just out of sight behind the first ring of trees.

Crouching low behind a wide trunk, we had an uninterrupted view of the pledge stone. Katina lay where Pillar had left her, one hand atop her satchel and scabbard, the other draped across her chest. It was only because I could see her fingers rising and falling that I knew she was still alive.

Moments after we were settled, I heard a slight noise. It was so quiet, it might have been the sound of my own breathing echoing in my ears, but I had other sounds reverberating there. Perhaps that was why I heard it. A slight hush, like an intake of breath, and there he was.

A Bond Rider.

Tall, he wore thigh-high boots out of which climbed tight breeches. A dark shirt and jacket were mostly covered by a long leather overcoat that from its cracks and creases appeared to have adorned many lifetimes. His head was covered by a large black hat of a style I'd never seen, and I could see a brown ponytail swinging between his shoulder blades. He strode into the clearing, looking neither right nor left. He had eyes only for Katina.

Kneeling beside her, they exchanged a few, brief words, before he collected her in his arms and, with surprising ease, rose to his feet. At that moment, he turned and faced us. I was sure we'd been discovered. His piercing blue eyes combed the woods. Pressed against the tree trunk, I physically withdrew and, just as I had the day the soldiers stormed the workshop, willed myself invisible. His gaze lingered on our hiding place for a few long seconds, but then he turned his attention elsewhere. We were safe!

I slowly released my breath and glanced at Pillar. His face was pale and his mouth agape. I gave him a reassuring smile. But Pillar didn't notice me; he had other intentions. Before I could stop him, he darted from our hiding place.

'Santo?' he cried and ran into the clearing.

'Pillar! No!' I hissed and lunged, trying to grab hold of him. But it was too late.

The Bond Rider swung around and, taking one look at Pillar, bolted into the woods with Katina firmly in his arms. Pillar ran after them, shouting and pleading.

I left our hiding place, shaken and confused. Pillar had known that Bond Rider. He'd called him by his father's name. But why had Pillar jeopardised Katina's survival, a woman he cared for, by revealing himself?

Unable to make sense of what I'd just witnessed and hoping Pillar would return soon, I made my way to where Katina's satchel and scabbard had been left behind. I would care for them until such time as she came to collect them from me.

I bent to pick them up but, as I did, my hair brushed against the edges of the pledge stone. I became aware of an acute whispering. The noises were all around me, faint but pressing. I wasn't so much frightened as disturbed. I couldn't work out where they were coming from.

With a shrug, I tried to ignore them and instead picked up Katina's scabbard from where it rested against the rock. As I did, I stumbled and my hand came in contact with the pledge stone.

A cacophony of noise engulfed my body. I staggered with its force, dropping the scabbard and collapsing against the rock. As my back hit the stone, I was enveloped in wave after wave of sound. It was so intense it kept me upright, glued to the rock face. Rage, fear, grief and a sense of anticipation warred within me. The voices, so unclear before, now spoke with a clarity that chilled my very soul.

Free us! Find us! Help us! You must release us. Make us whole, complete. Let us live!

Pain such as I'd never known before gripped me. Pain and an unbearable aching – an aching that arises from having a part of one's very soul torn away. For just a few fleeting moments, I understood the haunted expression that never left Katina's eyes – her sense of incompleteness; the division that eternally marked her as different, as beyond human. I also understood her unswerving loyalty to her Bond.

It wasn't because of me or what she believed in that she continued to serve and nurture me; it was because of what she'd left behind in the pledge stone.

Herself.

Burdened with a weight that no human should carry – a thousand tormented half-souls – I pried myself away from the stone, from the voices who clamoured to be heard. But as my fingers touched the surface they sank into it. I tried to pull them away, but it was as though the stone had metamorphosed into something else – something animate and hungry.

I cried out and heaved myself away, drawing on all my strength, tapping into a part of me that was only just starting to become aware. The voices in the stone shouted at me, threatening me, warning me. Their voices joined my guttural cries, until I staggered away, separate again.

I fell to my knees in the shadow of the stone.

Gasping for breath, I tried to take stock of what had just occurred. Katina had warned me not to touch the pledge stone – made me promise not to.

Now, too late, I knew why.

There were no more Estrattore. Hundreds of years' worth of Riders with their pledges fulfilled remained trapped in the stones, lost to themselves until an Estrattore found them, or they found an Estrattore – just as the half-souls of the Riders had found me. In their torment and anguish, they knew who and what I was and they hungered for me. I was their key, their means to freedom. And they hadn't wanted to let me go.

Then I saw my hands. Trembling, I brought my fingers to my face and studied them in disbelief. I turned to look back at the rock and saw that the dark brown rivulets I'd thought to be the by-product of rain and minerals were actually blood.

Warm, fresh blood. The blood of the Riders imprisoned within. It coated my hands all the way to my wrist, running between my fingers, trickling into my palm and along the back of my hand before dripping onto the dirt. I turned my hands over and over. Great sobs tore at my chest.

I had the blood of these men and women on my hands.

The voices howled and the pain in my head grew so fierce, I clamped my hands to my ears.

'Leave me alone!'

As the blood from the stone met my ears, it seared its way into me, burning my skin, branding me.

I remember crying out before blackness closed over me.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Zaralina

A FAMILIAR SCRATCHING SOUND, QUIET at first but growing increasingly bolder, emanated from the walls. Zaralina, the Queen of Farrowfare, distracted from her contemplation, turned towards the panelling and frowned.

At first she was going to ignore it, but then she thought better and twisted on the window seat and spoke directly to the spot behind the wood.

'As you well know, I am alone. You may enter.'

With barely a murmur, the panelling slid aside. Shazet entered the queen's private chambers, eschewing the formalities that bound the humans in her service.

Zaralina didn't watch his entrance. She'd turned back to the window.

Shazet drifted towards the queen, silently joining her and gazing over the white vista below. As usual, snow covered everything: the windowsill, the castle turrets, the crenulations and, beyond, the castle gardens and the hills, until everything merged into a palette of milky indifference. Shazet had often noted how melancholy the queen became when the sun didn't shine, as if she pined for warmer climes. At least, that's what her courtiers believed. But the Mortian knew better. She could have chosen anywhere in the known worlds to live, but she chose the ice-scapes of Farrowfare – and with good reason.

The Mortian bent towards the queen, his long spine seemingly folding in half.

'I thought you would like to know,' he murmured, savouring the news that was about to spill from his thick grey lips. 'A pledge stone has been awoken.'

Zaralina spun at the words.

'When?' She gripped the seat, her nails driving holes into the fabric that covered it.

'Earlier today.'

'Which one?' she held her breath.

'Casa di Maggiore.'

'At last.' She let out a sigh. Rising to her feet, she crossed the room and picking up a crystal decanter, poured herself a drink. Her fingers shook slightly with excitement.

She held up her glass to the Mortian in a mock toast and downed it in one gulp, refilling it immediately. She slowly walked back to the window but instead of sitting, stood beside Shazet and sipped the liquor slowly, pretending to watch the games taking place in the courtyard below.

'After all this time,' she finally said. 'And in an area we'd repeatedly searched and when I'd all but convinced myself that the child didn't exist.' A girlish laugh escaped. 'So the legends are true; she is real. And what does the silly child do but expose herself.' She smiled. 'They've hidden her well, I'll give them that.' She paused as a thought occurred to her, a single line dividing the creamy perfection of her forehead. 'I wonder if those who created her know what she has done.' She smiled again. 'Well, if they don't, they soon will.'

The Mortian allowed her a few moments of pleasure; after all, as the queen said, she had waited so long. 'What do you wish me to do?'

Zaralina looked at the Mortian in astonishment. 'Find her, of course. Send your minions to track her down. Now that she's touched the pledge stone, it won't be so hard, will it?'

'And then?'

'Watch her. Observe her every little move. I want to know her name, what sort of girl she is, what she does. I want to know who she lives with, what they're like. I want to know how people respond to her and how she's managed to keep herself safe all these years, buried in the backwaters of Serenissima – a city that prides itself on its sophistication and civility and yet a place that brutally kills her kind.

'And,' she turned, staring deeply into the Mortian's cavernous eyes, 'I want you to discover her intentions, gauge how powerful she is. I want to know if she's the threat that the legends tell me she is. Then you will report back to me. Before I do anything, before we do anything, I want to know her.'

The Mortian bowed. Zaralina knew it was in mockery of the deference he so despised. She laughed and changed the subject.

'How is the little prince faring?' She sat back on the window seat, folding her legs beneath her voluminous dress. 'Is he ready to meet me yet?'

Shazet rubbed his chin. 'Soon. The Doge's grandson has been our special ... guest ... for a few months now. He seems to accept that he will not see his parents or Serenissima again, but he has occasional bursts of defiance that require me to ... intervene.'

The queen nodded. 'What about the others – his new nursemaid and tutor, how is he responding to them?'

'As you would expect. In accordance with your instructions, they show him no warmth, no interest, no compassion for his plight. He has ceased to plead and cajole and now obeys them in sullen silence, even though his language skills are improving daily.' The Mortian chuckled. 'He has more spirit than I would have believed. He is harder to break than I thought.'

'But he will be broken?'

'Oh yes, my queen. He will. In two, if need be.'

'I would prefer him whole.' Zaralina finished her drink. 'When he is broken, then he'll be ready for me – his one and only friend in this cruel, cold world.' She held out her glass.

The Mortian took the glass and placed it back on the table. 'Will that be all?' He turned to leave.

'There is one more thing, Shazet. Tell your creatures they're not to touch the girl. When she comes to me, I want her intact – body and soul. Is that clear?'

'Very.'

She rested the back of her head against the window-pane. The cold penetrated her skull, making it ache. She shut her eyes, enjoying the sensation. 'For if she's interfered with in any way, I'll send you and your lackeys back to the realm I summoned you from.' Zaralina opened her eyes and looked straight at the Mortian. 'Don't ever forget who brought you here, Shazet. Who will give you what you most desire.'

'No, my queen. I will not.'

His eyes flickered over her long, white neck. He could see the blue vein that ran down beside her ear to her breasts throbbing. His gaze lingered and thoughts alien to his race filled his mind. He knew it was because of what she'd done to the Mortians, those Shazet commanded: the gift she had bestowed upon them in gratitude for what they'd done. He shifted uneasily, his ambivalence warring within him. What was it about this almost-human that she had the capacity to arouse him so? It wasn't the red hair, white skin or the luminous golden brown eyes that he knew set many hearts racing – and not just the men's. Perhaps, he thought, taking in her calculating mouth and the hardness behind the eyes, it was the darkness that resided in her soul – a darkness matched only by his own.

Bowing again, he was determined she would not see that he was affected. It wouldn't do to give her more power over him and his people than she already possessed. 'I will remember,' he said. 'And,' he added, 'as soon as I have any information, I will let you know.' He reached over with his impossibly long arms and pressed the mechanism in the panel that released the secret door. With a slight hush and slither of fabric, he disappeared.

The queen watched him leave, a small satisfied smile on her lips. 'So, the Estrattore is found.' She took a deep breath and released it slowly. Her years of preparation had not been in vain. The girl would soon be hers and, when she was, the fate of all Estrattore would lie in her very capable alabaster hands.

Her thoughts turned to the captive boy. What was she to do with him? Now the girl had exposed herself, was there any need for the princeling? Perhaps she should just get rid of the nuisance, spare herself the effort.

Watching her knights engage in a mock battle in the ward below, her thoughts ran swiftly. She could always alter her plans; after all, a puppet Doge sympathetic to her every need and desire would never go astray.

With a laugh, she rose and, ringing the bell on her table, waited impatiently for her servants to enter.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The story of Pillar's
father

'TALLOW? WAKE UP. OH, PLEASE, give me a sign that you can hear me.'

Tallow's eyes slowly fluttered open and Pillar fell back against the wall of the casa in relief. 'Thank God!' he said in a broken voice. 'I thought for a moment I'd lost you, too.'

Sitting up slowly, Tallow looked around. They were in a dark, narrow ramo. The buildings were so close together that sunlight was a foreigner; moss and rising damp were the regular inhabitants. The cobbles felt wet to the touch and the few doorways and stairs leading into houses were rotting. Not surprisingly, apart from a couple of emaciated stray cats, there was no-one else around. A familiar dank smell forced Tallow to screw up her nose.

'Tallow,' she said, recognising the odour of her namesake.

Pillar nodded. 'That's right,' he half-laughed. 'Can't mistake it, can you? We're in the Chandlers Quartiere. We took so long, Carlosa refused to take us back to our canal, despite the extra ducat. Can't blame him. We're lucky he brought us this far. More than most would have done.' He glanced at Tallow. 'How are you feeling? When I found you by the pledge stone, I couldn't wake you. I had to carry you back to the traghetto. Carlosa had smelling salts, but even they didn't work.'

Tallow tried to stand, but her legs kept buckling beneath her. Pillar gripped her elbow, holding her steady until she found her feet. 'How long have we been here?' she asked.

'About half an hour or so. I didn't know what else to do. I couldn't carry you around the quartiere. Attract too much attention. I thought about going to a farmacista or summoning a dottore, but I didn't want to answer any questions.'

'A farmacista? For medicine? Why?' Following the direction of Pillar's gaze, she touched her ears. They felt swollen, strange. Then she remembered. The blood – the agony. They'd been hurt badly. She examined her hands. 'You cleaned the blood away. Thank you.'

'Blood? What blood? The only thing I saw when I got back to the pledge stone was you curled up in a ball, unconscious, and your ears all misshapen. They look burnt. Shocked me to pieces, it did.' He shook his head. 'No good comes of visiting pledge stones. Never did, never will.' He shifted his feet awkwardly. Tallow was trying to recall what had happened. She couldn't keep her fingers away from her ears; they felt alien.

'The whole thing's my fault, you know,' said Pillar miserably. 'I shouldn't have chased after the Bond Rider, but I thought –' Pillar paused. His eyes had a distant look.

'You thought it was your father, didn't you?' finished Tallow.

Pillar took a moment to reply.

'Yes.' He swallowed hard.

'Was it?'

Pillar shrugged. 'I don't know. Couldn't be sure. When they've lived in the Limen a while, they all start to look the same. Could have been anyone.'

Tallow remembered the tall man with the intense blue eyes. He'd turned when Pillar had called. 'Look,' said Pillar, trying to change the subject. 'Let's put what's happened behind us. I really don't want to talk about it. If your ears aren't too painful, how about I find some food. Then we'll catch another traghetto home.'

'My ears don't hurt at all,' I said. 'Do they really look that bad?'

'No,' said Pillar. 'Not bad, just different. You can see something's happened to them. And they're still very red. You stay here. I'll duck into the piazzetta behind us; I'm bound to find something to eat.'

True to his word, Pillar found a vendor selling sweetmeats and returned moments later. Side by side, they sat on the sleepy fondamenta, their legs dangling over the water, and ate their pastries.

They chewed in silence for a while, watching the play of sunlight on the water. 'So, what's this about blood?' asked Pillar finally, wiping his hands on his vest. He lowered his voice even further. 'What happened to you back at the pledge stone?'

Tallow tried to explain. But how could she find the words to express the horror and outrage she'd felt, the hope that she knew her presence offered? Nonetheless, she tried.

When she finished, Pillar just sat, unmoving. Tallow fiddled with her ears, pushing her hair down over them, waiting for Pillar to speak.

'Whose voices do you reckon you were hearing?' he asked finally.

'I don't know for sure,' said Tallow, avoiding a direct answer. She couldn't tell Pillar what she thought to be true.

Pillar took a deep breath. 'They say that the souls of the Bond Riders are trapped in the pledge stones. When men and women make their pledge, give their Bond and release their blood into the stone, part of their soul goes in there too. It waits inside for the Bond to be completed or broken.'

'And then they're set free.'

'Used to be. That's what the Estrattore would do: extract the essence of each Bond Rider and return the portion of their soul that they'd given to them. It used to be that once Bond Riders had fulfilled their pledge, they had a choice. They could either return to their old lives or remain in the Limen – the only mortals that ever could. At least, that's what they say. Nowadays, there's no-one to free them. So they remain trapped.'

That explains the anger, the fear, thought Tallow.

'Why do people still make pledges then? Why do they still become Bond Riders if they can't be freed once their Bond is met?'

'Some have no choice,' said Pillar quietly.

Tallow saw the look of sorrow flash across Pillar's face. 'I know you don't want to discuss it, but that's what happened to your father, wasn't it? He had no choice, did he?' It was all starting to become clear – Quinn's melancholy, her resentment, her fury; Pillar's patience, his grief.

He stared out over the canal. 'That's right,' he admitted finally. 'It seems so long ago now and, in hindsight, so foolish.'

'Will you tell me what happened?' asked Tallow quietly.

Pillar sighed. 'I haven't told anyone before, you know. Not even Katina, although she persisted.' He shook his head. 'Mamma insisted we keep it a secret. Don't know why, really. Guess there's no need for that any more. Not now. I –'

He took a deep breath. 'Basically, the reason my father became a Bond Rider was all because of a ridiculous enterprise. You see, he was always looking to improve our business. Grand dreams he had. People say he was very talented, much more so than I am. No-one could mould a candle like him, no-one could make wax so pure – that is, no-one except you.' He gave Tallow a quick smile. 'Why, even his tallow candles looked like they were fit for the Doge's palazzo.

'One day, my father heard about an amazing wax being produced in Vyzantia, one that had very few impurities and could be used on its own or flaked and added to others. Taken from the palm trees of that country, it had a beautiful sheen. It was cheap to extract and the wax burnt slowly as well. Being the type of man he was, he couldn't resist trying it. It was going to revolutionise candlemaking, give the ordinary citizens and the rich something special. So, he entered into a colleganza – you know, a partnership – with a couple of the wealthier merchants and a nobile, Paolo Maggiore.'

'From Casa di Maggiore?' I asked. I knew he was one of the nobiles who had a house on Nobiles Rise, near the Doge's palazzo.

'The very same. We were so proud to have a connection – we humble candlemakers with this grand nobile. Maggiore put a good deal of money into the expedition and even loaned my father extra, so his share would be the greater. They were both convinced of the eventual success of the journey.

'When the ship was attacked by pirates and sank off the coast off Kyprus, everything was lost. Maggiore called in the debt. The merchants were able to write off their losses; for papa, it wasn't so easy. It was either sacrifice the business, or find some other way. Without discussing it with my mother, he Bonded himself to Maggiore – sold his soul so his debt would be extinguished and our little candlemaking business would survive. So his wife and son would have something to call their own.'

'But how did he do it? I mean, Bonding is against the law. How did he get away with it?'

Pillar choked back a laugh. 'Soldi, Tallow. It was soldi – money. It doesn't just buy and sell products, but a person's soul too. Everything is for sale.' He shook his head and stared at the canal, wading through memories.

Tallow waited.

'Maggiore bribed whoever it took so Papa could reach the pledge stone. You don't need an Estrattore to make a pledge, only to release the Bond afterwards. For Papa, it was easy. Slice open a vein and make his bold promise, worded carefully by Maggiore to ensure Papa kept it. In seconds, his fate was sealed.'

'And yours too,' added Tallow quietly. She resisted the urge to put her arm around him. Why, his story wasn't dissimilar to Antonio and Lizzetta's. What if Antonio was forced to become a Bond Rider, or Lizzetta? Self-righteousness surged through Tallow, causing her spine to straighten and her shoulders to square. Any doubts she might have had about helping them were quickly quenched by Pillar's tale. Fancy being made to pay a debt with not only your life, but with your family's as well. How sad that she'd never known Pillar's father; never been able to help them.

'How long has he been gone?' she asked.

'Since I was nine years old. I remember him, though. I remember the laughter that used to ring in the house, the visitors, and the candles burning brightly. They were different times.'

Tallow wanted to ask if Quinn was different then, too, but she already knew the answer.

'Do you think he'll ever come back?'

'As a child, I spent every spare minute by the Pledge Stone of Casa di Maggiore – yes, Tallow. That's the stone that holds his pledge; that's why I knew where it was. I wasted so many days just wandering around the woods, calling for him. But I know now that he will never come back, not until an Estrattore releases him – him and everyone else. There was a time when I thought that would never happen. The Estrattore were gone, banished. Dead. But now ...'

Pillar's eyes rested upon Tallow. Through her glasses, Tallow studied his expression. There was an earnestness about Pillar that Tallow had never seen before; that, and desperation.

Tallow shivered, and it wasn't just because a cold breeze swept along the water, shattering the smooth surface into a crazed green and white jigsaw. This chill came from within: a presentiment, a warning. Soft, seductive voices wove their words into Tallow's mind.

Like the morning winds that blew off the mountains, clearing the dense fogs over the canals and exposing their glittering emerald waters, it all became clear to Tallow. The reason Pillar and Quinn had kept her under their roof all those years had nothing to do with pity or fear or even a desire to train a cheap apprentice. They had kept her for another, more selfish reason.

Pillar and Quinn wanted Santo back, and they would do whatever it took to get him.

Tallow battled the emotions constricting her chest. This new knowledge coloured, tainted, everything she had ever known. Pillar wanted her to release Santo from the pledge stone. That was why he'd risked everything – his life, his mother's – to hide and raise her; that was why he'd allowed Katina to train her. She was sick to the stomach. She'd never really believed that Quinn cared about her; but there were times when she'd thought that Pillar did. There'd been times when she was so close to him. They'd had a sense of togetherness and shared purpose – but even that had been a lie.

Tallow jumped to her feet, her eyes blazing. She threw what remained of her sweetmeat into the canal and watched surprise begin to register on Pillar's face.

'Tallow, what is it?' His query seemed genuine.

For a moment, the look of shock on Pillar's face gave her pause, but then her emotions brimmed over and the words tumbled from her. 'You... you used me!' Tallow cried. 'I thought you really cared, but I don't mean a thing to you. I'm like a broach or a sieve in the workshop. I'm just a tool to you!'

Catching her breath, she recalled with a stab of guilt how patient Pillar had been, how sympathetic when she received her first scorches and burns from the boiling wax, and how proud he'd been when Tallow produced her first candle. She remembered the times Pillar had snuck up to her room to tend to her after Quinn had given her a beating. But why hadn't he ever stopped his mother? He was strong enough; he'd stood up for Katina the other night without a second thought ... why not her?

Never her. Was it because, as Tallow now suspected, he wanted her beaten into submission so she'd be obedient to their every whim? So she would one day go to the pledge stone and risk her life to release Santo?

Tallow's life had always been a masquerade, she knew that: the boy who was really a girl; the candlemaker's apprentice who was really an Estrattore. But it was an even greater façade than she'd ever realised. She'd been kept browbeaten and hungry, trained to be useful, tolerated under their roof until she could serve her real purpose. That was why Pillar had been so attentive to Katina. He'd needed Katina, another Bond Rider, to help him find Santo. And, once he was found, he needed Tallow to free him.

Rage built inside Tallow. The whispers grew to a crescendo.

'No. Tallow! You have it all wrong.' said Pillar, slowly getting up. 'Calm down and let me explain.' He reached for her, but seeing the expression on her face, his hand fell to his side. 'Why are you looking at me like that?'

All at once, voices exploded in Tallow's head.

Instead of answering Pillar, she turned and, with her hands clutching her head, ran.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The boy and the dog

BLINDLY, I RAN. I DARTED down rami and across campi. I had no idea where I was going, just that I wanted to rid myself of the pain that flared every time I thought of Pillar and remembered what happened at the pledge stone; Katina gone, the voices pleading and demanding, the despair, and what rescuing me had meant to Pillar. I wanted it all to stop.

I dodged and wove between the crowds in the piazzetta, between market stalls and businesses. I dashed over a bridge and into another section of the quartiere. Everywhere I ran the overpowering smell of render accompanied me. Its familiarity added to my anguish. It was a cruel reminder of what I was, what I had been, and, now Katina had left, the purpose I could no longer escape.

Finally, I came to a stop. Bending over, my hands clutching my knees, I took deep, ragged breaths. The torment in my head was finally gone. The voices were now nothing more than a wretched memory.

My breathing slowly returned to normal and I took off my hat and wiped my forehead. Sweat ran down my face. My glasses momentarily fogged and I had the illusion of standing in the midst of a dream. Everything was coated with a fine opaque film. Nothing was clear – you could pretend that one thing was really another. If only life could be like that too, I selfishly thought, which led me to think about what I'd just done.

Bolted like that, fled from the one man who had never done anything to hurt me. Recalling the thoughts that had filled my head, I couldn't understand where they'd come from. Time and distance made them seem hasty, stupid even. So what if Pillar wanted me to release his father – was that so wrong? I, who yearned for family more than anything else, should understand. And yet, in a few seconds, I'd tarnished everything Pillar had ever done for me.

Pillar would be worried about me. He wouldn't understand what had prompted me to flee; I wasn't sure I did either. But I knew with certainty he would be looking for me. I'd have to find him and apologise.

When I'd regained my composure, I tidied myself up and took in my surroundings. This entire quartiere was as foreign to me as another country.

I was standing in a sunlit area near one of the many entries into a rather large campo. There was the usual brick well, around which stood a number of women with buckets, chatting while they waited their turn to take their fill, and children playing games on the cobblestones.

The smell told me I was still in the Chandlers Quartiere, and the number of soap shops in the campo confirmed this. Above the campo rose the steeple of their local basilica. I remembered seeing it as I waited for Pillar while he bought the sweetmeats. I had a landmark.

Straightening my shoulders, I started to cross the square. I would find the church the steeple belonged to and return to the canal and, hopefully, somewhere along the way, find Pillar as well. Moving closer to the well, thirst overcame me. I put on my best smile.

'Buon giorno,' I said cheerily to the women, executing a small bow. 'I was wondering if I might please have a drink.'

The women stopped talking and, as one, turned to look at me. Even the children paused in their games. My face became hot again.

'Well, well. We have a stranger in our midst! And what can we do for you other than quench that thirst, polite young sir?' asked one of the younger women. She wore a white low-cut blouse and a pretty blue skirt. Her knitted shawl had slipped from one shoulder, taking the shirt with it. She bent towards me, revealing more of her generous bosom. I gulped. The women tittered.

'Do not tease him, Guilia,' said a red-haired lady with big green eyes. 'Look at the way his tongue lolls. Look how hot his cheeks are, how dry his mouth!'

They laughed.

'From the looks he's giving us, I don't think it's just water he thirsts for!'

'Even his pretty spectacles are steaming.'

There were more laughs.

'How old are you, boy?' One of the older women pressed forward and put a small, full tin cup in my hand.

'Grazie,' I murmured, gulping down the water gratefully.

The woman waited patiently for me to finish. I wiped the back of my sleeve across my mouth and handed her back the cup. 'There's a look about you that suggests you're older than you seem. But perhaps it's those golden glasses you wear?'

'A young man of mystery,' trilled the red-head.

'Where are you from?' asked Guilia. 'And why the spectacles? What's wrong with your eyes?'

No-one in our sestiere had ever questioned my glasses. They'd accepted Pillar's explanation that they had been a present to me from his cousin. But these women didn't know Pillar or Katina. I could rely on no-one to protect me but myself. The woman started to close around me, touching and stroking me.

I tried to avoid their ministrations. 'They're to protect my eyes from the ... the ... sun. I'm allergic to the sun,' I said hastily and with more courage than I felt, began to back away, laughing with the women, fending off their roaming hands.

'Don't be shy, boy! Show us your eyes.'

'I can already tell they're lovely! Look at his little red ears, just like shells.'

'He's as pretty as a girl!'

That was it. I couldn't take it any more, I ran – again. They took my fear as that of an adolescent boy confronted with attractive, confident women, and gales of laughter followed me. Darting into a calle off the campo, I slowed to a walking pace. I didn't want to attract any more attention. At least this calle wasn't very busy – just a few people wandering in and out of shops. I breathed a sigh of relief, tucked my head down and walked.

I had only gone a short distance when I heard shouts and whoops of glee accompanied by some short yelps and whines. They sounded like they were coming from a nearby ramo. For a moment, I considered returning the way I had come, but the thought of confronting the women again changed my mind. Poking my head around the corner of the dark alleyway, I saw a group of boys standing in a circle. In the centre stood another boy, taller than the others. He'd taken off his cap and shoved it into the back pocket of his breeches. He was rolling up his sleeves. He turned this way and that, gesturing with his hands, provoking the boys to come forward. I knew I should keep moving, but I was curious about what was happening. I'd never seen so many boys my own age together at one time.

The boys were jeering and taunting, but the taller boy stood his ground. Beneath the dirt that liberally smeared his face, I could see an honest and open mien. Nonetheless, his wide black eyes offered a challenge and something else. I sensed disappointment and sadness. My heart responded. I understood those emotions all too well.

His shoulders were very broad and his arms were sinewy and strong-looking. Certainly he was more than a match for the younger boys surrounding him. Nevertheless, one of them stepped out of the circle and took a foolhardy swing. The tall boy promptly struck out with his fist and the smaller one flew backwards, his head hitting the cobbles with a crunch. He began to whimper.

That was enough. The other boys scattered in all directions. The boy who'd been hit struggled to his feet and limped after them, blood trickling from his mouth.

The tall boy ignored their cries; he didn't even bother turning around. Instead, he bent over and tended to something lying on the ground. With a shock, I realised that it was a dog. It was spread out on the cobbles, its tongue rolling out of its mouth, its chocolate-coloured coat all matted.

Unable to help myself, I ran forward and knelt by its side.

'Go away!' said the boy fiercely, drawing back his fist.

I leant back, alarmed, putting up my hands in defence. 'No! I want to help! What's happened? Is this your dog?' I spoke quickly, pouring sympathy and respect into my tone. It worked. The boy let his arm fall.

'Sorry, I thought you were one of them,' he said, gesturing over his shoulder. He touched the dog and it whined pitifully. 'Look what they did to the poor creature.'

His fingers indicated some open wounds on the dog's body, and a great gash on the top of its head. They were raw and deep. 'They're not the worst,' he said. His voice was husky. I couldn't tell whether it was from suppressed emotion or naturally that way. 'I caught them throwing rocks and kicking him. They thought it was hilarious. Bastardos!' He pressed the dog's ribs gently. The dog whimpered, its legs moving feebly.

'Is he yours?'

'No,' said the boy. 'He's just a stray. We feed him sometimes when he comes into the workshop. He's never hurt anyone.' He swiped the back of his hand swiftly across his eyes and cast me a look, daring me to say something. I pretended not to see his tears.

'What can we do?' I asked quietly.

'Do? Nothing. He'll die. They've hurt him too badly.' He cast his eyes over the ramo and then rose to his feet.

'Where are you going?' I cried. 'You're not just going to leave him here, are you?'

The boy snorted. 'Course not! I'm going to get a bit of wood or something.'

'What will that do?' I reached towards the dog and laid my hand against its fur. It was blisteringly hot. I watched the boy pace up and down the alley, peering into corners and behind piles of rubbish.

'The kindest thing possible,' called the boy. 'Make sure he doesn't feel any more pain!' He mimicked striking the dog over the head.

'No!' I whispered and watched in horror as the boy continued his search. I looked back at the dog. Great liquid eyes raised themselves to mine. Lifting his head, he tried to lick my hand. I couldn't let this dog be killed. I wouldn't.

Though Katina had told me never to practise my talents on humans, she never said anything about dogs. Without giving it a second thought, I laid both my hands against the dog's coat and slowly pressed. The dog shuddered but didn't make a sound. It was as if it knew.

I needed something to distil into the dog; I needed something strong and healthy, something to help heal its injuries and take away the pain. Keeping my hands upon it, I searched for anything that might contain what I need.

The boy exclaimed in frustration as he threw aside a piece of rotting fabric. My eyes narrowed. This was a good boy, a strong boy – what if ...?

'Hey!' I cried. I had to act quickly, before I changed my mind. 'Come here. I think the dog's going to be all right!'

'What are you talking about? That's impossible.' He released what he was holding and jogged back, dropping to his knees beside me. He peered at me with a strange expression on his face. It was evident he didn't believe me. It didn't matter; he was right where I needed him – within reach.

'Look,' I said excitedly, beginning to focus on what I needed to do. 'Put your hand here. Right here, where mine is.' I took his hand and led it to the point on the body where the dog's heart pumped weakly. 'Can you feel it?'

'Feel what?' said the boy.

Then I put my hand over his.

He didn't have a chance to pull away. As soon as my hand touched his I began to extract. Carefully and quickly, I took what I needed. I felt his energy, his enthusiasm, his care for others. I felt his heart thudding. I felt the blood flowing through his veins. And, unexpectedly, I felt this boy's great capacity for love. It was what almost made me draw away.

'What are –' he began. Then his eyes glazed. I watched his face carefully. I knew from the night I extracted from Pillar how cautious I had to be. Being an Estrattore, I'd learnt, was as much a balancing act as anything else. I took from the boy only what I sensed was needed and I gave straight to the dog.

The dog's heart strengthened, his ribs healed. I saw his wounds close. Somewhere, within his altered state, the boy saw it too. His eyes widened and a small smile played on his lips. While he didn't understand what I was doing, he wasn't going to stop me either.

In less than a minute, the dog was trying to get to its feet. I took my hand away from the boy's. He left it where it was for a fraction longer and then slowly took it away. We both stared at the dog.

The dog managed to stand. A bit uncertain at first, it wobbled and then had a big shake. It stood in front of us, tail wagging, tongue lolling and stepping towards me, licked my face.

'My first kiss!' I laughed and then threw my arms around the dog's neck. I buried my head in its long fur. The matting had disappeared along with the wounds. Even the fleas had gone. The dog barked enthusiastically.

'Shush, Cane!' said the boy, looking up at the few fine balconies that overlooked the ramo. I followed the direction of his gaze. I hadn't noticed them before. My heart lurched. But they were empty.

The boy leant forward and hugged the dog, too. The dog barked again and we both laughed.

'Is Cane his name?' I asked shyly.

'Don't know. It's what me and my grandpa call him. Zia Gaia just calls him greedy.'

'I like Cane better.' I tucked my hand into Cane's fur. The dog sat by my side, staring at me with such a look of adoration that it made me uncomfortable.

'What's your name?' asked the boy.

'Tallow,' I answered.

'You're not from around here, are you, dorato?' he said.

'Dorato?' I repeated a bit defensively.

He nodded towards my glasses. 'Yeah, golden boy. Dorato.' He dared me to contradict him.

I rolled my eyes and he laughed. 'No. I'm from the Candlemakers Quartiere.' The boy nodded. 'What's your name?'

'Dante. I'm ... I'm well, sort of a chandler.'

'I guessed.'

'Do I smell that bad?'

I paused, and then thought better of lying. 'Yes.'

We both laughed, then fell into a comfortable silence. Dante's eyes were upon me. I concentrated on straightening an imaginary tangle out of Cane's coat.

'What did you do, Tallow dorato?' asked Dante softly. 'How did you heal Cane like that?'

I hesitated. Katina's words came back to me. No-one must know about you, Tallow. No-one. Whoever you share your secret with forfeits their life. Pillar, Quinn and I, we do it from choice and with knowledge. Those you choose to share your identity with won't have that luxury.

'I'm afraid I can't tell you – trade secret.' I tapped the side of my nose while internally steeling myself for a dismissive comment. It never came.

Instead, Dante rose and stretched. 'Didn't think you would. But there was no harm trying. What are you doing in this quartiere? Where are you going?'

'Going –?' In the commotion over Cane, I'd forgotten all about Pillar. 'I ... I'm looking for someone. M– my master, Master Pillar. W– we came here –'

'To buy some tallow, Tallow,' finished Dante. 'Yeah, we see you lot from the Candlemakers Quartiere all the time. Though I've never seen you before. I'd remember you, with those spectacles of yours. Why do you wear them, or can't you tell me that either?'

I inwardly cursed the redness that travelled up my neck. 'I'm allergic to the sunlight. Hurts my eyes.'

'Oh,' said Dante. 'You are an odd one, aren't you?' He held out his hand. I stared at it. 'Come on, then!' he said and, grabbing my wrist, heaved me to my feet. It was the first time I'd been touched voluntarily by anyone other than Quinn, Pillar or Katina. His skin was rough and firm. It felt nice. 'Let's see if we can find your master.'

'You'll help me?'

'Course I will!' he said and took off down the ramo. 'Anyone who's a friend of Cane's is a friend of mine!' he called over his shoulder.

I looked at Cane. The dog raised his beautiful liquid eyes and wagged his tail. 'Did you hear that, Cane?' I whispered. 'I've got a friend!' Cane bumped my hand with his head. 'All right then, two!' I said laughing. 'Come on then, boy! Let's go find Pillar!'

Running along the ramo, with Cane lolloping beside me, I didn't remember ever feeling so light, so ... happy. I'd gone from losing Katina, the first real friend I'd had, to gaining two others. And one of them a dog!

It was only many years later, when it was too late, that I would learn how rash my actions in the ramo had been, how much we'd all – me, Dante, Cane and the people of Serenissima – pay the price for my foolhardiness.

WATCHING TALLOW RACE ALONG THE ramo below, the woman on the balcony turned to the old man who had come at her quiet summons. 'Did you see that? Did you see what that boy did?'

The man looked at his daughter and was again struck by her dark beauty: the lagoon-green eyes, the sable hair, the honey skin. Had things been different, she would have married well. As it was, he thought, moving to the banister and peering down, perhaps their fortunes were about to change and she might yet ... 'I did,' said the old man. He twirled his cane. 'I did, indeed.'

'He healed that dog when it was as good as dead. Those wretched biricchinos nearly killed that animal. Brutes.'

'I'm touched you should care so much for a canine, my dear. If you want one, you need only ask.'

'Care?' scoffed the woman, her plump pink lips pouting in distaste. 'What do I care about a dirty dog? I'm far more interested in what the boy did to the dog. Do you think he's –'

'No. I don't think anything. I want to know. Certainly, what we observed suggests the boy has some unusual abilities. But it could also be a youngster's trick, staged for our benefit.'

'You think they knew we were watching?'

The man shrugged. 'Who knows? I'm not prepared to jump to conclusions. Not when so much is at stake.'

The woman turned back to overlook the ramo. 'What should we do then?'

'I think it's time we had a word with Baroque.'

'You mean –?'

'Yes. It's been a while since he's had something to do. Spying on the lad will sharpen his skills.'

'But will he agree to work for us again? I mean, it's not as though we can pay him much.'

The old man laughed. 'Baroque Scarpoli is no longer in any position to quibble about who he works for, let alone what he earns. Let me worry about Baroque, my dear. I can be very persuasive, you know.'

'I know.' The woman smiled. 'Tell him he has to find out where the boy lives. All Baroque has to do is ask for the whereabouts of the child with the golden glasses.'

The old man shook his head. 'Don't be so certain about that. These peasants stick together, you know.'

'Perhaps,' sniffed the woman. 'But, for the right price, there will be someone out there willing to speak. There always is.'

'And when they do, we'll see if our suspicions are right.'

'You can say it, Papa,' she sighed, gazing at Tallow's retreating back. 'We'll know if the boy is an Estrattore or not. Can you imagine? An Estrattore in our midst. Literally, at our very doorstep.'

Tallow, Dante and the dog disappeared around the corner.

'Whatever he is, he could be our means to the future that has been denied us,' said the man. He took the young woman's hand, bent and kissed it. 'For if this boy is what we hope he is, then our fortune will not escape us a second time. If he is an Estrattore, our destiny is assured.' The man tapped the railing with his cane.

The woman frowned. 'What if he won't help us?'

'If he can't be convinced, then we'll just have to use force, won't we?'

The woman looked at her father, then threw back her head and laughed. 'Why, you wily old soul! I wasn't sure you still had it in you.'

'Don't ever doubt the mind or heart of a Maleovelli, my dear.'

In a practised movement, they linked arms and lazily strolled back into the top floor, the piano nobile, of their rented apartment.

PART TWO

Il s'en alla comme une chandelle
He was snuffed out like a candle

Anon.
Kingdom of Aquitaine

CHAPTER NINETEEN
Fuoco e acqua

KATINA WAS DROWNING IN DARKNESS. She tried to open her eyes and chase the gloom away, but her lids were too heavy, so she surrendered to its pall and consciousness fled ...

Awareness returned as a demanding touch forced her lips apart. Trying to speak, her voice was unused and raw, only echoing in her mind. Rough fingers pinched her nostrils, forcing her to inhale through her mouth and swallow. The liquid scalded; she retched. Hands probed and rubbed; the coarse voices enveloped her in sound, jangling her nerves. Who was torturing her with potions, salves and endless nagging? Lost in a fugue where memories, dreams, reality and pain converged, only the comfort of a familiar and beloved scent persuaded Katina to finally cease her struggle. Only then did the voices alter, their cadence transforming to angelic whispers while the insistent fingers became silken feathers that caressed and soothed her hot flesh. Katina relaxed and gratefully returned to oblivion.

Katina drifted in and out of the past and present. Images of Tallow, Pillar, Quinn and the ever-changing waters of the lagoon overlapped with vignettes of her young self, long before she became a Bond Rider, finally melding with the forms of those tending to her. Brown and grey, firm and indistinct, a melange of now and then: the images merged into one and beckoned her back into history.

Behind this, its flame steady and hot, burned a lone candle.

THIRTEEN-YEAR-OLD FILIPPO JOINED HIS TWIN by the window. 'What are you thinking about, Katina?'

'Family,' she murmured. 'It's funny how something you rarely see but which keeps you alive can tie even the most distant of relatives together.' She held her arm up and twisted it to expose the pale blue veins that striped the white inner flesh.

'What are you talking about?'

She pointed to the place where the fine skin pulsed softly. 'Blood.'

'Ah. What about our name? That ties us to our family as well, you know.'

'What about it? There are hundreds of Maggiore in Serenissima. We're a very minor branch of a great family.'

'Yes. But no matter what we do, our name connects us.'

'Not so,' said Katina, tossing her head. 'We could always change our name. We wouldn't be the first. No, only our blood really connects us. It also ties us to that.' She spat the word towards the recently renovated church, San Giorgio Maggiore, on the opposite bank. 'It carries our name, but I don't feel connected to it. I don't want to be either. For the first time, I wish I wasn't a Maggiore.' She stepped back from the window, her eyes fixed on the elegant white building. 'Tell me, Filippo, what makes it a church now and not a temple, anyhow? What did our grand cousins donate the money for if not to make it appear different? It looks like it always did to me – if a bit more splendid.'

Filippo snorted. 'Our cousins paid for their safety. To prove to the Doge and this foreign Patriarch that they're believers, that the Estrattore do not matter. They can replace the old columns with fancier ones, bury the murals under layers of paint, but it's meaningless. The difference is just on the outside – on the inside, it hasn't changed. Not to us. I don't know what you're worried about. Why you're so ... so ...' He studied his sister, taking in her folded arms and frown. 'Angry.'

'Don't you?' Katina shook her head. 'Then you're as bad as the rest of them! I'm angry because you're wrong, Filippo. Everyone is wrong. They just sit back and let it happen, arguing, like you, that the changes are only superficial. They're not. They're much, much more than that. It's not just this church, but everywhere. It's on the inside too. One small change starts another, then another. Little by little, bit by bit, until no-one remembers what someone once looked like, who they once were, or what they believed. Our family has changed – just like that church.' She nodded towards it and then pointed in the direction of her heart. 'So, eventually, we'll change. We'll be just like the rest of the Maggiore – betrayers of the old ways, harbingers of the new faith. We'll be made to,' she whispered. 'It's already started and no-one can stop it from happening.'

'No!' Filippo closed the distance between them and put his arms around her. 'No matter what threats the stupid old Doge makes, or that fat Patriarch, we musn't change.'

A smattering of applause from the doorway of the piano nobile made Katina and Filippo jump apart.

'You're right, my gallant one.' Bathed in shadow, an old woman shuffled forwards into the sunlight. She held out her arms. 'But you must appear to change.'

'Constantina!' cried Katina and ran to her.

Constantina's touch made the confusion and sense of injustice that had been churning inside her fade. Calm infused her body. 'You're safe.'

'Not from being squeezed to death by you,' laughed the woman and released Katina. She turned to Filippo, who walked into her embrace.

'Tell us what's happening,' insisted Katina, dragging a chair over and patting the cushions. 'We're sick of being cooped up in here. Mamma and Papa refuse to tell us what's going on.' She stamped her foot, the little heel on her shoe cracking against the tiles. 'They disappear for hours so Papa can meet with Signor So-and-So, or argue with Prince Whatever-His-Name-Is while Mamma speaks with the women.'

'Katina's right.' Filippo escorted Constantina to the chair, helping her get comfortable. 'I know that Mamma and Papa think they're protecting us, but we're not stupid, we hear things. The servants gossip, they don't care if we're listening. We know things are getting worse. There's barely anyone about anymore. The canal is like a backwater.'

Constantina's silver gaze went from brother to sister. Her eyes shone in the light that drenched the top floor. Their earnest faces, desperate for news, were mirrored back to them. They could see their shock at how pale and worn she appeared.

Touched by their love and wanting to protect them, Constantina also knew the time for truth had arrived.

She rested her head against the high, ornate back of the chair. 'Vi amo,' she began, I love you, before tearing her eyes from the gilded ceiling to take in the twins. Even with heeled shoes on, Katina was shorter than Filippo. He'd grown in the last few months and his shoulders were filling out. His voice had deepened and there was a telltale swelling under the bib of Katina's dress, but Constantina didn't need these physical indicators to prove that her charges were maturing.

She was sad that their childhood would end so abruptly, so savagely. 'I do not have to tell either of you how hard the last few years have been – for all of us.' Her last word carried a slight note of accusation. They were not Estrattore, despite the familial relationship – only supporters of her kind. Users, if the truth be told, of their services. 'Each day, more and more of my people are leaving Serenissima, our country, our home. But where to go? Jinoa has denied us, Vyzantia and Phalagonia have closed their borders; even neighbouring Hellas will not admit my kind. After centuries of peace, we are homeless again.'

'What about Kyprus?' asked Filippo. 'They've always supported the Estrattore. Why, I remember Papa saying that their ambassador offered to relocate a huge number of ... ah, you, onto the island last time he was here. Their king was quite, what did Papa say ...?'

'Infatuated,' Katina finished.

'Yes, that's right, infatuated with what you can do.'

Constantina stifled a laugh. 'You're so old and yet so young. My ragazzi, you will learn that infatuation can swiftly tire and turn to loathing. Add fear to that and we no longer have any relationship but hostility.' Her fingers stroked the gilded arms. 'Anyway, Kyprus will not do anything to aggravate Doge Alvisio, who's looking for any excuse to invade. They're afraid of what he'll do. They're also afraid of the City-State of the Great Patriarch – what will happen to them if they ignore a decree that even the Doge of Serenissima obeys. But really, they're scared of us. Most are, you know.' She reached up and chucked Filippo under the chin.

'What's to fear?' Filippo laughed and threw his arms into the air. 'They're cowards!'

'Filippo, mi amo, cowards are those we need to fear most. The brave face that which they're afraid of – cowards choose other means to vanquish their enemies, ways we do not always see coming. Not until it's too late.' Her eyes clouded. 'We underestimated the reach of the Patriarch, his influence on the Doge. They might be cowards, but we've been fools.'

'What's happened?' Katina urged.

Constantina leaned over so her face was close to Katina's. She beckoned Filippo forwards. 'More Estrattore have been killed, haven't they?' he asked as he knelt before the old woman. His tone demanded honesty.

'Yes. They have. Every day for the last few months, someone has died in the name of the new faith. They can call it whatever they want – heresy, treason – but we know what it is. It's murder. Even as we speak, soldiers from the Arsenale are preparing for more executions. They've erected a giant scaffold outside the Basilica on Nobiles' Rise. The padres, with their black frocks, white collars and golden crosses, order the men as if they're commanding an army. The crowds gather like hungry birds, ready to pick over the so-called guilt of those they once called friends and even saviours. Now, we're little more than common criminals, refused the right of a dignified and swift death. Instead, we're being hung from our feet until we lose consciousness or until someone more afraid than the Doge or Patriarch draws their sword or throws a well-aimed rock.' Her lips began to tremble. 'I can feel their pain, our pain, in every stone, every piece of wood and marble, the cobblestones I walk upon sear my soul – every wave that ripples across the lagoon is a cry for mercy. It's more than I can bear.' Her head fell into her hands and her shoulders shook.

Katina and Filippo sat at her feet, numb. She who had lived so many lifetimes, seen and felt so much – they'd never seen her cry before.

Behind them, the sunlight slowly dimmed and was replaced by beams of hoary moonlight that penetrated some shadows while deepening those that grew beside the chairs, tables and hid behind the painting-covered walls.

'Where are Mamma and Papa?' asked Katina finally, aware that not only had evening arrived but she was also very thirsty. 'They should be back by now.'

Filippo rose to his feet and crossed to the windows. 'They said they would back for supper. Perhaps they are already –' His body stiffened. 'Fire!' he cried. 'By the gods! Come quick. There's fire.'

Katina leapt up and helped Constantina out of the chair. They stood side-by-side, faces pressed against the glass. On the other side of the canal towards the Philosophers Quartiere, an area favoured by the Estrattore, flames reached for the sky. Swirling motes of molten ash danced against the night, casting a golden glow over the spires of the university and the casas that snuggled against its walls.

'So, it's come to this.' Constantina's voice made the shadows tremble. 'They pretend to give us a choice: exile, or renounce our faith and stay. And now they kill those who remain.' Her eyes were like the fire that blazed outside. 'They would burn us in our own homes.'

'I don't believe it,' exclaimed Filippo. 'Look, down there. The water is rising.' He pointed at the lagoon. 'It's already above the water-stairs. There will be an acqua alta tonight.'

Constantina grew very still. 'The gods have spoken then. Fuoco and acqua. Fire and water.' Her hand rushed to her chest and fluttered there. 'I did not think that in my lifetime I would see this. The prophecy ...'

'What prophecy? What are you talking about?' demanded Filippo.

Constantina didn't seem to hear him. Instead, with hollow eyes she stared, darting from the conflagration above to the lagoon and back again. 'And so it was written,' she murmured.

'Where are Mamma and Papa?' insisted Katina. A chill had crept into her soul and would not leave. She tugged at Constantina's skirt. Never before had the old woman's differences been so apparent as she stood there, conversing with an invisible presence that made Katina's hair stand on end. 'Constantina, please, stop that. What do you mean? What are you saying? Where are they?'

Aware of her charges at last, Constantina moved away from the window. Katina followed. Filippo remained, his fists clenched by his side.

'You don't understand. How can you? The prophecy spoke of this. Fire and water, it says.'

'So?' Filippo faced her, hands on hips.

'What prophecy?' asked Katina at the same time.

'That when they meet it will be the end of the Estrattore.'

Katina and Filippo exchanged a long look.

'It can't be! The Doge said ...' Katina stopped the moment Constantina's finger touched her lips.

'Ssh, ragazza. It is. The Doge has said many things, made many promises and now they are but smoke in the wind, drowned in the waters that rise as we speak. Come,' she said, gathering her skirts. 'It's time for us to leave.'

'Us?'

'What about Mamma and Papa?' asked Filippo.

'They will meet us,' said Constantina. 'It's all right, my children. We've been preparing for this for some years now, for the time when we would have to go. So we leave, not at the invitation of a greedy doge, but of our own volition.'

'Where?' asked Katina. 'No-one wants us.'

'No, not us,' corrected Filippo. 'No-one wants you, Constantina di Maggiore!' He grabbed Katina's arm and wrenched her back to his side.

'Filippo!' His sister struggled in his grasp.

'Hush, Katina,' Constantina stood there, her white hair a halo around her soft, pink face, her silver eyes dark and alien. 'He's right. No-one wants me. Not now. I am Estrattore. But, young man, allow me to remind you, I am Estrattore to your family: the one branch of the Maggiore that did not convert, that did not give monies to the new church, that refused to turn their backs on the old ways even to the point of keeping an old Estrattore under their very roof. And what about your sister?' She nodded towards Katina. Filippo pulled his twin closer. 'Her eyes, with their little argent flecks, betray your bloodline as rudely as those who surrender my kind to the Doge's soldiers.'

Filippo would not meet his sister's wide-eyed gaze.

Constantina nodded. 'I thought as much. It's time to prove whether the changes you spoke of earlier are indeed superficial.' Constantina took a step towards Filippo, who pushed Katina behind him. Constantina looked directly into his eyes. 'Or is Katina right? Do they run deeper? Can you deny what you believe? Can you deny your sister?'

Unable to turn away, he stared into the glimmering depths of Constantina's eyes and saw his fleeting ambivalence reflected for what it was: a terrible betrayal. He despised his momentary weakness and from that drew strength.

Shouts and screams broke the night. Filippo and Katina jumped. Wood splintered, glass shattered with strident regularity. A series of boisterous cries, followed by splashes, rose above the din. The odour of burning wood began to creep into the room – wood and something else.

Katina's nose crinkled in distaste ... what was that smell?

Constantina continued to stare at Filippo. She did not touch him. Finally, he lowered his eyes. 'We stand by the old ways. By the Estrattore. By you.' His shoulders slumped.

Constantina exhaled quietly but her heart filled. 'Then you choose not to change.' She pushed an errant bit of tawny hair behind Filippo's ears. 'My brave one. Come, we have no time to lose. Grab your cloaks and gloves, and make sure you keep your hoods firmly over your heads.'

'Where are we going?' asked Katina.

Constantina shook her head. 'You'll know when we're there. Not all the nobiles believe what the Doge is doing is right. Please,' she held up her hand to stop the objections. 'We must go now! Our lives depend upon it.' She clapped her hands together and Katina and Filippo sprang into action, running through the piano nobile, down the stairs to their bedrooms on the second floor.

A frenzied knocking on the water-gate at the lowest level of the casa brought them all together at the top of the stairs. The hollow thuds were like a toll of gloom. They hesitated. There was no other sound, no hushed complaints or clack of feet on tiles. The servants had long fled.

'Hold onto my robe,' ordered Constantina as another bout of knocking commenced. She snapped some wax from a nearby sconce and, using the tinderbox she drew from her pocket, lit the candle. Together, they descended the stairs, the nimbus around the flame creating the illusion of a yawning chasm of black into which they could fall. Katina held Constantina tightly as they descended to the business floor of the casa.

On the lowest level, the gaping doorways became empty eye sockets that glared with no mercy. The barrels of oil stacked against the damp walls leaned threateningly towards them. The knocking intensified, the candle flickered. They could hear a muffled voice through the old wood of the gates.

'Stay here,' said Constantina softly, passing the candle to Katina.

Katina resisted the urge to cry out as fear swamped her. Water lapped at her toes as she waited beside her brother at the side of the ramp. It cut away at a steep angle beneath the water-gate and into the canal on the other side. It was the place where family gondolas were housed. Katina and Filippo had often played in the murky waters that crept beneath the gate, pretending to be gondoliers or pirates and even, in imitation of the people who sometimes came to their casa, exotic traders.

Lifting her robe, Constantina climbed onto the cobbled ledge that bordered the sibilant water and sidled along until she reached the entrance. Touching the wood gently, she closed her eyes, trying to ascertain who was on the other side. She drew back in shock.

'It's Angelica!'

Katina and Filippo started forward in joy but stopped as Constantina warned, 'She's hurt!'

The Estrattore drew back the bolts and the gates burst open as a gondola glided swiftly in, grinding to a halt at the top of the slope. At the back stood Katina's mother, her long, flaxen hair unbound, her dress torn. Her eyes were wild, her movements frantic. Katina's father was nowhere to be seen.

Moving swiftly, Constantina ran to Angelica's aid and, with Filippo's help, hauled the gondola up the ramp until only the lower half rested in the water. Constantina leapt on board, clambering towards Angelica.

'Constantina.' Only now aware of where she was, Angelica dropped the oar with a sob. 'It's Durante.' She indicated the felze. Constantina dropped to her knees beside the tiny cabin and tore the curtain aside.

Subdued, but with racing hearts, Katina and Filippo crept forward, their eyes locked on the felze. The candle's ambient light wrapped around them like a halo. They came closer. Holding the candle aloft, Katina saw what spilled from the little cabin.

Blood was everywhere. Flowering from her father's chest and head, it ran in rivulets all over his brocade jacket, staining the fabric of the cerulean seat brown. Throwing the candle aside, Katina, followed by Filippo, climbed into the gondola. Closer now, Katina saw the blood that patterned her mother's gown and hands and streaked her face.

'Constantina?' beseeched Angelica, as the Estrattore drew her hands away from Durante's still body. Constantina raised her head and met Angelica's anxious gaze. She shook her head. Katina watched as her mother stared at the old woman for a moment before she crumpled into the bottom of the boat. Great guttural cries filled the lower floor of Casa di Maggiore, rising to crowd every room, each crevice and cranny with despair.

Echoing her mother, Katina began to wail. Finally, Angelica ceased her weeping and clutched her children in the one embrace. Katina thought her mother felt soft and broken; that she smelled bitter and frightened. She'd never known her to be scared before.

'Who did this?' asked Filippo through his tears.

Before their mother could answer, there was a pounding at the front door. Angelica gasped and tightened her hold on the children. She looked at the Estrattore. 'It's them. They know you're here. They want you. They want us too.' Dread made her last two words barely audible.

Constantina drew in a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. She nodded stiffly. 'It's me they want most of all. A trophy. I will go to them.' She picked up her skirts. Katina and Filippo protested. They could not lose anyone else. The hammering on the door grew fiercer, as did the words that accompanied each thud.

'No!' ordered Angelica and, releasing her children, she grasped Constantina by the wrist. 'No. Do you really think they will stop when they have you?' she hissed. 'They will take you, then me, then the children. I cannot allow this. I will not. Look at me, Constantina.' The Estrattore turned her face aside. 'Look at me!' Angelica's voice was steady. 'Look into my heart and tell me that what I am thinking, what I am feeling, is not so.'

Against her will, Constantina turned and their eyes locked. She was the first to break contact. 'I am right, then,' declared Angelica. But her voice was full of defeat. 'I will brook no argument. I'll make sure they cannot follow you. You will ensure the safety of the children.' It was not a question.

Angelica released Constantina and turned to her children. They could read her intention.

Constantina tried to silence their quiet sobs.

'Listen to me!' insisted Angelica. She reached first for Filippo's hand, then Katina's, and placed them firmly in the Estrattore's. Katina thought she was going to burst, she was so full of pain, of fear. She wanted to hit her mother, defy her and make her stop this. Stop the madness, stop her father from just lying there, end the fire, the water and the angry men. Make everything as it used to be.

Instead, she did as she was told and listened as her mother spoke.

'You must go with Constantina. No, don't argue! These people, the ones who killed your father, who execute the Estrattore, they will not stop. Do you understand? This is the way it is now. You are not safe anywhere here. The Doge doesn't want reminders of the past, of what we as a people once were and believed in. We cannot stay in Serenissima – not now.' She glanced at the felze and her courage almost deserted her. 'No-one will protect us; not after the last few days. Not after tonight. And who can blame them? Their lives would be forsaken. But you, my beautiful children, my bambini, you have a choice. Like me, you can choose your future. I choose you. You are my future. You are my country's future too. You must go with Constantina and do what she tells you –'

'Mamma! No!'

'Yes. She will take you to the only safe place there is now.'

Constantina turned to Angelica in shock. 'You don't mean ...?'

Angelica nodded. 'It's the only way.'

'But you don't understand. Angelica, the fire and water, it signifies something more –'

'I don't care about that. You must do this for them. For me. For Durante. You must take the children into the Limen.'

'Please, I beg of you. Don't ask me to do that. I cannot. I must not.'

'Yes, you must. Bond them. Bond them to the Estrattore. It's the only way. Do whatever you have to do to ensure their survival. Now, no more talking. Help me move your father, children. He'll remain by my side. We are your past; it is up to you to make your future.'

There was a sharp crack and the door began to splinter.

'Quickly, there's no time.'

Together, they pulled Durante out of the felze and hoisted him over the side. Angelica pushed them back onto the seats of the gondola, her hands deftly manoeuvring, grasping, touching and stroking all at once. Barely able to see or think, Katina sank into the seat, her mind filled with words and the ideas they formed. Her shoes were sticky. Above her, Constantina stood with the oar in her hands. Filippo crouched atop the felze, his cheeks streaked with tears. How had it come to this?

The boat lurched and Katina fell forward. By the time she regained her seat, her mother was drifting away from them.

'Mamma!' she screamed. Her mother stepped over Durante's body and into the water, giving the gondola a final push out the gate and into the moonlight.

'Here,' cried Constantina and threw something towards Angelica. Katina saw it was her father's sword. Angelica waved it above her head. The steel flashed once before she lowered her arm.

With a nod of farewell, Constantina deftly navigated into the current. Katina watched as her mother, blood on her cheeks and forehead, her face a frozen smile of faith and courage, wheeled to face her attackers. They burst through the door brandishing swords, clubs and torches. For just a second, her mother disappeared from sight. But then she stood, her back straight, her legs either side of Durante's body, and faced the mob. In her left hand was Katina's candle. The flame had survived and it flickered brightly.

Wondering what her mother could possibly do against so many, Katina's last memory of Angelica was a tall, elegant and beautiful figure, lifting the sword and sliding it deep into each barrel in turn. Thick yellow oil poured sluggishly onto the floor. The men paused in surprise. She raised the candle high and dashed it defiantly on the floor. 'For my children!' she cried. 'For Serenissima and the Estrattore!'

The men charged, enraged. Before their weapons could find their mark, a huge ball of flame erupted, engulfing them in brilliant orange. In the midst of it all, a shining beacon of sacrifice, stood Angelica.

In the midnight air, the gondola silently rounded a corner and Katina saw no more.

CHAPTER TWENTY
Of gondolas and canals

THE MOON WAS HIGH IN the sky as I crept onto the roof. Closing the attic door behind me, I tiptoed to the ledge and paused to admire the sight. No matter how many times I snuck out of the house for my midnight forays with Dante, the view always gave me cause to linger and absorb its beauty.

Now that spring was segueing into summer, the mists had all but disappeared and the snows were rapidly melting from the peaks of the Dolomites. There was a calm, almost lazy feeling settling over the city. From my vantage point, I could see the sinuous curves of the canals. Within their silver depths, another city lay shimmering under the sable sky. I raised my head to gaze on a field of pinnacles and turrets, below which the violet silhouettes of casas and palazzi lay dormant, waiting for their turn to come to life at sunrise. The night was so clear that my own sestiere, the ancient Dorsoduro, became a different place altogether. The glow of moonlight gave a healthy patina to the ruinous buildings, as well as the moss and mildew that clung to the skirts of the houses and between the cobbles on the fondamenta. It was as if a whole new world existed right beside my own. I liked this one – and exploring it with Dante was something I was learning to relish.

I stifled a yawn as I recalled how excited I'd been to receive a message from Dante this morning, hastily whispered by a chandler delivering supplies. While I was desperately tired, the chance to see Dante again was too good to ignore.

Ever since I'd first encountered him almost six months ago, Dante had taken whatever opportunity his work allowed to send me surreptitious messages via one trades-person or another, in order that we might meet. It always had to be after work, when the bustle of family evenings had subsided and everyone had retired to quiet contemplation or sleep. Foremost, our meetings had to be in secret. It wasn't only to defer the wrath of Quinn, it was also because I didn't want to upset Pillar. Ever since I'd bolted away from him that day in the Chandlers Quartiere, Pillar was cautious about letting me out of his sight. And for that I had only myself to blame.

All I had to do was shut my eyes, and the stricken look on his face when he'd finally found me would appear.

Instead of berating me as I fully expected and deserved, Pillar had dropped to his knees and embraced me so hard I'd thought my ribs would collapse. Even the presence of Dante hadn't deterred him from expressing his relief.

Then he'd stood up, ruffled my hair gently, and sighed. I'd reached for his hand and squeezed it by way of apology. Pillar never asked for explanations. He'd accepted the unspoken communication, and waited for me to introduce my new friends.

Pillar had been more concerned about Dante's presence than the dog's – his stance and fixed smile betrayed his tension. I quickly recounted how we'd met, shooting Dante warning glances to keep silent about what I'd done to Cane. Pillar seemed to accept what I said. He'd even given Dante a copper coin by way of thanks for his help.

When we'd parted, Dante had promised to keep in touch. I didn't believe him – why would anyone remember me? But I didn't have time to dwell on his words, because as Pillar and I walked to the nearby fermata, we were followed. Cane refused to leave my side. He ignored my efforts to make him go away, interpreting it as play and even leaping aboard the traghetto, nudging aside passengers to reach me. I shook my head in disbelief as he deposited himself firmly at my feet.

Pillar reached down to pat the dog. As he bent over, I noticed Katina's scabbard and satchel. Guilt washed over me. Katina would have wanted me to look after her things; instead, I'd carelessly abandoned them when I fled.

'I think you've got yourself a hound,' said Pillar, his hand lost in the dog's coat.

It took me a moment to understand what he meant. 'Is that all right?' I asked eagerly, stroking Cane's ears. 'I mean, will Quinn let me keep him?'

'I don't think she'll have much choice.'

As Cane slumped contentedly against my legs, I thought Pillar was right. But that didn't prevent me from forecasting gloom.

When we arrived home, Quinn, as I expected, refused to let Cane in. What surprised me most was Pillar.

'Come on, Mamma, it will be all right,' he pleaded. 'Tallow will keep him out of your way, you won't even know he's around.'

'Who? The child or the dog?' replied Quinn tartly. 'No. I'll not have that ... that filthy beast in here,' she'd said. 'I don't care what you do with it, but it's not stepping inside my shop or my kitchen!' She'd grabbed the broom and shooed Cane onto the fondamenta, then stormed up the stairs. I ran out after the dog. Pillar was seconds behind me. 'What are you going to do?' he asked, shutting the shop door.

I thought for a moment before scooping Cane into my arms. 'I'll take him to my room.'

Pillar began to protest. 'We're not disobeying her, Pillar, really,' I said. 'Quinn said she didn't care what I did with him as long as he didn't step inside her shop or kitchen and I won't let him do that – ever. I'll carry him if I need to. His paws won't touch the floor.'

Pillar laughed. It was the first time I'd seen him do that in ages. 'You can try and convince yourself all you like, Tallow, but you're disobeying her and you're making me a part of it as well.' He looked from me to the dog. As if understanding that his future was at stake, Cane whimpered and tilted his head to one side. His tail slapped against my hip.

'Please ...' I begged. 'You won't tell, will you?'

Pillar was quiet for a moment, then he shrugged. 'You know I don't approve of going behind Mamma's back, but maybe ... just this once. You don't ask for much, do you, Tallow? I suppose a dog, providing you keep him quietly up there in your room, might be all right. Even Mamma can't object too much to that.' I wasn't sure whether it was a question or a statement of futile optimism designed to persuade himself. 'Make sure you let him up on the rooftop for fresh air and to do his business. When Quinn goes out, you can let him have a bit of a run along the fondamenta.'

I held Cane tightly and buried my face in his neck. 'Thank you, Pillar. I promise –'

'Before you get too carried away,' interrupted Pillar with a raised finger, 'I'll warn you now that if she catches you, there'll be hell to pay.'

'I know.' Our mutual understanding filled the brief silence. 'But thanks anyway.' The next time I raised my head out of Cane's fur, Pillar was gone. I knew he didn't want to witness me defying Quinn.

I confess, at first I was surprised that Pillar would even think of relenting, but then I realised it was partly done out of fear: fear that if he didn't, I might run away again.

The very idea made me smile. No, I wouldn't run away. But one day, when Katina returned and my training was complete, I would leave.

Like the velvet sky above me, the day of my departure now seemed to stretch into infinity. There'd been no word from Katina – not a message, not a sign that she was all right. She'd been gone for months, and in that time my training hadn't progressed much. I was still extracting and distilling into the candles, much the same as I had done when Katina was there. My skill and speed had improved – and Pillar and Quinn's reputation as makers of fine candles was growing. People from all over Serenissima were buying our products.

For the first time in his life, Pillar was being feted and admired. It made my heart lift when I saw the respect he could now command, the way people would speak about his products when they entered the shop, putting thought into their words, caring about their descriptions. When Pillar was asked for the secret to his candles, he refused to say, shaking his head and chuckling. 'If I told you, you could all make them. Then my candles wouldn't be special any more, would they?' No-one suspected that the small, nondescript lad with the golden glasses in the workshop was the reason the candles were in such demand.

While I relished Pillar's new status, I was finding my hours in the workshop tedious. Every day was the same – melting, distilling, moulding, dipping and hiding from prying eyes. I didn't care that Pillar took credit for my work, but now that there were no more challenges, no more promises of extending what I could do, I found that extracting happiness and other positive emotions into candles became quite boring. I couldn't stop thinking about Lucia, Lizzetta and Antonio. That had been thrilling. I desperately wanted another chance to work with humans, but I didn't dare. It wasn't just Katina's absence; it was something within me as well, a small warning voice that prevented me from helping, even when I knew I could. The risk was just too great.

But what if this was all I was? Could ever be? What if Katina never came back? Would I have the courage to master all of the possibilities of my talents on my own? Gazing out over the quartiere, considering what lay beyond the familiar canals and rami, I doubted it.

A faint noise brought me back to the present. I roused myself slowly, slightly unnerved by where my thoughts had taken me. Dante would be waiting. I threw my leg over the ledge but, just as I did, something brushed against me. I stifled the cry that spilled out of my mouth.

'Cane!' I almost fell backwards in relief. 'What are you doing up here?'

Cane stared at me accusingly, his tail half-mast.

I glanced over his head and saw that I'd forgotten to fasten the latch on the trapdoor. I grabbed Cane by the scruff of his neck, and dragged him towards the opening. 'Come on, boy. You can't come with me – we've been through this before. I won't be gone long! You have to stay here and look after things.'

Cane whined and stiffened, making it impossible for me to move without hurting him. Letting go of his fur, I looked at him in exasperation and shook my head. He tried to lick my nose, but I remained just out of reach.

'All right,' I relented. 'You can stay here on the roof and wait for me. But no barking! I don't care what you see, all right?' Cane wagged his tail. 'One bark, and it will be Quinn you'll have to deal with.'

Pushing him away, I clambered back over the ledge and down the trellis that clung to the neighbour's walls. Pulling my hat down over my head, I made sure my glasses were firmly in place, then ran towards the campo.

'You're late!' hissed Dante from the shadows of the basilica.

I stopped in front of him, bending over with my hands on my thighs, trying to catch my breath.

'Sorry. I had a bit of trouble getting away.' I straightened and exhaled.

Dante looked me up and down. 'Why have you got those stupid glasses on again? I keep telling you, there's no sunlight at night!'

'Because I want to, all right?' I put my hands on my hips and glared at him. He returned my defiant look. We stared at each other for a few seconds and then burst into laughter.

'Come on, dorato,' said Dante, grabbing my arm. 'I've got a surprise for you!'

We wove our way through the alleys, Dante leading. He took us to a canal on the far side of the Candlemakers Quartiere – the one that ran through the middle of the Dorsoduro Sestiere. Rocking gently from side to side at the bottom of a set of water-stairs floated an old gondola.

My eyes widened as Dante leapt into the boat. He ran nimbly over the roof of the felze, the little curtained cabin where passengers sat, and began to untie the rope from the red-and-white striped paline. He quickly coiled the rope and dropped it in the bottom of the gondola and lifted the oar in the forcola. 'Well?' he said. I hadn't moved. 'If you're you waiting for an invitation, this is the only one you're going to get.'

I hesitated. In all the adventures Dante had taken me on, never before had we been on a gondola. Sure, we'd explored every calle and ramo in the Candlemakers and Chandlers Quartieri. And Dante, at my insistence, had done his utmost to keep us out of trouble and, mostly, out of sight. While I knew he didn't understand my reluctance to be seen, he respected it. He knew it had something to do with what I'd done to Cane and, while he was curious, he didn't press for an explanation. For that reason, and others I hadn't yet admitted to myself, I not only liked him, but I was slowly beginning to trust him as well.

'Where did you get it from?' I tried to look like boarding a gondola was something I'd always done, but fell into an untidy heap at the bottom. Dante laughed loudly. As I hauled myself onto the seat, I briefly wondered how a chandler's apprentice had managed to procure a gondola. Dante had told me that his mother and father had died many years ago and that he was cared for by his grandfather and great-aunt. His grandfather was a soap chandler, as Dante's father had been when he was alive. But once his father died, the business passed to one of Dante's uncles and Dante's tuition was forgotten. Dante's uncle was too busy building the business and training his four sons to have much time for his nephew. Not that Dante minded. He hated chandling and didn't intend to remain in that line of work forever. Exactly what it was he wanted to do, he wasn't sure.

'I'll know when I know,' was all he would say, his chin jutting out. I was inclined to remind him that he had better know soon – after all, he was sixteen, and most sixteen-year-old boys, especially those who weren't nobiles, were either well into their apprenticeships or drafted into the army or navy. But then I realised how a statement like that could lead to some uncomfortable questions about my own future. So, I resisted taunting him. In many ways, Dante and I were the same. We were both at the whim of forces beyond our control. We would, as Dante said, know what we would become when it happened.

Still, if it wasn't for Dante, I'd be curled up tight in my bed night after night, wondering what life beyond the back canals of Serenissima was really like. Because of Dante, I'd enjoyed experiences I could call my own. Sipping stolen vino on the roof of the basilica; throwing rotten apples at visitors crossing the campo during the Feast of Redentore and hiding in a cellar as the soldiers searched for the culprits. One evening, we'd even sprawled atop a shop awning near Ponte Incurabli, the Bridge of Incurables, sharing dreams and munching cheese and bread while below us the world passed by.

The only time we'd ever had a disagreement was in the middle of winter, during Carnivale. While I knew about Carnivale, a few weeks when all social rules were thrown away and life was turned upside down, I'd never witnessed what could happen. There were nights of music, singing, shouting, bright laughter and the clink of bottles, glasses and the occasional fight – even in our calle. Pillar would slip out, returning in the small hours, staggering, unkempt but also content. For days afterwards, Quinn would cast him sly looks and make remarks that I couldn't make sense of but that would make Pillar blush. Of course, I'd heard things, about how nobile women and even the nuns in the convent would flaunt their bodies; how men with nothing, just like Pillar, could dare to approach those who outranked them on the social scale and exchange food, drink and more with them. I just couldn't imagine Pillar having the courage to do that. But people did strange things during Carnivale – and they were allowed. It was considered peculiar not to take advantage of this special time. People wore masks to hide their real identities and for the days and nights that Carnivale raged they would play all sorts of roles without any of the usual consequences.

But for me, for whom life was nothing but a role, a masquerade, Carnivale didn't quite hold the same enchantment that it did for Dante. On the very first night, he couldn't wait to drag me through the piazza at the end of the salizzada and into the shadows on the other side. We'd hidden behind a statue near the taverna, watching the Carnivale revellers dancing and feasting. They seemed immune to the cold. At intervals, heavily masked and costumed couples would sneak into the rami, only to emerge minutes later in disarray. With a curious look on his face, Dante had insisted we follow one. We crouched in the darkest corner, spying, as a masked man lifted a woman's dress. I had never seen another person partially naked before – not even Quinn or Pillar. It was a shock to see the ends of her stockings and bare thighs. They were so white and soft-looking. The man had pressed himself into her, grunting and groaning while the woman moaned. I couldn't take my eyes off them either. Waves of heat washed over me, contrasting to the numbing chill of the air.

Dante had behaved strangely afterwards. When the couple finished, they'd separated and left the ramo, one at either end. They didn't see us. Dante was very red in the face and quiet for a long time. Later that night, after we'd been wandering amongst the crowds for a while, he whispered something in my ear. Before I could ask him to repeat himself, he disappeared briefly with a tall girl in a low-cut blouse wearing a tiger mask. It was only because it was Carnivale that Dante had addressed the girl, let alone taken her aside.

I waited in the dark overhang of a sottoportegho, wondering if Dante would remember to come back for me.

He did, with a stupid, satisfied look on his face.

'You should try that too,' he'd said, ruffling my hair. Fury rose in me. Before I knew what I was doing, I slapped his hand away and turned on him.

'You smell like a pig!' I spat. 'Don't ever leave me like that again! If you want to go off with one of those ... those ... cavola, then leave me at home!'

Dante looked shocked. Then he'd burst out laughing. 'Ah, my little Tallow's jealous!' That was all the provocation I needed. I flew at him, swinging punches and trying to bite.

'Ah, a spitfire. A jealous little spitfire,' teased Dante, chuckling as he easily ducked the punches and avoided the bites. Finally, he captured both my wrists in one hand and with the other, wrapped me tightly so my back was pressed against his chest. Immediately, I stopped struggling. My breasts heaved under their vice-like bindings. 'Don't be jealous, tiny Tallow,' Dante whispered, his stubble tickling my ear, causing shivers to run up and down my spine, setting my nerves on fire. His body felt so warm, so firm. I began to melt into him, the tension and anger fleeing as I became aware of the taut muscles in his forearm. I could feel them against my bandages. Confusion warred in me and I was grateful for the concealing darkness. He dropped his head until his chin nestled against my neck. I closed my eyes. He gave a low chuckle. I held my breath. 'One day your prick will be big enough to please a woman, too!' he said. Then he thrust his hips into my back a few times.

I bit down hard on his arm and twisted out of his embrace. I couldn't look at him and I certainly didn't want him staring at me. But he was. I asked to go home, hating my voice that it trembled. Puzzled, but also smug, Dante complied without another word.

The following day I was so embarrassed by my behaviour, for losing control, that I wondered how I could face him again. But the next time I saw Dante, it was as if nothing had happened. It was then I decided that, by way of apology, I would give him some candles I'd made.

After that, it became a regular thing. Dante would take me exploring and in exchange, I would give him a taper or two – tapers that I'd carefully practised my talents upon. Dante had been delighted. The candles from Pillar's workshop were the talk of his quartiere. Not that his great-aunt would deign to spend good coin on them, not when the family could make their own rough versions from the leftover chandling tallow. But she was very pleased that Dante's new acquaintance was so generous, and would proudly tell anyone that inquired that their candles were provided by that candlemaker and it just so happened that her nephew was very good friends with his apprentice.

I knew that Dante enjoyed my company, candles or no candles. I loved being with him. But he was also endlessly curious about me and, while he rarely brought up what he'd witnessed when I saved Cane, I would occasionally catch his eyes lingering upon me and could feel the unasked questions burning within him. Like me, Dante had never had any siblings and he treated me like a younger brother, alternately teasing and defending me. Unused to people my own age, it took me a while to grow accustomed to Dante's ways and the position he created for me in his life. But it became comfortable for both of us – so much so that before long I found it hard to remember my life without him.

'What do you reckon, then?' asked Dante, distracting me from my thoughts.

I'd never been in a gondola before – only the larger sandoli and traghettos. I leaned forwards and stroked the old, dark wood. The craft was over thirty feet long and very slender. 'It's beautiful,' I whispered. 'But where did you get it?'

'It was in the chandlers' squero, you know, the boatyard Uncle Borlomio owns,' explained Dante. 'No-one was using it, so I thought we'd borrow it for a few hours.'

'Do you think anyone will mind?'

'Mind! Of course they'll mind. But only if they find out, and I don't intend for that to happen.' He pushed out into the centre of the canal.

'Where are we going?'

Dante gave a wicked grin. 'See the engraving on the ferro?' He pointed to the curved piece of shiny, notched steel moulded to the prow. Six prongs faced forwards, one looked astern. 'That tells us that this gondola belongs to the Opera Quartiere. I thought we'd take it for a visit. It looks kind of homesick to me.'

My mouth dropped open. 'The Opera Quartiere! Are you mad? We'll never make it there and back before dawn.' My heart began to thump. If Pillar found out what I was up to, I'd never be allowed out of his sight again. And what about Quinn? But I thrilled to the idea of the adventure. I'd never been to the main part of the Circolo Canal, let alone all the way to the Opera Quartiere before. I knew it was near Nobiles' Rise – the Doge's own island. I tried not to show my excitement and trepidation but Dante knew me too well.

'If you stop talking and let me concentrate while I push, we'll be back in plenty of time to tuck you into bed so nasty old Quinn doesn't find out what you've been up to. Now, keep your voice down. Sound carries on water. Wait until we're on the Circolo before you start complaining again!' Dante gave me a huge grin to take the sting out of his words. 'We don't want anyone to become curious as to how two apprentices got hold of a lovely old boat like this.'

Unable to do anything else, I crawled into the felze, ducking to avoid hitting my head. It was a small space, lined with plush, tassled cushions and draped with velvet fabric. I wriggled around, trying to get comfortable. Stretching my legs out, I put my hands behind my head and watched my quartiere drift by through the soft arch of the curtains, the ball of anxiety gnawing away at me gradually disappearing.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Events on the Circolo
Canal

IT TOOK ABOUT HALF AN hour to reach the Circolo Canal. When we did, I found it hard to contain my excitement. Never before had I seen so many boats, so much water, so many casas and palines. For miles along the canal, the red-and-white-striped poles rose out of the water, each with its own gondola firmly tied to it, the wake of our passing slapping them to life.

The further we went, always staying near the banks, the more gondolas appeared on the water – not only tied to their watery beds, but afloat and active in the moonlight.

Many of the gondoliers were dressed in velvet pantaloons with white silk shirts embraced by cropped dark jackets. Straw hats with little ribbon tails were perched upon their heads. Very few bothered with us, I suppose because of the state of our boat. Compared to the rest gliding along the waterways, our sad, old gondola no longer seemed so luxurious. Occasionally a gondolier would break into song, and it was all Dante and I could do to contain our laughter.

After a while, we steered into a quieter area – the Philosophers Quartiere. Rising above the other buildings on the island was the triple steeple of the university basilica. Pennants pronouncing coats of arms and the national flag of Serenissima, with its familiar winged beast, flapped lazily in the breeze. I gazed at the rows of vaulted windows, many of which had candles burning, and wondered what problems were being both solved and created by the great minds of the country this night.

'Hey!' Dante's voice interrupted my thoughts. 'I'll ask again. Do you want to take the oar?'

'Do I?' I squeaked, leaping to my feet and almost overturning the gondola.

'Steady there,' he laughed and slapped me affectionately on the back.

It took me about fifteen minutes and lots of splashing to become used to how a gondola was manoeuvred. Dante had made it look so easy, but, as he explained, he'd had years of practice playing around in the gondolas left for repair in his uncle's squero.

'That's it,' said Dante, standing behind me, wiping the splashes of water from his face. 'Push, don't pull – not yet. Bring it back carefully, that's it. It's like dancing with a beautiful woman. Lead her with a firm hand, but not too firm. Use your strength – the strength that's in here,' he touched his forehead and then his chest, 'to persuade her to follow you. Pretend you're irresistible. And for God's sake, concentrate and stop looking around.'

I focused for a moment on the image. To Dante, I would one day be the man who directed the dance. But what would it be like to be held as a woman, to be desired because I was irresistible?

'Focus!' snapped Dante, unaware of what had diverted my attention. Mind, it was hard not to be distracted by the walls of the marble casas coming into view. They climbed out of the water like blushing monoliths – they didn't look real, so pearly perfect were they with their carved facades and ornate windows.

'That's good,' said Dante finally. 'That's really good. I'm surprised. I didn't think you'd pick it up so quickly'

'Thanks for the vote of confidence,' I said gruffly. 'It's not that hard.'

'If that's the way you feel,' he said, 'then you can manage by yourself for a while.' Before I could say anything, he leapt off the platform and disappeared into the felze. Seconds later, his legs emerged. 'Sing me a song, gondolier!' he ordered.

I momentarily lost my rhythm. 'Er ...' I hesitated. No-one had ever asked me to sing before. It wasn't something I did. 'I don't know any,' I admitted.

Dante hit his head in his haste to look up at me. 'What? Are you serious? You don't know any songs.'

I shook my head.

'That's sad. No, that's worse than sad. That's pathetic!' He retired back into the felze to think. I didn't tell him that while I didn't know any songs, there was one piece of music – if it could be called that – that I'd heard intermittently throughout my life. I couldn't hum it, but I could recognise the sound whenever it came to me. It made my hair stand on end and my spine prickle.

'I know,' called Dante finally. 'I'll sing you one!'

He crawled out of the felze and sat in the bottom of the boat facing me. Without warning, he broke into song. I got such a fright that I lost my footing, almost dropping the oar. It slid down the forcola. I made a hasty grab to prevent it falling in the canal, but as I lunged forward, my spectacles came off. I watched in horror as they bounced on top of the cabin, slid off the wood and landed neatly in Dante's lap. He looked at them and then, with great deliberation, picked them up.

I rested the oar in the forcola and stretched out my hand. 'Can I have my glasses, please?' I kept my face lowered, my eyes downcast.

Without a word, Dante rose to his feet and, turning the glasses over in his hand so the arms faced me, went to place them on my nose. Just as he was about to slide them on, he paused. He was looking to see what I hid beneath my lashes.

I tried to screw up my face, but it was too late.

He gasped. 'Your eyes. They're like ... like the moonlight on the water.' I could feel his breath on my cheek. I couldn't help it; I raised my chin and, meeting his eyes, looked deep into his heart.

For a moment, time stood still. It was just me and Dante on the Circolo Canal beneath the stars. I could hear my heart beating in my ears and Dante's beating in my soul. Our faces were so close, our noses almost touched. 'What are you, Tallow?' he murmured. But I couldn't tell if the words had come from his mouth or his mind.

He continued to stare at me and I at him. Slowly, inexorably, I was falling towards him.

A nearby cry and splash made us break contact. I quickly snatched the spectacles out of his hands and pushed them onto my face. Turning away, I picked up the oar. I had almost ruined everything! Revealed what I'd spent all my life hiding.

'No,' Dante said firmly a second later. He brushed past me and wrapped his fingers around the oar. 'Let me take it. You get back in the felze. We're coming into a busy area.'

I handed it over without a word and retreated into the cabin. My thoughts were hazy and I was uncomfortably warm.

From being relatively empty, the canal had filled again. As we rounded the bend that brought the Barnabotti and Ridotto Sestieri as well as Nobiles' Rise into view, there were craft banked up as far as we could see.

Dante quickly turned the oar, using the pressure of the current to slow us down.

'What's wrong?' I asked, half-lifting out of my seat, craning my neck to see what had caused the backlog of boats.

'It's an acqua alta,' said Dante, referring to the high tide that sometimes struck Serenissima, making it impossible to pass under the bridges and flooding the low-lying calles and fondamentas. 'No-one can get under the first bridge, the Ponte della Pensieri. We won't progress any further tonight, I'm afraid. The Opera Quartiere and Nobiles' Rise will have to do without the pleasure of our company this evening. We'd better turn around.' His voice was cold and matter-of-fact. It wasn't like Dante to accept defeat so easily.

I tried not to let my disappointment show. Instead, I stood up, holding on to the top of the felze, and drank in what I could of the sights. Further along the canal was a wide stone bridge. People lined the sides, casting flowers and promises into the boats just below them. The water had risen so high, it was almost possible for the people in the gondolas and those on the bridge to reach each other. To my right, I could just make out the well-kept gardens of a nobile's casa. I wondered briefly to whom it belonged. My understanding of Serenissima's aristocrats was not great, but I did know that the lesser nobiles, those whose bloodline had not held the throne for many generations, lived further from the Doge's palazzo than those whose families had held office in recent times. Nonetheless, the façades of the casas looked pretty opulent to me, as did the relief work that was carved around the water-gates and the ornate sculptures which, even in silhouette, were clearly works of great art.

Before long, we were free of the water traffic and heading back towards the Dorsoduro Sestiere. Dante was unusually quiet as he guided the gondola back and I knew that I was the cause of his sudden change in mood.

'That was a great idea taking the gondola, Dante,' I said, opting to flatter him and restore his good humour. 'Thank you for such ingenuity.'

Dante just grunted.

'Oh,' I said, dragging something else from my arsenal. 'I forgot.' I reached into my pocket. 'I brought you some more tapers. If you burn these around your grandfather's bed, you'll find his sleep won't be so troubled.' I held them out.

Dante avoided looking at me, but he took them all the same. 'Grazie,' was all he said as he stuffed them in his coat.

I sighed. Something had happened, but I wasn't sure what. I didn't know what to do. Directness seemed to be the best option. Dante was always blunt.

'Dante, have I done something wrong?' I asked in a small voice.

He looked at me then. 'What do you think?' he said finally, coldly.

'I ... I don't know.'

'Don't you? You're old enough to know what you're doing, with those eyes of yours, those peculiar ways. At first I just thought you were different. Like what you did to Cane. But back there, when you looked at me, I felt ...' He struggled to find the right words.

I waited. He didn't finish.

I knew I shouldn't ask, but I had to. 'What did you feel?'

Still Dante did not reply. All I heard was the lapping of the water against the wood and the repetitive murmur of tiny waves as they broke against the fondamenta.

Part of me knew what Dante was talking about, but I didn't know how to resolve it. If I told him the truth about me, any truth, I would be exposing not just myself, but my greatest friend, to terrible danger.

It was Dante that finally broke the uneasy silence. 'I don't think we should see each other any more.'

My heart contracted. I wanted to protest, to plead. I knew I could do neither of these things. I had to be calm. 'Dante –'

'Shush,' he ordered suddenly. I looked at him sadly. Had it come to this? I couldn't even talk to him?

'I think we're being followed,' he whispered, and, running his fingers through his hair while keeping his index finger straight in a familiar gesture we used, pointed discreetly towards the opposite bank. 'A black gondola. One oarsman. I wasn't sure before, but now I am. He's been tailing us since we left the first ponte at Nobiles' Rise.'

I peered into the darkness but couldn't see anything. Then I caught it: a silent black shape gliding across the water at a pace that matched ours. My blood froze. 'Can you lose him?'

'I don't know,' said Dante softly. Let me think for a moment.'

Dante silently rowed, neither increasing nor decreasing his rhythm. I sat back in the felze, peering out nervously. I could see the gondola quite clearly now. It was very dark, like the man who steered it. His head was turned towards us, but his voluminous cloak and tricorn hat made it impossible to see his face, let alone any distinguishing features. He appeared to drift above the water, a spirit or sprite – as if he were not of this world.

Much to my surprise, Dante started singing. His voice was quiet and lilting, the words muffled. How could he sing at a time like this? But this was no ordinary song: it was a set of instructions.

'We will sail until we reach the steps of Fondamenta Vergini, and then we will leave the gondola and run for our hearths and homes.' Dante's voice was low, but I could make out every word.

I began to hum along. Dante fell quiet and I knew he waited for me to indicate I understood. So I also sang, repeating his last words. 'And run for our hearths and homes ...'

We reached the Dorsoduro Sestiere minutes later and diverted into one of the narrow canals that divided the Chandlers and Candlemakers Quartieri. Dante turned to me. 'Listen,' he whispered. 'We're nearly there. As soon as I get the gondola near the steps, jump off and run. I'll follow.'

Emerging from the felze, I nodded. I squatted in the bow and watched the steps loom closer.

Because of the acqua alta, the bow bumped into one of the upper steps and the keel grated against the lower ones, causing the gondola to rock. Thrown around, I still managed to jump over the side and mount the steps two at a time. At the top, I paused and waited. Dante was still on board. Pushing the oar with all his might, he dislodged the gondola and propelled it back onto the canal. I wondered what he was doing. Was he going to leave me there? I began to panic.

Then he leapt onto the stairs. His arms spun and his legs kicked. At first I didn't think he was going to make it, but he hit the bottom steps with a splash, and fell onto his hands and knees. He quickly bounded to his feet and joined me.

'In here!' he hissed and dragged me into the doorway of a nearby shop.

Breathing heavily we waited in the shadows. The current caught our gondola and took it further up the canal.

I tried to see if we'd been followed, but before I could stick my head out, Dante yanked me back. 'You trying to show him where we are?' he chided and then cautiously peered around the corner. 'Here he comes,' he whispered and indicated the entrance to the canal.

I looked more carefully this time. Gliding silently around the corner was a long, dark shape.

My eyes widened and I held my breath as the cloaked man lifted the oar out of the water and slowly passed the steps. At that moment, a shaft of moonlight escaped the clouds and lit up the canal. I repressed a gasp. The man had the face of a jackal. I could feel his eyes searching the fondamenta. My heart hammered and I squeezed myself back into the corner, not daring to look again.

After what seemed ages, he drifted past. Only then did I dare to peep. Ahead, I could see the outline of our gondola in the moonlight. I hoped it would be a while before he drew level and discovered our deception.

Dante let out his breath. 'That was close! He must have recognised the gondola, that it was ... er ... borrowed. Thought he'd follow us and catch the thieves. What bad luck that he knew the real owner and that he was hanging around the Opera Quartiere. Still, I'll be more cautious next time.'

I glanced at Dante. Somehow I knew this had nothing to do with the gondola and everything to do with me. I'd gone too far this time, broken my promise to Pillar and Katina not to draw unwarranted attention to myself – over and beyond my candles, that was. I'd ventured into territory that I had no place being and I'd almost paid the price and so had my friend. Like Dante, I would more careful. There would be no next time.

The mellow light exposed Dante's wide eyes and the beads of sweat caught in the hair on his upper lip. This wasn't fair. I was dragging him into my world, my deception, and putting him in grave danger.

I knew then that I had to go, get away from Dante lest the jackal man return.

I slowly eased my way out of the doorway.

'Are you going?' said Dante. His tone was indifferent again.

I nodded. 'Yes, it's very late.' I waited for him to offer to see me home. He'd taken it as his responsibility to care for me, like an older brother would a younger. But the offer never came. Even though I was set to refuse him – for his own sake – his silence hurt me deeply.

'Well, I'll see you around?' I asked with false brightness.

'Maybe,' shrugged Dante. And, without another word, he turned and walked away.

IT TOOK ME OVER AN hour to get back home. I deliberately went a circuitous route in case I was followed. By the time I threw my leg over the rooftop ledge, the moon was well into its descent. I stood and watched it waning for a while, my heart heavy. It had been an eventful night. And what did I have to show for it? I'd escaped detection this time but, through no fault of my own, I'd lost a friend.

Or was it my fault? After all, I went along with the deception, pretended to be what I wasn't at so many levels. I ran my hands over my chest. Beneath my coat and shirt, I could feel the bandages that kept my budding breasts confined. Would I ever be able to free them, display them like the other women I saw tonight? Their décolletages had been impressive, to say the least. Was that something I would ever possess? A dress, let alone a cleavage? Or was I doomed to always impersonate a boy – that was, until I became a man. Then what would I do? What choices would I have?

I thought of Dante. His brown eyes, his musky smell – the way his very closeness made my heart pound and my breath become uneven.

The thought of being forever male was suddenly very depressing.

I drew in the night air, taking it deep into my lungs. I was concentrating so hard on what I was doing that it took me a moment to realise the salty taste in my mouth was from my own tears.

My desolation was all-consuming and I knew if I opened myself to it I would cry for hours. I needed something to distract me, to take my mind off what had happened out there on the water, never mind in my heart.

'Cane,' I called softly. There was no answering whine or padding feet.

'Cane?' I repeated, crouching low to whisper in the nooks and crannies of the rooftop. Standing, I noticed that the door to my room was open and remembered I'd left it that way. Perhaps Cane had braved the steep stairs without help after all. Fixed on the idea of losing myself in Cane's fur, I left the rooftop and climbed down into my bedroom.

I softly closed the door behind me. From inhaling the balmy night air, I was suddenly in a space where my breath curled into white ghosts. It was unbelievably cold. But it wasn't just the chill that made me shiver.

It was what I could sense.

Wrapping my arms around my body, I checked my room, calling quietly for Cane. My hand brushed against the wooden trunk by my bed. I quickly drew it away and stuck my fingers in my mouth. It was freezing. It was as if I'd been burnt. My bed was the same. A thin film of frost coated everything. My blankets, the old sacks in the corner, the window sill.

Someone – or something – had been in my room. Their presence was palpable with every bitter breath I drew. And they'd left a manifest reminder of their frigid touch, the fragile ice-sheet over my room was like a contagion.

Nothing seemed to have been taken. But where was Cane?

I heard a faint sound. Moving cautiously, I approached the vats. 'Cane? Is that you?' I hissed.

As I passed the first barrel, I bent and picked up the handle of an old broom that Quinn had discarded. I slowly raised it above my head.

'Whoever you are, you'd better come out. I'm warning you.' I imagined the jackal man squatting behind the vat, a weapon drawn. Fear made every nerve tingle.

I prepared to strike. In one swift movement, I levered the vat away from the wall with my foot and swung the stick. I paused mid-swing. Cowering in the corner was Cane. His fur was matted and his tail had disappeared between his legs. The stick clattered to the floor. Cane let out a pitiful whimper. I dropped to my knees and flung my arms around him. He was ice-cold. His breath came in short, sharp gasps. 'Oh, Cane,' I said. 'What is it, boy? Who was here? What did they do to you?' My teeth were chattering.

In reply, he just raised his big brown eyes to mine. I scooped him up in my arms and took him down to the kitchen. No-one would, or could, sleep in my room tonight.

I placed Cane gently on the floor. The fire burned low in the grate. I dragged a chair closer to the hearth, wincing as it groaned over the wooden floor. Quinn's door remained shut. Adding some more coal to the fire, I fanned the flames with my breath. Heat radiated from the glow and my body began to thaw. Satisfied, I picked Cane up again and held him in my lap, my arms folded around him for warmth.

My mind raced. First the man in the gondola, and now an unexpected and unnatural visitor. What was going on? What if Dante was right and the man had been following the gondola? But no, it was too much of a coincidence. And, if there was one thing Katina had taught me, when you're an Estrattore in hiding there's no such thing as coincidence.

It was clear I would have to be more vigilant. Either that, or perhaps it was time for me to leave, strike out on my own and search for the remaining Estrattore. Just as the idea formed, I knew I was not ready to explore it further, so I banished it and instead, focused on what had happened upstairs, in my room.

Who or what was it that left such potent reminders of their presence? I held Cane tightly, feeling the cold that had penetrated his bones, gently brushing away the frost that stubbornly clung to his whiskers and fur. He began to shiver. The intruder's imprint was upon Cane. Every time my fingers met his coat, a jolt ran through me. I couldn't make sense of it. It was lifeless, without depth or emotion – like a huge void. There was almost nothing to extract except the memory of their passing.

I quivered as I took Cane's bone-deep chill into me and slowly distilled it. Clearly, whoever they were, they didn't care that I knew they'd been through my things. They didn't care that I knew they'd found out where I lived. And they were indifferent to the pain they caused innocents. Somehow, I knew that they wanted me to know that, too. Why? If they were after me, why didn't they wait and just grab me? Why was I being warned? I didn't have the answers. I wasn't sure I was asking even the right questions.

'I'm so sorry, Cane,' I whispered into his fur. 'I never should have left you.'

But I had, and for what? To go on a wild escapade with Dante – to prove to him that I really was bold and adventurous to maintain the illusion of my masculinity. And look where that had led. Not only had I unintentionally exposed myself but it looked like I'd lost my only friend in the world. Aware of my sorrow, Cane reached up and licked the tears that trailed down my cheeks.

'Only friend, except for you, of course,' I corrected, trying to fight back the sobs that made it hard to speak.

I rested my head against the back of the chair, watching the embers glow and fade. My trembling gradually ceased as Cane's body warmed. My eyelids began to grow heavy. I fought against sleep – I couldn't slumber here – that was irresponsible. But a little nap, a brief respite just until we were warm ... that couldn't do any harm, could it?

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
In the Great Hall
of Albion

'I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY THERE'S so much confusion.' The Queen of Farrowfare's voice echoed around the chamber, bouncing off the vaulted ceiling and making the group of courtiers standing below her quail. She glared contemptuously at the Mortian, prostrate at her feet. He neither looked at her nor answered. As he'd been instructed by his master, he kept his head down and his face pressed against the flagstones.

From a few feet away, Lord Waterford studied the other creatures in the chamber. Not one of the four accompanying their spokesman responded to Zaralina's wrath. It was as if she hadn't said a word. He found himself admiring their stalwartness.

Aware that her usual tactics didn't work with the Mortians, the queen changed her tone. 'All right. Let's recount what we know so far. You managed to navigate the Limen without difficulty and travel throughout Serenissima for months undetected. Good. And you found a child, a child with demonstrable talent, whom you observed closely for weeks before confirming your suspicions and returning to me,' she said in a measured voice. 'This is excellent news. But explain to me why you're confused. What's the problem you seem unable to articulate?'

Still the Mortians didn't move.

'All right, then,' she continued. 'Just tell me where in Serenissima she is.'

Still there was no response.

She clicked in exasperation, aware that no amount of prompting would draw an answer from these creatures, not without help. She snapped her fingers. 'Shazet!' From behind the throne, her confidant stepped forward.

Standing on the floor immediately below the dais, Lord Waterford started. As close as he was to the throne, he hadn't seen Shazet, whose emaciated grey form blended with the rough-hewn walls. The hair on the back of his neck began to rise. He repressed the urge to thrust his hands under his arms. The throne room was always cold, but whenever the Mortians – particularly Shazet – appeared, the temperature dropped dramatically.

'What does Your Highness wish of me?' whispered Shazet, sliding into place beside the queen and bending towards her.

'This imbecile of yours won't answer my questions. None of them will,' she said, a sweep of her arm taking in the remaining Mortians. 'Presumably, they've already reported to you.' She tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice. No matter what penalties she inflicted, the Mortians insisted on acknowledging Shazet as their leader, deferring to him in all matters.

Even after all these years and the threats she levelled, as well as her other attempts to suborn them and prove where the real authority in their new kingdom lay, they would neither address nor take orders from her directly. Well, so be it. She would not let her frustration show; to do so was weak.

At least Shazet knew who was in charge. He obeyed her in all things and they obeyed him. That was all that mattered at the moment. She flicked her hands in Shazet's direction. 'So I need you to tell me. Where is the girl?'

Shazet paused. 'There is no girl.'

The courtiers began to murmur. Lord Waterford struggled to keep his face impassive.

Zaralina twisted her head until her face was just inches from Shazet's. Lord Waterford wondered how she could stand it, being so close. 'What do you mean, no girl?' she hissed. 'I know they found the child.'

'The child they located is not a girl at all. It's male.'

There were gasps from the floor. Lord Waterford reached out and clutched a column for support. A boy!

The queen's eyes widened and her hands gripped the huge arms of her throne. 'What? What are you saying? That's impossible! The legend clearly states the Estrattore will be a girl.' She glared at her chattering council.

'Silence!' she demanded. The voices ceased immediately.

'That may be so, but the child my people located is a definitely a boy. This is why they have taken so long – they wanted to be absolutely sure. He's a candlemaker's apprentice who lives in the Dorsoduro Sestiere. He wears glasses to hide his eyes.'

'I'm not interested in whether he wears glasses or in which sestiere he lives! Your Mortians are fools, Shazet. They've made a mistake. The boy can't be an Estrattore. They've found the wrong person.'

Shazet shook his head. 'I'm afraid that's not possible, Your Highness. The boy is definitely an Estrattore; there is no mistake. My people, at great risk to themselves, finally entered his abode, and they felt his touch everywhere. He is quite adept, it seems.'

The cavernous room grew taut with silence – the only movement the queen's eyes as she searched Shazet's long face.

'That must mean there are two!' exclaimed Zaralina finally. Lord Waterford could see that she hadn't expected that. Rising slowly from the throne, she stepped down from the dais and began to pace the room. The seven remaining members of the Advisory Council scurried out of her way, none more quickly than Lord Waterford. He knew from years of experience what that tone, that look, signified.

The heels of the queen's shoes staccatoed across the stone floor. When she reached the end of the room she turned and paused. A thin stream of light from the narrow windows caught the top of her head, striking sparks from the unremarkable diadem she wore atop her burnished copper hair. 'You're sure? He's definitely an Estrattore?'

'Most definitely,' replied Shazet. While he didn't project his voice, it could be heard in every barren corner. 'It seems he's hiding his talents in the candles he makes. It's very subtle, very well done. No-one is aware of him – yet. It's evident he's had training of some sort.'

'Training?' The queen arched a fine eyebrow. 'How's that possible? We would know if any of the Estrattore had left the Limen.'

Shazet bowed. 'We would, Your Highness. We have sentries posted along its entire length. No Estrattore has left the Limen in over three hundred years.'

The queen nodded. 'So, his training has come from somewhere else. What do we know of those with whom he lives?'

Shazet pointed towards the Mortian lying on the dais. Immediately, the creature rose to its feet and, in the language of its kind, communed with its master. Their sibilations rose and fell. Waterford wanted to rub his arms for warmth, but he knew better than to move.

Finally, Shazet turned to the queen. 'There is, it seems, not much to tell. An old woman, a middle-aged man. Candlemakers by trade. They have no talent. They're mere peasants.'

'And yet, they hide him.'

Shazet inclined his head.

'Why?'

Shazet shrugged. 'They do not know. They are making a lot of money from the candles; perhaps that's the reason. Maybe they keep him as a slave.'

'When they entered his home, did your spies actually see him?'

'No. He was not there. Only the other two were there. Them, and one of those four-legged creatures you call a dog. The dog belongs to the boy.'

'If he possesses property, he is not a slave.' The queen began to pace again, a thoughtful look on her face. 'Ask them. What's it like, this place he lives?'

'It's in the Candlemakers Quartiere,' said Shazet. There was a degree of censure in his tone, a tiny reprimand for her lack of faith in his people. Waterford marvelled at his boldness. 'It's part of a small island in the Dorsoduro Sestiere, the one nearest the mainland. The house is modest. Three levels. Faces onto a narrow canal on one side and a small alley on the other. The lowest level is devoted to business – a tiny shop and a workshop where the candles are made. The first level is a living and sleeping area. The boy has a dedicated room on the topmost floor. It was relatively easy to access – my people entered through the rooftop. When they discovered our Estrattore was a boy, this piece of information was too significant to tarry any longer.'

The queen frowned. 'Yes, yes. They did well. You did well.' She took her time returning to the throne. Resting her elbows on its arms, she steepled her fingers together under her chin in thought. Then something occurred to her. 'If your people didn't see the child, how do they know it was a boy?'

'They've been watching for quite some time, your Highness. They saw his belongings. The man and the old woman were discussing him. The child is male.'

ZARALINA GAZED AT THE CEILING. She didn't see the dark crossbeams, festoons of cobwebs or guttering sconces as she mulled over what she'd been told.

A boy! Something was very wrong. This wasn't how it was meant to happen; this was not how the legend went. And yet ... could it be a ploy to distract her? To focus her attention away from the girl in order that she grow and develop into her full power? The corners of the queen's mouth curled. That had to be it. So, the Estrattore had outdone themselves and produced not one but two of their kind – a decoy and the real one. Only she knew the sex of the real child – the real danger.

Or, was it possible that this boy was an aberration? What if the girl had not been born yet? No, that was ridiculous. All the signs were there: the exodus of the Estrattore into the Limen; the dual pledge of the twin Bond Riders. And yes, the child had been taken – from the Estrattore and out of the Limen. That they knew for sure. The exit had been witnessed.

The girl was out there. All they had to do was find her.

She gazed upon those assembled in her throne room: the whispering Shazet whose very presence unnerved all the others; the four Mortians who had been sent through the Limen to Serenissima; the remnants of her once-powerful human Council; and the one person she trusted above all others – Lord Waterford. A mere laird with no prospects, he'd been elevated beyond his wildest dreams. He was the one man too frightened to do anything but comply with her orders. Fear was a wonderful tool for obedience. She granted him a smile. Waterford jumped then, remembering etiquette, bowed.

'All right,' she said finally. 'Here's what you will do.' She gestured to Shazet. 'I want you to double the number of Mortians you send into Serenissima and I want you to extend the breadth of your search to include the highlands and Jinoa. I want every house searched, every business and every family, noble and peasant, citizen and non-citizen. Listen, watch, feel. The touch of an Estrattore leaves a residue.'

The Mortians in the room flinched. They began whispering, gesturing to Shazet first, and then to the queen. The sound was harsh and discordant; it was clear they were protesting. Shazet silenced them by raising one finger.

'The girl is out there,' continued the queen, ignoring the outburst. 'I know it. I feel her. It may be she has not come into her abilities yet. But she will. Oh, yes, any day now, she will. And we will be there to track her until it is time for us to act.'

'And the boy?' asked Shazet.

'I'm getting to that. While I think the boy is a clever distraction, I also believe he's worth keeping an eye on. I didn't anticipate another player and I want to know the extent of his abilities. He may be useful. Should he prove too dangerous, then we'll deal with him.'

'It shall be as you say, Your Highness,' said Shazet. He clicked his fingers and the Mortians rose to their feet, gliding like wraiths in the wind. In silence, they exited the throne room one after the other, the doors closing behind them with a sigh of relief.

Waterford shivered. Catching him out of the corner of her eye, an idea formed in the queen's mind. 'Lord Waterford!' she said.

'Yes, Your Majesty,' said Waterford, sweeping his arm to the floor in a gesture of obeisance.

'A word before you go.' She indicated the remaining Councillors. 'The rest of you are to search every document that even mentions the Estrattore. I don't care where you have to go or how long it takes you. Check the translations against the originals. I want to know if this boy is mentioned anywhere. Do you understand?'

Before they could respond, she dismissed them with a wave of her hand – all except Waterford, whom she beckoned closer.

'YES, YOUR HIGHNESS?' WATERFORD TRIED to keep the tremor out of his voice. He glanced nervously at Shazet. The Mortian's gaunt face was unreadable.

'I think it's time for you to return to Serenissima.'

'You do?' squeaked Waterford, forgetting the formal mode of address.

In one smooth motion, Zaralina rose to her feet and glided down the steps towards the trembling lord.

'Yes, I do. But this time, you won't arrive in secret, on a foreign ship. You'll arrive with all the pomp and ceremony accorded the Queen of Farrowfare's ambassador.'

Lord Waterford's stared. 'Ambassador? Your Majesty. Th– that's an honour I don't deserve.' He'd been hoping that now the foreign prince was settling he could return to his own lands, see his wife and son. It had been almost a year.

'No, you probably don't. But I'm going to bestow it on you anyway.' She gave him a smile that never reached her eyes.

Waterford bowed, his mind working all the while, trying to fathom what the queen intended. What would his wife say?

'I want you to stay in Serenissima for a while, Waterford. Enjoy some of their legendary hospitality. And, while you're there, I want you to be my eyes.' She reached out and stroked his eyelids. 'And ears.' Her fingers gently tweaked his lobes. Waterford shuddered. 'Familiarise yourself with local politics, endear yourself to the Doge and his nobiles. Find out how the line of accession is going: who is happy, who is unhappy.

'Find out,' she said, trailing a finger across his chest, 'how our little hostage's parents are faring. What the rumours are. I want you to charm the Serenissians, tempt them – seduce them if you must. And all the while watch and listen. See if the nobiles suspect they have an Estrattore in their midst. Do you think you can do that?'

'Y– yes, Your Highness.'

'Good,' she said, her lips just touching his ear. 'You will leave in one month. That will give you time to find appropriate gifts, and even more appropriate bribes. We'll find in which direction the wind blows, one way or another.'

'B– but, Your Majesty?'

'Yes, Waterford?'

Waterford hated the way she could make his mouth turn dry with just a slight raising of one eyebrow, a tip of her white chin. 'I ... I was wondering. I'm not sure that an envoy from the other side of the Limen, from Albion, will be welcome. Ever since we've been trading with the Phalagonians and and Kyprians, we've also been avoiding paying the tariffs due to Serenissima – they own the ports, after all. In fact, if you would recall, Your Majesty,' he gulped nervously, 'the last time our ships were in Minoa, they were boarded by Serenissian agents. We were told that, unless we paid the duties and taxes owed, if ever we returned to the Mariniquian Seas – let alone entered the lagoon – it would be interpreted as an act of war. Our ships would be fired upon.'

'Ahh.' The queen smiled, revealing her small, creamy teeth. 'You're afraid you're being sent to your death – or to provoke a war!'

Waterford lowered his head.

'My dear Waterford, what if I assure you that by the time you reach Serenissima, you'll not only be welcomed, you'll be hailed a hero.' She didn't wait for him to respond, but returned to the dais.

Waterford watched her long, slender back, her swaying hips. 'But –?'

'No,' chastised the queen softly, lowering herself into the throne. 'Do not ask how or why. You must simply trust me.'

'Yes. Yes, Your Majesty. I do.'

'We will be paying our dues to the Republic and more.'

He bowed. 'Very good.' He hesitated. It took all his control not to wring his hands. 'Your Majesty?'

'Yes?'

Waterford's face started to turn red. 'My family.'

'What about them?'

'May they come with me? It's been so long since I last saw them and my wife, as it happens, speaks fluent Serenissian. She's very diplomatic. As for my son, well, he –'

'No, Waterford. You will be going alone. Your wife and son will remain on your estates but in my care. Do you understand?'

Waterford's heart sank. He understood all too well. He mounted the dais and took the outstretched hand, kissing it lightly. As the queen retracted her fingers he was surprised to find that his lips stung.

Zaralina lifted her dress and crossed her ankles, her eyes firmly on Waterford. Her slender calves were momentarily exposed. Lord Waterford gulped and looked away.

Standing beside the queen, Shazet smirked.

Zaralina smiled benevolently. 'You may go about your business.'

Waterford hesitated.

'Yes, my lord?' said the queen, a hint of irritation creeping into her voice.

'Just one more thing. I was wondering, Your Majesty, about the boy?'

'The boy?' The queen frowned. 'Oh yes, the Doge's grandson. What about him?'

'Well, I was wondering, who will look after him while I'm gone?'

The queen looked at Waterford. 'I thought it might be time for me to enter the boy's life. After all, he's been here such a long time now and he still hasn't had the pleasure of my company. What do you think?'

Waterford tried not to let his dismay show. He didn't approve of what had been happening – how the boy was all but ignored, treated with no respect, disciplined regularly, denied companionship. In the eight months he'd been in the castle, Waterford had seen him change from a scared but warm-hearted boy into a cold, distant and calculating stranger.

The queen, he knew, would seek to build on this.

'Well?' she snapped.

Waterford jumped. 'Yes. Yes, I believe it is time.'

'That's settled, then. Your mind may rest easy. When you leave, I will take the boy under my wing. In fact, I'll make him my squire.'

'Your squire?'

'Why? Do you object?'

'No, no,' said Waterford quickly. 'I think it's a good idea.'

'Indeed it is, Waterford, indeed it is.'

Zaralina waved her hand dismissively and Waterford knew his audience was over. As he left, Waterford tried to shake off the apprehension that clung to him.

If he could have heard the plans being made in the throne-room behind him, he would have realised that what he felt was not simply agitation, but a portent of the future.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Tallow's interference

'TALLOW, WAKE UP!'

Tallow tried to open her eyes, but it was as if she were stuck in a deep well and the surface was too far away. Her eyelashes fluttered and an image swam into view. It was Pillar.

'Tallow!' he said in relief. 'Get that dog out of sight. Now.'

For a moment, Tallow couldn't work out what Pillar was talking about. Then it all came back to her. The trip in the gondola, nearly losing her glasses, being followed and then coming home to find someone or something had been in her room.

'Cane?' she croaked. Her lap was empty. She sat up fast and looked around.

'Calm down. He's over there,' whispered Pillar, indicating the floor. Sometime during the night, Cane had moved closer to the fire. 'Now get him up to your room or there'll be hell and more to pay.'

Tallow didn't have to be told again. She jumped to her feet and, bundling Cane into her arms, dashed up the stairs. Just in time. As she closed her door, she heard Quinn's open.

WORK PROCEEDED AT A STEADY pace that day and Tallow wasn't given any time to reflect on what had happened the night before. Stifling yawns, she placed the blocks of beeswax in the huge metal pot saved for that purpose alone and heaved it on to the fire. Standing on a stool, she used a long wooden ladle to break up the blocks and speed the melting process.

'That's a sweet smell, that is,' said Pillar, breathing deeply. 'Make sure you filter it well.'

Tallow resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Any time she used beeswax, it was always the same. When was Pillar going to trust that by now she knew what she was doing?

All the time she worked, straining the wax and laying out the new wicks, Tallow readied herself to extract. She tried to push aside her misgivings about the night before and her tiredness and instead focused on how happy she'd been on the canal, how awed she been by the sight of the nobiles' casas and how inspired she'd been by her vision of the city in the moonlight.

Content that she'd cleared her mind of negative thoughts, she focused on the glass, wicks and finally, the beeswax. The tiny glass containers were brimming with the emotions of their proud creators. Exacting high standards from themselves and others, the glassmakers' esteem and pleasure had infused the glass.

The wicks were slightly different, stripped from tall trees in an exotic land. She felt the strain and pressure of back-breaking work: the sweat, the ingratitude of those in charge and the resentment of the workers. So she delved deeper, searching for someone. A worker with a gentler mind, a kinder heart. As she touched the thirteenth wick, she found her subject. The hemp worker who had last touched these strands had aches and pain, but also joy in the sunlight on his back and the way the stiffness in his muscles slowly eased as the long day progressed. His devotion to his children and to his exotic goddess was compelling.

Tallow drew what she needed and refined it, using what she'd extracted to alter the essence of the other wicks. Before she knew it, over a hundred glass containers had been filled. They looked luminous standing in the shafts of afternoon sunlight.

Pillar abandoned the tapers he'd been rolling into shape and examined Tallow's work. 'You've done well, Tallow. These are good. They should fetch an excellent price.'

Tallow gave him a tired grin. 'Thanks.'

He shot her a look of concern. 'It's been a long day and you missed lunch. How about you go and grab some bread and cheese and sit up on the roof for a while, catch the last of the sunshine. Spend some time with Cane and get some colour back into your face. You look like you need a good night's rest. I think we've been working you too hard.'

Tallow turned away before he could see the blush that tainted her cheeks.

Putting her jug and other implements in a big tub, Tallow washed and dried her hands. She hesitated at the shop door, Cane in her arms, wondering if she should enter the house that way and run the gauntlet of Quinn and her enthusiastic customers.

'If I were you,' said Pillar, rolling the wax, 'I'd go the way you leave – using the neighbour's trellis.'

Tallow spun on her heels.

'Don't look so surprised.' He laughed. 'I'm not a complete fool, you know. Katina told me to keep an eye on you. I know about your night escapades with Dante.'

Tallow's mouth fell open.

Pillar put down his rolling pin and smiled. Then he reached out and clamped a hand on her shoulder. It was safe to touch Tallow now she'd learnt not to extract from everything she came in contact with. 'As Katina said, you've got to live. And I don't know of any young lad who wouldn't be off exploring after dark. I did it, and my father before me.' A shadow briefly passed over his features.

He glanced behind, as if afraid someone might hear. Then he dropped his voice to a mere whisper. 'I know we have to be careful, but Dante is a good boy and so ... so are you.' He gave her shoulder a squeeze. 'It's the least I can do, turn a blind eye to your exploits. You don't get to do much, Tallow. And, since you're acting as though you're a boy, you may as well get to take the role seriously, hey?'

Tallow shook her head slowly, a smile curling her lips. She'd underestimated him – again.

'Thanks, Pillar.' Part of her wanted to share with him what happened last night. But it was still too raw and she didn't want to alarm him by telling him about what had happened to her room. He'd never asked why she'd slept in the kitchen last night. He'd just assumed it was because she was cold. If only he knew, Tallow thought.

'No need to thank me,' he said returning to his work. 'Just go and get some rest. I've got Master Querini coming to talk to me, so I need you to pick up my load as well tomorrow.'

Pillar was nervous about having one of the most renowned candlemakers in Serenissima coming to visit. He wanted everything to be just right. It wasn't every day that the head of your scuola, your guild, deigned to enter your premises. He knew that there were no secrets the master could uncover. Their tallow was the same as everyone else's, as were their waxes, wicks, broaches and moulds. All he would find was a dedicated candlemaker who had finally perfected his art.

Tallow slipped out the door while Pillar's mind was occupied. 'Thank you,' she whispered.

It took Tallow all of five minutes to climb onto the roof with Cane, sneak down into the kitchen for a hunk of bread and some cheese and return to her favourite spot.

The sun was beginning to set, turning the sky into a palette of rose and gold. Gulls and pigeons winged their way from one steeple to another, cawing, cooing and screeching. Far away, dogs barked and children squealed. Cats lay sprawled over ledges, sunning themselves. All together, it was a beautiful afternoon.

Nibbling at the bread, she absent-mindedly fed bits of cheese to Cane, who sat ever patient at her feet. Out there beneath the temperate sun, tiredness began to overwhelm her. She shut her eyes and closed her mind off to the distractions of the city, focusing on the canal below and the gentle sounds of the water.

She heard the steady slice of a gondolier's oar cutting through the water, and then the tinkle of the shop door. Voices burst into life on the street below.

'I heard it was Lucia that seduced him,' said a familiar voice.

At the mention of Lucia's name, Tallow's eyes flew open and her weariness fell away. She jumped to her feet, her heart beating steadily as she tried to control her excitement. Why, Lucia was Francesca's love-sick daughter, the one for whom she'd made the candles. Who was discussing her? She looked down on the fondamenta. Below her were three women – she recognised the speaker as Carlita Tipeita, another candlemaker who owned the shop four doors down.

'No, that's not how it was at all,' said Helena, the fishmonger's wife. She'd been in the store the day Francesca first outlined her daughter's dilemma.

'How do you know?' said Carlita.

Helena encouraged them to stand closer. Tallow leant as far over the rooftop's edge as she dared to hear their conversation. 'I know for a fact,' declared Helena, 'that the moment he saw her, he fell head over heels in love with her!'

Tallow smiled. So, the romance between Lucia and – what was his name? Sebastiano Ziani, that was it – was still the talk of the quartiere. Her chest swelled against its constraints.

'That may be so,' said Carlita sharply. 'But I don't care what you say. He's still a cad – professing undying love for two women at the same time.'

From her position high above, Tallow reeled. Undying love for two women? She leant over again, desperate to catch every word.

'You can never trust a man,' said the third woman Tallow didn't recognise. 'It's what I tell my daughter all the time. They'll say they love you until you give them what they really want – your legs, wide open.' She used her arms to indicate how far.

The women chuckled.

'It's true,' said Helena.

The third woman continued. 'I heard that before he met Lucia, Sebastiano had been busy courting little Venetta Carpucci – you know, her father owns the cobbler's store off the salizzada. He was very attentive, barely left her side. Swore his devotion to her. They'd even exchanged rings and a promise to wed.'

'No!' said Helena and Carlita, clearly shocked.

'Yes! I heard it from her mother!'

'All right, all right,' said Helena. 'If Sebastiano loved Venetta so much, what happened? Even a man as young and stupid as Sebastiano does not usually transfer his affections so quickly, never mind so openly.'

'Maybe not. But our girls should take heed. There are no guarantees any more. Just because a man says he loves you and gives you a ring, it's the promises in front of the padre that are important. But personally, I think he was scared.'

'Of what?' asked Helena.

'Of what he did.'

'What was that?'

'What happens to many girls these days.' The woman placed her hand below her breasts and traced an arc that rose over her stomach, coming to rest against her groin.

The women gasped. Tallow felt sick.

'That's right. Venetta is carrying his baby. The stupid girl couldn't wait until the vows had been exchanged. No, like a common street whore, she surrendered her body to him. What did she expect to happen? But she thought it was safe, that they were committed. And, after everything he did, you can hardly blame her for thinking that.'

'No,' said Carlita, clearly shocked.

'But this Sebastiano, he has no sense of what is right. He abandons the mother of his child for Lucia. Simple. Sad but simple.'

'He didn't want the responsibility of the baby,' said Helena.

'He didn't want to marry used goods,' said Carlita. 'Goods he'd used. Pig.' She spat on the cobbles.

'What's going to happen?' asked Helena.

'What do you think?' said the woman. 'Venetta has no choice now but to enter a convent. The baby, well, who knows?' she shrugged. 'Probably sent to an orphanage. Her parents can't afford to raise it – and they don't want the shame. Poor thing. If only young people would think with their heads instead of their loins.'

'Doesn't this Sebastiano have a conscience?' asked Carlita.

The woman laughed harshly. 'He used to. But ever since he set eyes on Lucia, it's as if no-one else exists. He's ignored all entreaties from Venetta's family. And you know Francesca, she's such a social climber. She's grateful to have a well-to-do soap chandler in the family.'

'And Lucia?' asked Helena. 'What does she say? She's always been a good girl – a sweet one.'

'Perhaps. But as bad as she might feel for Venetta, it's a good marriage for her. She doesn't want to jeopardise it by getting involved. She says, as far as she's concerned, Sebastiano is entitled to change his mind – child or no child.'

'Poor Venetta,' said Helena, shaking her head.

'Indeed. One moment, she had such a promising life ahead of her. She was a bride and a mother-to-be. And snap.' She clicked her fingers. 'In one night, it all changes.'

'God can be cruel,' agreed Carlita.

'This had nothing to do with God,' scoffed the woman. 'This is Sebastiano's fault. This is the fault of man.'

The woman murmured their agreement and, as one, crossed themselves and spat on the fondamenta.

Tallow ceased to listen as they walked away. She slowly sank back onto the slate. The man Lucia was so desperately in love with had already given his heart to someone else! Why, he'd not only made a verbal contract and exchanged rings with her, he'd made her pregnant as well. And now, because of Tallow's candle, because of what she'd put into the wax, he would never fulfil his obligations. One heart broken. Two, likely three, lives ruined, and all because Tallow had felt sorry for Lucia.

What had she done?

She threw the rest of her bread and cheese to Cane and retreated to the darkness of her room.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Baroque Scarpoli
reports

WITH THE PATIENCE OF LONG years of practice, Baroque Scarpoli waited for one of the Maleovellis to react to his account of the events on the Circolo Canal. From what he could ascertain about their unusual relationship, it would be Giaconda who would respond, rather than her father. She stood near the window, erect and thoughtful, while Ezzelino sat in a high-backed chair near the empty hearth, his eyes never leaving his daughter's face.

Without moving, Baroque surveyed the room. He'd never been invited into a nobile's casa before, at least not onto the grand main floor – the piano nobile, as they called it. The Maleovellis might have been impoverished, but their casa, located on the verge of Nobiles' Rise, still spoke of ancient wealth and manners.

In earlier days, the Maleovellis had been one of the most powerful and influential nobile families in Serenissima. According to The Golden Book, the register of Nobiles eligible to claim the Dogeship, generations of them had sat at the Doge's right hand as valued members of the Council of Ten. But that was over four hundred years ago and, whereas once the Maleovellis had been close to the Dogeship, now they were almost as distant as the candlemaker they so eagerly sought.

It was not in Baroque's nature to be curious about his targets. Long ago, he'd learnt that even an inkling of interest affected his style. He became uncertain, hesitant – unattractive qualities in a spy. So he'd learnt to close himself off; work on the information given and nothing else. It meant that when he slid his knife between a healthy set of ribs, threw someone off a bridge or passed on information that he knew would alter lives forever, he did it with as much regard as he would have for lacing his boots.

But this young boy from the Candlemakers Quartiere did pique his curiosity. Why did these insolvent nobiles want information about him? At first he'd thought he might be an illegitimate heir. But why would the Maleovellis care about that? God knew, Serenissima was full of the nobiles' little bastards. Why did they want him? The boy seemed unremarkable at best, feeble at worst, with those strange glasses and timid ways.

Baroque couldn't understand what the robust young chandler saw in the child either. But it was evident the older boy cared. Watching them together, Baroque was reminded of the way he used to look out for his own younger brother.

Baroque sighed, then caught himself. He would not become melancholy. Not over this. Not over a boy who in some strange way reminded him of what he once had been and what he no longer had.

'Well, my dear,' said Ezzelino finally. 'You've heard Baroque's story. What do you think?' The old man picked up a pouch from the small table beside him and began to fill a tiny ceramic pipe with the contents.

Giaconda arched a fine black brow at Baroque. 'I think you're losing your touch.'

Baroque coughed, using the action of covering his mouth to lower his eyes. How dare this upstart female denigrate him or his years of experience? He collected himself.

'It could be, Signora.' He lingered on the word, leaving Giaconda in no doubt about the intended insult; what precisely he was insulting was open to question. 'Each generation has a tendency to show the last their weaknesses, even while ignoring their strengths.'

Ezzelino chuckled. 'Bravo. He has you there, Gia.'

Giaconda bowed her head. When she raised it again, there was fire in her eyes. 'Let's see if I understand,' she said. 'After all this time, all you've managed to do is locate the general whereabouts of the boy, but not his precise location?'

'That's right,' replied Baroque. 'Perhaps you're unaware, Signora, that there are over fifty candlemakers and suppliers in the quartiere alone. Which one he's apprenticed to, I don't know exactly. No-one would talk – they were surprisingly reticent or ignorant. If I didn't know better, I'd say they're protecting this apprentice or his master. Whichever it is, this boy has an almost unnatural ability to remain unnoticed. He leaves no impression.'

Baroque saw Giaconda and her father exchange a quick glance. 'But I did manage to follow this boy and the chandler to the edge of the quartiere. After that, as I told you, I lost him and his friend. They tricked me.'

Giaconda smiled, but her mind worked fast. She turned and gazed out the window. Below, a narrow canal wound its silvery path around the casas, seeking its way into the Circolo.

'But you do know the general area ...'

'Yes, Signora. After a sort.'

'How good are you at disguises?'

Baroque tried not to let his surprise show. 'I used to be thought very good.'

'Papa,' said Giaconda and, sweeping past Baroque, sank to the floor at her father's knees. She plucked the pipe out of his fingers and took his hands in her own. 'I have an idea.' She raised her large green eyes to her father's and put on her most beguiling smile.

'And what is that, Gia?' Her father returned the smile.

'What if we were to get Baroque here to pretend to be a shopkeeper, newly migrated from,' she screwed up her face, 'Vyzantia. He is looking to set up business in the Dorsoduro Sestiere and is making inquiries.'

Baroque cleared his throat. 'But, Signora, I have already tried this type of ploy. The locals do not divulge much to strangers – they are very reticent, very suspicious of outsiders – even those from other quartieri, let alone foreign cities.'

'Exactly. That is why you must become a familiar face. You must make yourself known to them, build trust. Become an insider.'

'But the only way I can do that is by living there. It could take years,' protested Baroque.

'Perhaps.'

'How do you propose Baroque do this, my dear?' asked her father. 'He needs coin for this. All we have to offer him is thin air.'

'No, not all.' Raising her hands to her neck, Giaconda lifted her ebony hair and undid the clasp of the necklace that lay against her throat. 'We have this.'

She held the sapphire and diamond choker towards the candlelight. The flames reflected in the cut stones a hundred times, a thousand times. Baroque's eyes widened. Why, it was worth a small fortune.

'No,' said Ezzelino, his face visibly paling. 'Not your mother's necklace.'

'Why not, Papa? You said yourself, it is my guarantee should all else fail. But now we have a different sort of guarantee, don't we?' She stared at him meaningfully.

'But what if we're wrong?'

She dropped to her knees and drew her father's hands to her breasts. 'We're not wrong, Papa. I know it.' She pressed his hands against the white flesh that spilled over her lace neckline. 'Just as I know that soon, for you and me, heirlooms like these,' she shook the necklace, 'will be mere trinkets.'

'Trinkets,' echoed Ezzelino.

Baroque's eyes narrowed. What were these two up to, that they were prepared to forego a small fortune to make sure the boy was found? Who was he? Or, he thought as he watched father and daughter losing themselves in visions of a very different future, what was he?

As Giaconda began to outline her plans for Baroque, he knew that one way or the other, he would soon find out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Council of Elders

'HOW ARE YOU FEELING?'

Katina spun at the sound of the voice, causing her drink to spill down her shirt. She groaned at the size of the spreading stain and quickly tried to daub it with a handkerchief. Familiar hands rushed to her aid, but Katina playfully slapped them away. 'You do realise, Debora, I have to meet with the Elders shortly and you've just made me ruin the only clean shirt I have.'

'Sorry,' Debora replied. They sat on the crest of the hill and gazed at the activity in the campsite below. Groups of Bond Riders were just emerging from their tents. Some began to stoke their fires, others to tend their horses. Over by a running stream, some were bathing. The perpetual grey mist that haunted the Limen made it impossible to tell exactly what time it was but, conditioned by the routines of their former lives, they all acted as if it were morning and they were preparing for a long day.

Katina watched her life companions in silence for a moment. Even though they'd been apart for months, Katina knew that Debora would sense her apprehension of the forthcoming meeting. Of the report she would present to the Council of Elders about her time away – of her time with Tallow.

She reached for Debora's hand and clutched it tightly.

'I know I've said it before, but it's good to have you back,' Debora said softly.

Katina knew Debora wasn't only referring to her return from Vista Mare. 'You can't say it often enough as far as I'm concerned. Glad to be back – I didn't think I was going to make it.'

'Neither did we.'

They sat in silence, pondering what might have been, while the noises of activity slowly increased and snippets of conversation gently wafted up the slope. Katina inhaled deeply. It had seemed so long since she had witnessed the rituals of the Bond Riders.

She had no idea of how long it had taken her to recover but, even here in the Limen, where time as it was understood back in Vista Mare had no meaning, it seemed an age. Once she was allowed out of the infirmary, she'd worked hard to suppress the tremble in her limbs, the ache in her spine and the memories that her recovery had revived. While she knew she'd all but regained her former strength, her reflection in the water as she'd bathed told her a different story. The ravages of her sojourn would remain permanently etched on her face. Whereas once she could have passed for thirty years of age back in her old world, now she would be lucky to be thought less than fifty. She peered into her cup and didn't like what she saw. She threw the remains of her drink onto the grey grass.

Debora clucked in concern. 'That tea was medicinal, Katina. It was specially prepared for you.'

Noting Debora's frown, Katina gave a half-smile. 'I'm fine, really.'

Debora ran a finger from the top of Katina's right eye to the corner of her mouth. 'Don't pretend with me. I know you. How long have we been together?'

'A long time. Since I entered the Limen.'

'I remember the first moment I saw you and Filippo. You looked so sad. So lost and confused.'

'We'd literally had our life ripped out from under us and been handed another. And not by choice.'

Surprised by the bitterness in Katina's tone, Debora touched her gently. 'Of course not, the gods know. I didn't mean it that way. I only ...'

'I know, I know. I'm sorry.' Katina swiped a hand across her forehead. 'I've had a lot of time to think. To remember. And after spending so much time trying to forget. If it hadn't been for you and later, Alessandro, I don't know what Filippo and I would have done. You made us so welcome. You were like an older brother and sister to us. You gave us back the family we'd lost. Helped us to understand what it was we'd become.'

Debora nodded. 'Making a Bond is hard enough for adults. I'd never seen anyone as young as you and Filippo pledged before. We thought it was a mistake, that somehow you'd blundered into the Limen and survived. But then we saw your wounds and knew there'd been no error.'

They both looked at Katina's right palm. A deep white line intersected the other, finer marks of her flesh, puckering at the edges. Katina curled her fingers around it protectively. 'The reason I'm still here all this time later.'

Her mind travelled back to that night at the Pledge Stone; the night Constantina fulfilled her promise to their mother. Terrified, cold and grief-stricken, they'd arrived in the dark, desolate clearing. Even the light of the moon, a silver lire in the sky, had hardly touched the Stone. It sat there, a great hulking monolith giving no indication of what it was capable of doing, of how it was about to change their lives forever.

Constantina had wasted no time with explanations. Shaking – with cold or trepidation, Katina was not certain – she'd found a sharp rock and, telling them to prepare themselves for a moment's pain, she'd drawn it swiftly across their palms, first Filippo and then Katina. Both had cried out but before they could complain, she'd taken their hands and pressed them firmly against the rock.

'Repeat after me,' she'd ordered. 'I do pledge my soul to the Estrattore, to seeing them returned to their rightful place in Serenissima, no matter how long it takes. Say it!'

With quivering voices, Katina and Filippo had said the words.

After that, Katina recalled very little. A strong feeling of malaise had overtaken the throbbing in her palm as if she were caught between sleep and wakefulness. Her body began to sink into the rock and her breathing became shallow. Her legs folded under her, and yet whatever force kept her attached to the Stone through her palm, her flowing blood, held her upright.

She could no longer see anyone; not Filippo nor Constantina. The air thickened and her world became grey.

When she returned to awareness, she was in the Limen, among those she now called her family and lovers. Her old life had seemed nothing but a dream and her mother and father like characters out of a story. Just like Constantina.

One day the Estrattore was beside them, the next, she was gone. No-one spoke of it and she'd been too afraid to ask and later, forced herself to stop caring. Katina had gradually learned to stop taking it personally. Everyone left the Limen at some time and many never returned. One day it would happen to her as well.

'You're still beautiful, you know.' Debora's stroking fingers and her gentle tone flung Katina back into the present.

Katina gave a small laugh. 'I am glad you think so,' she said, all the time wondering if someone else, in another world, might still think so too.

'You know why the Elders want to see you, don't you?'

'I imagine they're going to send me back.'

'That's what I think. But, Katina, your Bond, as important as it is and as much as you can't refuse, has clearly taken its toll. I'm not saying you shouldn't return; I don't have that right. But Alessandro and I have been talking –'

'Of course.'

Debora ignored the interruption. 'And while we know you must return, we want you to ask for more time – time to heal.'

'You both worry too much. I'm fine!' Katina began uprooting the grass at her feet and scattering it about.

'I'm not talking about your physical self.'

'I know,' said Katina, raising her hand to touch her cheeks and then around her eyes. 'But only I know what has been exacted from me. Only I know how much time I need. You have to believe me when I say I'm all right. I'm ready to return if I'm asked. I need your support in this, not your anxiety; not your judgement.'

Hurt flashed across Debora's face and she opened her mouth to protest, but Katina cut her short. 'There's no point going over it again.' She reached over and cupped Debora's chin. 'I know you and Alessandro don't want me to return – but Debora, I'm a Bond Rider. Like you and Alessandro, I made a pledge and even if I didn't understand what it was I was swearing to do, I don't have a choice. I never have – neither have you. The moment we gave our blood to the Stones, we became prisoners of fate. Nothing can change that. Only the Elders can guide us towards our destiny and that of our people. Only they can help us fulfil our Bonds. I can't very well say to the Elders "I'm not ready to go back," can I?'

Debora lowered her eyes. 'No, I guess not.'

Katina released Debora's face gently. 'Well, mi amo, stop asking me to.'

A horse whinnied nearby and they watched as two Bond Riders made preparations to leave the camp.

'Anyway,' continued Katina. 'If you really want me to get better, you're going to have to stop sneaking up on me to see how I'm feeling. It's not good for my nerves.'

Debora laughed. Katina had forgotten how sweet the sound was. She looked at her friend's white, even teeth and dark, windswept hair. She wanted to take her in her arms, and tell her just how much she'd missed her, to crush her mouth against hers. Then their eyes met and she could resist no longer.

It was some time before they drew apart. Finally, Katina sighed and pushed the hair out of Debora's eyes. She raised their conjoined hands to her breast. 'This is harder than I thought, Debora. Please, you'll have to bear with me. There were ...' Thoughts of Tallow and Pillar flashed through her mind. 'Distractions there I didn't expect.'

Debora ran a long finger over Katina's kiss-swollen lips. 'I've missed you – Alessandro's missed you too. He couldn't stand seeing you so broken, so unwell. He volunteered for a mission, without either of us, his partners. No-one could believe it, but such was his turmoil. All being well, he'll be back in two rests.' She hesitated, her gaze dropping to the back of Katina's hand, taking in the prominent veins, the papery skin. Debora stared out over the camp. 'Katina, if you go now, I'm afraid you won't come back.'

'I know. Me too.'

They sat for a while neither speaking nor moving.

'Katina,' asked Debora finally. 'What's she like, this Estrattore?'

'Does it matter?'

'I guess not. I'm just curious about this person who's destined to be our saviour.' Who you still think about to the exclusion of all else.

Katina nodded. She had been curious too. But how could she explain that Tallow was nothing like she expected; that, against her will, she'd begun to care, not just for the girl, but for her pathetic guardian, Santo's forsaken son, as well.

Katina tried to think of how to describe Tallow. How to describe someone who, despite the cruelty that life has meted out, carries within them a great capacity for hope? A person who still gazes upon the very world that shuns her with anticipation and wonder? Words were inadequate. They were also unfair. They captured, contained, limited. Tallow had already endured more of that than most.

Katina knew Debora was waiting for her to answer. But this was not the time or place to reveal that, while she'd been forced to Bond to the idea of Tallow more than three hundred years ago without the slightest awareness of what the commitment entailed, and despite all the losses she'd endured in the name of faith, a legend and a possible future, she no longer had any regrets.

She took a deep breath, considering her words. 'Regardless of what happened, we were right to take her from the Estrattore.' Before Debora could ask any more questions, she jumped to her feet and with a heavy heart walked away.

Debora remained where she was, watching her for a moment, then she picked up Katina's abandoned cup. Twisting it in her hand a few times, she mulled over what her partner had said. Anger, jealousy and an unquenchable sadness rose within her. She tightened her grip on the delicate object before raising her arm. With all the force she could muster, she hurled it at a nearby rock. It shattered on contact, its porcelain shards lying raw and open on the ground. Looking at the broken remains, Debora wondered why she didn't feel any better.

'YOU TOOK A GRAVE RISK becoming so involved, Katina Maggiore,' said Elder Pisano from behind the stone table. 'It seems to us that it's not only the child who became dependent upon you.' There were murmurs of agreement from among the other seven Elders.

Standing before them in the centre of the cavern, Katina bowed her head and waited patiently for their decision. A cool breeze whistled though the opening behind her, ruffling the Elders' gowns. Through a haze of exhaustion she studied the Council, a pale imitation in name and authority of her lawgivers back in Serenissima. The flickering grey light from the sconces cast the Elders' shadows over the sandy floor, and transformed the rock formations into sinister reliefs.

Once they, too, had been Bond Riders, pledged to a cause or person. But unlike those they commanded, the Elders no longer had partners. It horrified and fascinated her all at once: the idea that anyone who had fulfilled their Bond would choose to return, alone, to this pale excuse for an existence. Intimate relationships were the only thing that made the half-life of the Limen bearable.

The Council had once filled all of the seats in the cavern. But without the guardianship of the Estrattore, their numbers had slowly dwindled. While the Limen gave Bond Riders longevity, it didn't give them immortality. Protected from time, they were not safe from the deadly creatures that dwelled within its mists and forests. Nor were they spared from illness. If they were unprepared, either of these could snatch away a Bond Rider's life without warning.

Stifling a cough, Katina tried not to breathe too deeply. The air was dry in the cave; it hurt her lungs. She was suffering from the one sickness all Bond Riders feared most – the disease of time. Time that, in the short period she was back in Vista Mare, had accelerated her body's ageing process to try to match her lifespan. Over three hundred years in a few months. After standing and being forced to explain herself for five hours, she felt every second.

She'd been questioned and made to retell the story of what occurred while she was in Serenissima, over and over again: how she finally made contact; how she convinced Pillar and Quinn to accept what Tallow was and allow her to be trained; how she trained her; what sort of powers Tallow demonstrated; how they used the candles and what effects they'd had. She was bone-weary. They hadn't even offered her a place to sit, but kept her standing before them like a prisoner being interrogated. She tried to stop her mind drifting, but thoughts of Debora and Alessandro's comforting arms kept rising. She pushed them aside. She needed to prove to the Council that, despite her frail appearance, she was ready to return.

Raising her chin, she met the Elders' gazes. The head of the Council, Elder Dandolo, was watching her carefully. To the left of the long table, two of the others were heavily in discussion. On Dandolo's right, Elder Nicolotti was busy making notes while the remainder shifted their attention from Katina to their leader, waiting to see what would unfold.

Elder Nicolotti made a few more scratchings on a piece of apricot-coloured parchment. He passed Dandolo his notes and the rest of the Elders conferred in low whispers. Long minutes passed before Elder Dandolo finally cleared his throat. 'It seems that the decision to give the child to the candlemaker to raise was not entirely without merit.'

There were murmurs of agreement.

'When you and your brother – what was his name?' Dandolo waved his fingers about as if trying to pluck it from the air.

'Filippo,' answered Katina through clenched teeth.

'Ah, yes. When you stumbled upon that remote settlement of Estrattore and found not only a race we thought had ceased to exist hundreds of Vista Mare years earlier, but also the child of the legends, you took her.'

'The first child born to the Estrattore, and the first born in the Limen,' added Elder Nicolotti, leaning over to point to a paragraph in his notes. 'Just as the prophecy states.'

'Exactly. Now, we know the story of your escape from the Estrattore: the pursuit, how you all separated and, at that point decided to take the child into Vista Mare.'

'It was for her own safety,' said Katina.

'Did you even consider ours?'

Katina's hands balled into fists at her side, but she refrained from commenting. They'd been over this territory many times over the years. Silence was her only option.

'It has always fascinated me that you listened to Bond Rider Santo Pelleta over and above the orders of your Elders. It tells me a great deal about your loyalty, Katina Maggiore.'

'My loyalty is to my own, Elder Dandolo.'

There was an uncomfortable silence.

'As it turns out, leaving the child in Vista Mare, specifically Serenissima, also enabled her to mature and her powers to become manifest. It has given her a period to become familiar with her capabilities, and test her limitations. In the end, it's all been for the best.' Dandolo paused to see if his peers were listening. There were murmurs and nods.

Katina felt the dragon of rage in her stomach start to uncurl.

'Just as our decision to send you to her, despite this momentary setback, has worked in our favour. You were able to put her apprenticeship to the candlemaker to good use. Santo's suggestion, as rash as it seemed to you at the time, was wise. Perhaps we were hasty to punish him.' Dandolo's comment drew derisive laughter.

Katina fought to keep her face neutral. They'd had no choice. None of them. They were all acting on the Elders' orders. To disobey was death. Not only for Riders, but their partners and, ultimately, their Bonds as well. When they'd been sent, as so many Riders over the years had been, to look for any pockets of Estrattore in the Limen who had survived the purge, at that stage the child had been just a rumour, a story. The Estrattore were another matter. When the Doge had ordered exile or death, many had fled into the Limen. Only, no-one knew where they'd gone. It was as if they'd become as insubstantial as the mist that veiled everything.

For as many years as Katina could recall, groups of Bond Riders had been sent to search for a sign of their presence. Six Riders had gone on this particular venture. They'd spent months searching until, just as they were about to return again in defeat, they'd been drawn to a tiny village. Hidden deep within a hill dwelt a small but powerful group of Estrattore, living in a catacomb of mossy rock formations. Cautious, Katina's band had spied on them for a few days before entering the maze.

Not far beneath the hill, close to where water trickled out of the rocks, they'd found a little nook upon which a tiny bundle rested. Surrounded by candles and the sweet smell of musk oil, it had looked like a shrine, the baby a wax effigy, until a tiny hand had moved as if beckoning them closer. Something within Katina and Filippo had responded, they knew they had to take her – that this was the child of the legends. Three of the Riders had felt that the risk was not worth it – that they should return with haste and report what they'd discovered, come back with a larger force. Santo, who had been so difficult the entire journey, had disagreed. He'd insisted with a peculiar, barely concealed intensity that the baby had to be taken. Scooping the child into his arms, Filippo had run and they'd followed.

What made the whole enterprise surreal was that no-one was guarding her. There was no-one in the vicinity. The dulcet tones of the Estrattore at prayer had filled the tunnels with mystical music – they'd entered their lair during devotions. That's why it had been so easy. Too easy.

They were miles away before they knew they were being followed; not by the Estrattore, but the Morte Whisperers. Terror made them irrational, foolish even. It was then Santo made his wild suggestion. At first they'd refused, but as they were pursued and one, then two more, had fallen, it offered their only hope. Would it have made any difference had he known the life the baby would endure? Could he have suggested any differently, anyhow? Filippo had taken the baby and Santo and Katina became decoys. Little did she know as she watched her twin brother gallop through the fog, the baby strapped to his chest, that it would be the last time she saw him.

Santo should have taken the baby – he had many crossings left. It should never have been Filippo. But as usual, Santo had argued and wasted time until Filippo, sick of his procrastinating, took the child. Katina would never forgive Santo for the cowardice that had cost her brother his life.

'Santo was correct in his belief that his former wife and son would keep the baby and protect her,' continued Dandolo. 'Despite the years that had passed, he understood his wife's avarice and his son's neediness all too well.'

Katina gasped. 'I thought it was a spontaneous idea. But you're implying it was planned.'

'Yes, my dear, what seemed an accident, a decision made under pressure, was actually performed with our blessing. It wasn't our preferred choice, but it was a sensible second. We kept insignificant families as potential foster homes should the need arise. Only a few select Bond Riders knew.'

'But, you punished him for making the suggestion ...' She shuddered at the memory of the terrible lashing, the deprivations Santo had suffered.

'We had our reasons. We could not have you or anyone else think it was any other way. Until now.'

So, Santo had known. He was more calculating than I'd given him credit for. And more dangerous.

Emotions roiled in Katina as she faced her Elders. Questions she'd long dismissed as unimportant rose to taunt her; they would not lie quiescent anymore.

Bond Riders always prided themselves on establishing a different sort of society to the restrictive, class-riddled system in Serenissima. The Limen, they were told, offered a community with different rules and mores, standards created and enforced by the Elders. But they were more like the Serenissima they'd left behind than they knew. Manipulative and prepared to use whatever it took to keep their power.

She felt sick. She didn't want to be part of this anymore.

'From your evidence,' said Elder Nicolotti, 'it's clear that the child trusts you. Possibly, she still depends upon you. We've kept a distant watch upon her these last months and, apart from a couple of foolish attempts to deploy her talents, she's done no real harm. Your warnings have been heeded. It is just as well. If the child were less ... pliable, we would have trouble containing her.'

'We would, Elder Nicolotti,' agreed Katina. 'She's extraordinarily capable. She doesn't yet understand the extent of what she can do.'

'And nor should she – ever,' added Elder Moronisni, his voice harsh and discordant. 'Not if we have any say in the matter.'

'We've made sure that we do,' reminded Elder Dandolo. 'If we'd left the child with her own kind, the Estrattore,' he almost spat the word, 'there's no telling what would have happened. As it is, our work is only half-done. And, while there are concerns about your life-force, we feel it is in the Bond Riders' best interests to return you to Serenissima. If we send someone else, we undo all the good that has been accomplished thus far. We do not have the time to start over again.' There were nods of agreement.

'Someone else?' Katina was surprised they'd even contemplated it. 'I promised her I would return.'

'And you will,' agreed Elder Longhena from the side of the table. 'You have just enough time to finish what we've started. To build up her strength and prepare her for what she must do for us.'

'And when I think she's ready?'

'Then you will bring her to the Pledge Stone of Casa di Dandolo,' said Elder Dandolo. 'The pledge stone of the current Doge and of my lineage.'

'And there she will begin the rites for which she was born,' said Elder Nicolotti.

Katina hesitated. She knew she must not show interest, but she couldn't help it. 'And when she's done?'

A few of the Elders tittered. 'Then we take her to the next stone and the next one, until they have all been touched and she has released the souls of those trapped within.'

'I meant after that.'

Dandolo threw back his head and laughed. 'What do you mean, after? There is no after, Katina Maggiore. You of all people should know that. Not for this child. Once we're done with her, then the Estrattore or whoever else wants can have what remains. What should we care? Her kind deserted us, left us trapped in this place. We owe them nothing!' He slammed his fist on the table. Katina jumped. 'Remember that. Nothing.'

'You'll return to Vista Mare in ten rest periods,' commanded Elder Nicoletti. 'That should give you time to prepare yourself. You will receive full instructions in eight rests.'

'Be mindful, Katina Maggiore,' added Elder Dandolo. 'Much time has passed. The girl has grown accustomed to your absence. Before you let her know you've returned, you are to observe her.' The Elder regarded her sternly. 'Observe and report back to us. We will pick the right time for you to involve yourself in her life again. This is not the time to be impulsive. You will follow our orders.'

'And remember,' added Elder Nicoletti. 'There are others watching.'

'Who?'

Elders Dandolo and Nicoletti exchanged a look then turned to the rest of the Council. One by one they nodded. 'Morte Whisperers,' answered Dandolo, finally. 'They're breaching the Limen in greater numbers than we have yet seen, stretching the rules of the ancient treaty to the limit.'

Katina released her breath slowly.

'The sentries?'

'No, these ones are different. Stronger, less affected by the transition, which makes them more dangerous. As yet, they do not act. We don't know their intentions, but we want to. We have to. If they suspect there is a Bond Rider hovering nearby, they may act. Then anything we do will be redundant. You must be very, very careful.'

'I will be. You can rely on that.'

'We know, Katina Maggiore.' Elder Dandolo smiled. 'That is why we chose you for this task.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Outcomes and
encounters

IT HAD BEEN OVER THREE weeks since I last saw Dante and his absence was a conspicuous ache for which the only cure was not available. Each day I would rise early, go to the workshop and, in its sunlit privacy, extract and distil into the candles.

Occasionally, I slipped out – usually to purchase vino or other supplies for Quinn. Every time I did, I found myself searching the faces in the campo for a familiar one. But I never found who I was looking for.

As had long been my practice before going to sleep, I adjourned to the rooftop each night. Before Dante came into my life I spent the time in quiet contemplation, but now I paced. I hoped that at any moment his smiling face would appear above the trellis and invite me on some mad escapade. But just as he never arrived, neither did his invitations. Even the chandlers who used to deliver his secret messages would look at my hopeful face and shrug. Nothing.

Whatever boundaries had been crossed that night on the Circolo, I was not forgiven. In my heart I knew I never would be, but I could not let go of my hope.

Cane knew something was wrong. Whenever I was in my room or the rooftop, he wouldn't leave my side. When I was able to get him out of the house and onto the fondamenta, he would stick so closely to my heels that I kept tripping over him. Though I shared most of my secrets with him, whispering in his long, floppy ears late into night when the house was quiet, for some reason I couldn't articulate how not seeing Dante affected me. I was distressed, yes. Sad, yes. But I was also lonely in a way I'd never known before. I wondered if this was what happened to Bond Riders after they made their pledge – as if a part of their very being had been severed.

Gradually, I slipped back into my routine. As each day passed, those few wonderful months with Dante began to fade into the landscape of my memory.

It was the same for Katina. It used to be that whenever I extracted or distilled, I would hear her voice in my head. But even that was becoming increasingly difficult to recapture, and I found myself relying more and more on my own intuition.

The shop continued to trade well, and Pillar's reputation was spreading. Visitors from as far afield as the Traders and Paper Quartieri began to patronise our business. There was talk of moving to bigger premises – Master Querini, who was desperate to have Pillar working for him, had even offered to underwrite a new workshop. But Pillar, much to everybody's surprise and chagrin, politely refused.

I knew why. So did Quinn. It was because of me. Pillar didn't want to be placed in a situation where I wasn't easy to hide or protect. Bigger lodgings and business meant a prime location on the salizzada and more customers – it was too great a risk.

Pillar wasn't greedy. He was happy with things the way they were. Happy with me.

But Quinn wasn't.

When she heard that Pillar had declined Master Querini, she became very drunk and would have beaten me, except that Pillar intervened. He'd never done that before. It was an indication of how much his confidence had grown, how much he'd changed. I think Quinn knew that, too. She could no longer tell him what to do.

Two days after Pillar refused Master Querini, an interesting piece of gossip began circulating in the neighbourhood. I wouldn't have heard it except that Quinn brought it to the dinner table one evening. She had a strange look all afternoon and, instead of avoiding the workshop as she usually did, on the two occasions that the shop was devoid of customers, she swung the door wide open and leaned against the frame, watching me with her secret-filled eyes.

It made me uncomfortable, but I didn't dare ask if anything was wrong – I knew there was. As it turned out, my anxiety wasn't misplaced.

That evening, Quinn prepared a particularly nice stew of mutton with tubers and radish. There was a fine loaf of bread to accompany it and, of course, a flask of rich, red vino. I noticed that Quinn didn't eat much, but her mug was always topped up.

I tried not to attract attention, eating quickly and quietly, determined to get out from under Quinn's gaze as soon as I could.

But it wasn't to be.

'Know what I heard today?' she said halfway through the meal. Her voice was slightly shrill, her words slurred.

'What, Mamma?' asked Pillar. There were shadows under his eyes and his skin had a grey hue. The extra work took its toll on us all.

'I heard an interesting tale about a young alchemist who owed a huge debt to a merchant named Gallame.'

'Gallame?' Pillar frowned. 'Gallame ... I know that name.' Pillar slowly put his bread down and scratched his chin. 'Isn't he the one who brought back the shipment of grain from Jinoa during that terrible acqua alta a few years ago?'

'That's the one,' said Quinn, casting a sidelong glance at me. 'Quite the hero he is.'

Pillar nodded. 'Saved so many lives in the famine, he did. If I remember, he even donated the profits. I've heard other things about him as well. Something to do with an orphanage?'

'That's right,' said Quinn, her eyes sliding towards me. 'He started three orphanages – one each in the Canne, Dorsoduro and Barnabotti Sestieri.'

'What have you heard then, Mamma? Has Gallame gone and got himself mixed up with an alchemist? That will do him no good. Bunch of charlatans, the lot of them.' Pillar waggled a finger in my direction. 'You remember that, Tallow. No good will come of mixing with alchemists. Look what happened with your order of beeswax candles from that one you met. Never eventuated, did it? They're all talk.'

I shrank with every word.

Quinn leant back in her chair, her mug clenched tightly in her hand. She was savouring each word, relishing Pillar's innocent responses. I found my appetite had fled. I pushed my plate away and waited with dread for what Quinn would say.

'Seems that Gallame found a young alchemist who'd developed a reputation for making explosives. Turns out, the precious fellow didn't want to dirty his hands with such devices anymore and turned his talents to other things – transforming lead into gold, for example. And our hero Gallame had such faith in his abilities, the fool backed him.'

Scooping the last of the gravy with a heel of bread, Pillar's hand paused halfway to his mouth. 'So? Gallame's taken greater risks than that. Why, he has more than enough coin behind him to back twenty such enterprises.'

Quinn shook her head. 'No. Not anymore. From what I was told, he's not only been bearing the cost of the orphanages, but after his nephew was struck with leprosy, he gave a great deal of money to the leper colony in the Castellana Sestiere. Set about improving conditions on the isle. He also paid for dottores to treat his nephew, and farmacistas to research a cure. That's why he was running out of ducats. That's why he backed an alchemist. He hoped that if this charlatan could do what he claimed, he would find the means to fund his works, continue the good they brought to so many.'

Pillar shook his head. 'Well, if there's surety in one thing, it's that Gallame was going to lose his money. Everyone knows you can't turn lead into gold!'

'As Gallame found out to his great cost.' Quinn looked directly at me as she spoke.

'Surely Gallame would have had the loan secured? He'll get his money back,' insisted Pillar.

'Oh, one would think so,' sneered Quinn. 'A merchant with Gallame's experience and all. But apparently he didn't secure the loan. He trusted this alchemist. He even gave him more than twelve months to repay the debt. Oh, the alchemist gave him small amounts here and there, but it wasn't enough to sustain Gallame or his business.'

'What'd he do?' Pillar had finished his meal and Quinn had his full attention. I pulled my plate back before me and made a poor pretence of eating, making patterns in the stew with my bread.

'Well, he tried to get his money back. He insisted that the alchemist sell his house. It's a fine old one, too – overlooks the Circolo.'

'I don't understand what the problem is, then. A debt is a debt – it must be paid. And who could refuse Gallame? Not with all the good he does.'

'Well, here's the interesting part. No-one refused Gallame,' said Quinn slowly. 'Apparently the alchemist and his wife were doing nothing but moaning and stalling the repayments. Debt collectors had been sent, threats had been made, nothing. So Gallame goes to see them one last time, to explain his side, appeal to their good nature – explain how the orphanages were on the verge of shutting down and his funds to the leper colony had all but dried up.' She paused.

'And?' pressed Pillar.

'He did what no-one expected.'

I knew what was coming. I felt sick.

'What was that?' asked Pillar.

'Gallame extinguished the debt.'

Pillar's jaw dropped. 'But why?'

The familiar smirk twisted Quinn's mouth and I felt my heart sink. 'That's the question on everyone's lips. But, somehow, I think I know the answer.' She finished off what was in her mug and held it out to her son. Pillar quickly poured his mother another drink and topped up his own. I shook my head as he held the flask over my mug.

'You see,' continued Quinn. 'This alchemist and his pretty young wife were seen in the Candlemakers Quartiere a few months back. He'd been doing his usual complaining to anyone who would listen. In fact, Helena swears her husband saw them enter our shop. Now, I don't recall serving anyone wearing the alchemists' insignia – and it's not something you forget in a hurry.'

I recalled the small patch of embroidery on Antonio's collar. It hadn't registered at the time, but now the pestle, mortar and stars took on a whole new significance.

Pillar caught the look Quinn was giving me. It was one he recognised and dreaded almost as much as I did: the apportioning of blame. He suddenly lost interest in the story. 'What's your point, Mamma?' His voice was hard. I flashed him a grateful look, but he was focused on Quinn.

'My point is, if I didn't serve him and I know you wouldn't have, then that leaves only one person. Wait!' she demanded as Pillar began to protest. 'There's more to my story. Rumour has it that though they were chased away everywhere they went, somehow this couple managed to purchase some special candles, candles they claim changed their lives.' Quinn's voice became louder, shriller. 'Candles, they're telling anyone who'll listen, that they bought from a very special boy. A boy with golden glasses.'

Quinn slammed down her mug and leaned back in her chair, arms folded. Her work was done.

Pillar slowly turned to face me. 'Is this true?'

I couldn't reply. I just bowed my head.

'Oh, Tallow,' said Pillar after a moment. 'What have you done?'

It was a refrain I knew so well.

Tears welled. First, Lucia and Sebastiano, and now this. I thought I was doing the right thing, I silently argued with myself. But it did no good. Pillar sat there glumly, waiting for a response. I knew there wasn't one – not one he would understand or forgive.

But what made it worse was that it wasn't just me who was affected. Merchant Gallame, by all accounts a good man, was also paying the price of my haste. So were his leper nephew and the orphans. So were Venetta and her bastard child.

Katina had warned me not to dabble in human affairs. But I hadn't listened. I'd thought that I, a candlemaker's apprentice whose experience of the world and its people was confined to a few canals and calles, knew better.

Before I could prevent it, bile rose in my throat. I turned my face away from the table and vomited onto the floor.

Quinn cackled. 'See, he even makes himself sick! How much more proof do you need, Pillar? The boy can't do what he's told! He can't help himself! It's in their nature, I tell you. That's another reason they were exiled, that they were wiped off the face of Serenissima. The Doge knew what he was doing, so did the Patriarch! They knew that his kind –' she pointed at me '– couldn't obey their own gods, let alone ours. How could they ever obey some simple laws? He needs controlling, I tell you. He needs a firm hand and, if you're not prepared to give it to him, I am.'

She said more, but I couldn't hear her above the noise of my own misery.

When I'd finished retching, I rose to my feet, intending to clean up my shame. But Pillar grabbed my wrist.

'Leave it,' he said.

'But –'

'Go to bed, Tallow.' His voice was hollow. 'Now.'

I didn't argue.

As I mounted the stairs, I heard Quinn strike up another conversation. 'Did you hear about the Vyzantian who's moved into the area?' Pillar didn't answer, but she continued anyway. 'He wants to set up a shop – candles, can you believe his nerve ...' I closed my door. I'd heard enough gossip for one night.

Not even Cane's gentle presence could comfort me.

THE NEXT DAY, QUINN GREETED me with the news that I was banned from the workshop. 'Seems my patient, saintly son can't stand to have you in his sight,' she said dolefully. 'Knew he'd come around eventually. Understand that there's no place in this world for you – or your "talent" – anymore. Talent!' She snorted. 'Curse is more like it.' She wiped her hands on her apron and studied me, her smirk firmly in place. 'While you may have turned our fortunes around –' my eyes widened in disbelief at the offhanded praise, but my small pleasure was short-lived, '– you've also curtailed them. But not for long. We don't need you anymore. Master Querini's offer, which is the talk of the quartiere, has ensured that our reputation is so solid, nothing and no-one can damage it – no-one except you.' She turned to leave the kitchen. 'So, you'd better start to think about your future, boy, because the way things are going, you won't have one in this house for much longer.'

I sat very, very still. It was ironic, really. The very thing they'd feared for so long had finally made them secure. I wondered fleetingly what Katina would think if she found out that her plans for making me indispensible to Quinn, and thus guaranteeing my short-term safety, had rebounded.

I sat in silence and waited while Quinn went down to the shop, then I escaped via the rooftop. Cane watched me mournfully. I couldn't even reassure him. I was empty. Numb.

I walked along the fondamenta, blind to those who passed me. I left the canal and, following the calle, went to the campo. I sat by the well for a while, watching the local children play. Birds were swooping down on the rubbish piled up outside Signor Vincenzo's taverna. The day was slightly overcast, and rain threatened. The burning in my brain matched the fire in my body.

I drew some water to quench my thirst and decided to make my way to the piazzetta.

When I walked onto the salizzada, the main road that joined the Candlemakers and Chandlers Quartieri, it was mid-morning. My stomach was starting to grumble and the heat was becoming unbearable. I snatched some brief relief in the shade cast by the striped awnings but was moved along once the shopkeepers became aware I was not a serious customer.

Eventually, I reached the piazzetta. The clouds had parted, revealing the sun high in the sky. The heat rising from the cobbles had become unbearable. I perched myself on a crumbling wall at the base of a bridge and fanned myself with my floppy apprentice hat as I looked around. The piazzetta was surprisingly quiet, but I assumed the heat was keeping people away.

I found a copper in my pocket and purchased a freshly squeezed juice from a middle-aged woman with a cart who, sick of the humidity and lack of customers, was making her way home.

Sipping my juice, but unable to distract myself, I found my mind going over what Quinn said. She was right. I had to think about my future, and not only because Quinn and Pillar no longer needed me. Then, I recalled her harsh words from the meal. I knew they were no less than I deserved. Even though I'd intended well, it hadn't worked out that way. That must have been what Katina meant when she said that good intentions cannot be the only motive for action.

I sighed. How I wished she were here now. I knew she would scold me, but she would also understand why I did it. I'd only wanted to help. And I'd also managed to test the limits of my abilities, see what my candles could do. But Katina had been right. My intentions, as good as they'd been, went horribly wrong when translated into action. I was too inexperienced, too naïve.

Perhaps I would be better forgetting what I was altogether. Perhaps I should leave Pillar and Quinn now and try to embrace a new life – a normal one. But pushing my glasses up my nose, I realised that wasn't possible. My eyes and my still-ungoverned talent would never allow it.

I sat there, wallowing in self-pity. I was feeling guilty about what had happened – what I'd done. But I also felt foolish for even trying. I was a child dabbling in an adult world.

But what about Cane? A small voice inside my head spoke. You did well there; you saved his life.

I could have killed Dante, I argued. If I hadn't been so very careful, I might have.

But you didn't, did you? And anyway, didn't Katina say Estrattore can't kill?

'No,' I whispered to myself. 'She said they mustn't.'

'Senta, scusi,' said a voice nearby, interrupting my thoughts. 'Aren't you Pietro Pelleta's apprentice?'

I spun around.

Leaning over the side of the bridge, staring down on me, was a most unusual looking man.

'Scusi?' I took in his dark attire, his cropped moustache, his short stature. He looked somehow familiar, but I couldn't place him.

The man smiled oddly. I noticed he had teeth missing and that two of the top ones were gold. 'I said, aren't you Pelleta's apprentice?'

He had a thick accent and a peculiar way of pronouncing the letter 'r' that I couldn't identify.

'How did you know?'

'I saw you when I paid him a visit last week. One doesn't forget such fine glasses easily.'

'Oh,' was all I said. I wasn't used to being recognised, let alone approached so openly. Not when I was at such obvious pains to keep to myself, to make myself all but invisible.

Unaware of, or indifferent to, my reluctance to share his company, he moved nearer. 'Is it always so hot here?' he asked, removing his tricorn hat and waving it in front of his face. His hair was oiled and tied back in a long ponytail.

I shrugged. 'Usually. This time of year, anyhow.' I leapt down from the wall. I didn't want to talk to this man, but I didn't want to appear rude either. 'Scusi,' I began, 'I have to –'

'How long have you been Pelleta's apprentice?' asked the man before I could leave. 'Ahh ... forgive me. What's your name again? Your master did tell me, but I have forgotten.'

I frowned. Pillar rarely shared his own name with anyone, let alone admitted to mine. My spine began to tingle. I tried to change the subject. 'You have a strange way of speaking,' I said. 'Where are you from?'

'Ah, my accent always gives me away. I have lately arrived from the Kingdom of Vyzantia.' There was another flash of gold as he smiled. 'Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Barold Barbacan. I am a businessman looking to set up a candle shop here in your quartiere.'

I tried to recall something I had heard Quinn say last night. What was it again?

He waved his hand about. 'But so far, no-one has seen fit to accept any of my offers. They are ... how do you say? Wary of foreigners. A good thing, I expect, during a war. But in times of peace? I am very confused. I do not understand their reticence.'

As suspicious as I was of this man, I pitied him. I knew what it was like to be shunned, to be treated differently. I gave him a smile. 'Perhaps you just haven't spoken to the right person yet.'

'Perhaps,' he nodded. He placed his hat back on his head. As he did, the brim caused a shadow to fall across the lower half of his face. Something began to pluck at my memory. 'Well, young sir, I have told you all about me. How about you share something of yourself? Like your name?'

Though my inner voice tolled a warning, I ignored it. 'My name is Tallow.'

'Tallow?' said the man. I could feel his eyes studying me. 'Is this some kind of cruel joke? I understand that you Serenissians often name your children after some aspect of your trade, but why would you be named for something so ... so ...' He realised he'd gone too far. 'So unremarkable?'

I couldn't help it. I laughed. 'Some say my name suits me.' I thought of Quinn as I spoke.

Barold Barbacan tipped his head back and his grey eyes studied me. They were odd eyes. They didn't seem to go with the rest of him. Whereas his body spoke of indifference and indulgence, with its bow legs and wide girth, his eyes suggested fierce intelligence.

'I think you are misnamed,' he said finally. 'I can tell that a boy like you deserves something better to pin his identity on – his future, his history.' He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. 'Tell me,' he said suddenly. 'Is it a family name? Or is naming children after fat and render the way of candlemakers in the Dorsoduro Sestiere?'

I could sense that something else lay behind the question. Once again, uneasiness made me restless. I glanced at him through my honey glasses. He was standing at an angle to me, one arm resting on the bridge, the other raised in the air, underlining his question.

It came to me in a flash. I knew where I'd seen him before.

He was the boatman who had followed me and Dante that night on the Circolo. He'd been wearing a mask, but I was sure of it.

My head began to ache as I tried to work out how to extricate myself from his company without drawing too much attention. I pretended to listen as he spoke of typical Vyzantian names, lest my knowledge of his identity become apparent and I put myself at more risk. What was this man doing here? Why had he followed us that night? And, if he really was a businessman from Vyzantia, how come he was so comfortable in a gondola?

Suddenly everything he said became infected.

Putting my hat back on, I gave him a quick bow. 'It is no joke,' I said. 'My f– family are proud of the name. As am I.' I almost choked on my lie. 'While it has been a pleasure talking to you, Sir, you have reminded me of my duties. They wait for me. Arrivederci,' I said before he could think of another reason to detain me. I started to move away.

'What a pity you have to go.' He sounded genuinely distraught. 'I've been looking for someone to show me around properly.' He gave a sigh and, reaching for the pouch that hung from his belt, pulled out a silver lire. 'I thought you might be interested. But if work calls ... never mind. Maybe I'll be able to find someone else to guide me. Off with you, busy little candlemaker.' He flicked the coin and caught it, stowing it back in the confines of his purse. 'No doubt our paths will cross again.'

I didn't respond except with a guarded smile. I darted past the man and over the bridge. I kept moving for the next ten minutes, in and out of calles and through sottoporteghi. Part of me knew what direction I was heading in, but I didn't consciously follow a route. I just knew I had to get away from this strange man.

When thirst finally overcame me, I stumbled into the nearest campo and went immediately to the well. I dipped the bucket and drank deeply before splashing my face and neck. Others came forward when they saw I'd bothered to get some water, and I happily shared, looking over my shoulder to see if I'd been followed.

As far as I could tell, I hadn't.

I was using the tail of my shirt to dry my face and thinking how much cooler I was when I heard another voice – one I'd longed to hear for weeks.

'What are you doing here?' it drawled.

I let the ends of my shirt drop.

Standing in front of me, his hands on his hips and a scowl on his face, was Dante.

He looked me up and down, his eyes hard, his mouth bitter. 'I thought I told you I never wanted to see you again.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A change of weather

DANTE COULDN'T BELIEVE HIS EYES. After all this time – all the daydreams, the nights he unthinkingly found himself making his way towards the Candlemakers Quartiere – there was the face that occupied his every thought. Tallow, with his large, haunting eyes veiled by glazed ochre, his small, straight nose and white teeth.

Anger and longing filled him in equal measure. How he'd yearned to see Tallow again, hear his melodic voice, watch the way his face mirrored and responded to everything around him. Never before had Dante's quartiere seemed so beautiful, wondrous or thrilling as it had when he'd seen it through Tallow's eyes. For days after their last trip, he'd caught himself starting to plan their next escapade, only to remember what had happened that night on the canal. The night he'd almost ... Then he would steel himself to forget.

But there was Tallow, drinking from the well in his campo. Dante had tried to suppress the shudder that ran through him. Seeing the boy again was more painful than he'd expected. He didn't know whether to hug him or hit him. He knew only that when he opened his mouth, he hadn't intended the first words he spoke to be so harsh.

'What are you doing here?'

When Tallow looked up at him, his mouth dropped open then curled into a joyous smile that lit up his entire face. Tallow's expression paralleled the joy Dante had deliberately denied himself. It hurt so much. Now he wanted Tallow to hurt, too. 'I thought I told you I never wanted to see you again.'

Tallow's face crumpled, and so did Dante's resolve.

'I don't mean that. I didn't, at least –' Dante said hastily, then paused. He stared at his feet, at Tallow's boots. They were so ridiculously tiny. The boy was vulnerable, so in need of protection. He slowly raised his eyes to meet Tallow's. Through the golden spectacles, he could see the beginnings of tears. Dante took a deep breath. He couldn't pretend any longer. What was the point? He cleared his throat. 'I ... I missed you.' There. He'd said it.

TALLOW GAVE A SHORT SOB. 'Really?' She sniffled loudly. 'And I missed you,' she whispered. Her arms rose and she took a step forward. Then, remembering where she was and who she was talking to, she dropped them by her sides. 'It's good to see you, Dante.' She gazed at him. 'How have you been?' Even as she asked the question, she knew. In a few short weeks the boy she'd explored the quartieri with had gone, replaced by a man. He'd lost weight and his cheeks had hollowed. The fine stubble that decorated his chin had thickened. His arms looked more sinewy, his chest firmer. But it was his eyes that revealed the most. They were sad beyond measure and Tallow knew she was not the only cause.

'What is it, Dante? What's wrong?'

Dante shook his head. He took a step backward. 'No, not here.' Tallow's face fell. 'Meet you at the canal in fifteen minutes, all right? I have to take water back for my aunt.'

Tallow nodded, uncertain. But she wouldn't doubt. 'Fifteen minutes,' she repeated.

She watched as Dante untied the communal bucket and exchanged it for the one he'd brought. Slowly, he lowered his bucket. It clanged against the sides a few times, the hollow thudding echoing around them like a grim knell. She left despite her fear of letting him out of her sight, looking back at least a dozen times.

Winding her way towards their usual spot along the canal, she was distracted. What had caused Dante to mature like that? She'd used all her restraint not to reach out and touch him. Extract his pain. But that would have been even more foolhardy than her last attempts to use her talents – and look what they'd led to. No, if Tallow wanted to get to the bottom of the changes she saw in Dante, she'd have to wait for him to tell her.

Sitting on the same set of water-stairs that she and Dante had used to escape Signor Barbacan, she waited, leaning back on her hands and watching the water lapping against the stone. The day had grown cooler and for that at least she was grateful. It was very quiet; most of the houses were still shuttered against the earlier heat and, apart from a couple of gondolas gliding past, Tallow could have been alone in the world. She shut her eyes and let out a deep breath, opening her senses to the stillness and quiet.

It was then she became aware that she was being watched.

A prickling at the base of her spine, a tingling along the back of her neck alerted her. Pretending to stretch, she rose to her feet, and slowly scanned the area, fully expecting to see the short, dark-clothed Vyzantian man emerge from some doorway. Instead, she saw nothing but the canal, now divested of its boatmen, and an empty fondamenta. Tallow turned a full circle but there was nothing, no-one. Still focused on locating Barbacan's whereabouts, she tucked in her shirt and unrolled the sleeves. From being mostly overcast and humid, the temperature had suddenly plummeted. It was becoming colder by the second.

The canal became choppy. Gentle waves grew white caps that broke against the walls and washed over the water-stairs. Tallow's anxiety rose like the water. What was going on?

Where was Dante? Surely the promised fifteen minutes had been and gone ...

The water began to break over the top stair. Tallow scrambled onto the fondamenta, backing away as the spray soaked her. She shivered. This was ridiculous!

All at once, a network of icy veins crackled over the buildings around her, as if a spider were spinning a vast silver web. They spread quickly, hungry fingers reaching, grasping.

Stunned, Tallow couldn't move. The air had grown so cold that her breath was a long white stream. Her ears began to ache and her jaw to chatter. The frost thickened, transforming the buildings into glacial monuments. Even the canal ceased to churn as a thin sheet of ice crept across its surface.

Then the whispering began.

It plucked at Tallow's nerves, making her spine thrum and setting her teeth on edge. Glancing over her shoulder, she searched the canal, but the sounds had no centre; they were everywhere and nowhere at once. She forced herself to move, walking along the edge of the fondamenta. With each step, the breathy murmurs became louder, clearer. Embedded within the breathy sounds were words; peculiar shapeless words that, though their meaning escaped her, filled her with dread.

Tallow knew she had to seek shelter. The calle that led back to the campo was only a few hundred yards away. She wrapped her arms tightly around her body and buried her head into her chest.

As she quickened her pace, she became aware of a faint movement in the corner of her eye – vague grey shapes that twisted and lunged. They darted through windows and doors, between fissures and openings. But any time she tried to focus on one, it dissolved.

Her heart quickened. She broke into a run on the icy stones. The grey shapes were following her.

She rounded the corner. The walls rose above her, casting the calle into gloom as the wraiths swooped and dived. The whispery chattering was louder now. Tallow covered her ears and ran, stooped so the shapes couldn't reach her. But they came lower, closer.

Ahead, the calle widened. The campo was in sight. She screwed up her eyes. She was having difficulty breathing. Only a few more yards ...

Something grabbed her wrist and jerked her backwards. She fell onto the cobbles, the force knocking the wind out of her chest.

Opening her eyes, a huge form loomed over her. She tried to scream, but no sound came. Instead, she was dragged through a doorway and into darkness.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Inside the chandler's
shop

'TALLOW! STOP! IT'S ME.'

Someone had shouted my name. Someone who knew me; someone I trusted. I stopped kicking and gouging.

The harrowing aspirations had ceased. Warmth and fustiness had replaced the cold. It took me a moment to calm down enough for the words being muttered above me to sink in.

'And you can get your wretched teeth out of my thumb while you're at it,' groaned Dante, extracting his thumb from my mouth. 'You've got a sharp bite, my little dorato!'

I slowly sat up. My pulse gradually returned to normal. I straightened my clothes and rubbed my wrist where Dante had grabbed it. As my eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, I saw I was in a shop. I stared at the shelves. Stacked at intervals on them were neatly wrapped bars of soap and some very ordinary handmade candles. Above me rose a counter. A vase of wilted flowers sat at one end and an abacus at the other. A door at the rear led to what I imagined was a workshop. To my left was a set of steep stairs.

What light there was came through a small but very dirty front window.

Outside the grey shapes gathered.

I cowered against the counter. The blood rushed from my face.

'What's wrong?' demanded Dante, crouching by my side. 'What's out there, Tallow? And what on Vista Mare were you doing?'

'Me? What do you mean? I was waiting for you. What on Vista Mare are you doing in here? You said you'd meet me at the canal.' I glared at him accusingly. I was feeling more than a little embarrassed by my behaviour. I was also aware that he did not seem at all perturbed by what was happening outside; he was oblivious to any danger. I cast a few worried glances over his shoulder.

'I was on my way to the canal,' explained Dante, jumping to his feet. 'I was just taking a short cut through the shop. This is my place, you know.' He opened his arms and indicated the room we were in, those above and the workshop behind. 'Well, it's really my grandfather's.' He gave a half-smile. 'I saw you coming, so I waited. But when you broke into a run and started shouting and waving your arms around like a mad person, I didn't know what was going on. I had to stop you. You could have hurt yourself.'

'Hurt myself?' I repeated. I glanced into the calle again. 'Can't you see what's out there?'

Dante followed the direction of my finger. 'Sure I can. Cobblestones, doors, windows. That there is chandler Carlucci's shop. That's Bonegetti's.' He pointed at the shop opposite and then the one next to it. He turned and grinned at me stupidly.

'Y– You can't see them?'

'Who?'

'You really can't see them ... the mist. The grey stuff?' The long mournful faces with their gaping mouths, their elongated, coaxing fingers?

'Mist?' He pressed his face against the window. 'No. But it's very cold, I'll grant you that, and overcast. Came over all of a sudden, didn't it? There's been a bit of that lately – people are talking.' He looked at me quizzically. 'Stop mucking around, Tallow. There's nothing out there – hey.' He rushed to my side. 'You're serious, aren't you? Something's really frightened you.'

I didn't know what to say. His very closeness made the words dry up in my mouth.

It was clear Dante couldn't see the beings, so I decided not to elaborate. There was no point worrying him. Instead, I grinned. 'Gotcha!'

A smile gradually spread across his face. He punched me in the arm. 'You did. You almost had me convinced there was something outside.' He cast one last glance out the window and shook his head in admiration. He then reached out a hand. 'Come on. Let's get out of here and go to the canal.'

I grabbed hold of him, but instead of using his hand to pull me to my feet, I drew him back down towards me. 'Can't we stay? I'm freezing and it's nice and warm in here. That is, unless you're expecting customers?'

'Don't tease!' said Dante and with a sigh threw himself down beside me.

'Tease? If there's one thing I learnt very quickly, it's that you never tease a chandler – or a candlemaker, for that matter – about business.'

He grinned. 'You're right about that. I only wish we had business to be teased about.'

'What do you mean?'

Dante stretched out his long legs. I noticed that his pants had new patches on them. 'Look around you,' he said. 'Not much is moving from the shelves at the moment.'

'Business been slow, has it?' I sympathised. I'd lived through years of diminished sales, where every customer carried your hopes in her tightly sealed purse.

'Slow?' he scoffed. 'More like non-existent. We haven't had a single customer in two days. And before that, we were lucky if more than a few came in an entire day.'

'But I thought the shop did all right?'

'It did.'

'What's caused this?'

Dante adjusted his position so he faced me. He shook his head. Beyond him, I could see the pale grey shapes swirling. I deliberately ignored the movement outside, forcing myself to look at him. I was horrified to see great tears rolling down his cheeks.

'Dante, what is it? What's wrong?'

Dante tried to speak. I could see his lips forming the words, but they were trembling so hard he couldn't release them.

'It's your grandfather, isn't it?' I laid a hand on his arm. I couldn't help it. I opened myself to his pain.

I saw an old, withered man lying in a long, narrow bed. His eyes were shut and his breathing hoarse. Saliva dried in the corners of his mouth and I saw a woman reach over to wipe it away with a damp cloth. I felt the love Dante bore for this man, their years of tender interaction – the discipline, the strength, the trust between them. I was jealous of such a bond. But just as the jealousy flared, it disappeared to be replaced by overwhelming sadness. For I knew, as I touched Dante and felt his grandfather's essence within him, that this old man would not live another week. He was gravely ill.

'I'm so sorry, Dante,' I said. And, before I talked myself out of it, I wrapped my arms around him.

He fell against my body and buried his head in my neck. Shudders tore through his frame. I held him tight, marvelling at how he felt, the firmness of his back, the softness of the hair that curled against his nape. His hot, ragged breath against my skin, the feel of him, the musky smell. My stomach somersaulted and my body grew alternately hot and cold. I wanted to pull him closer, push him away. I did neither.

Minutes passed. The frost settled firmly into the calle, tiny tendrils of vapour slowly turning the glass nubilous. I was aware of the creatures outside moving away and the shadows in my mind lessened. Gradually, Dante's sobs quietened. Slowly, he drew his head away and wiped his arm across his nose. His eyes were half-closed, his face flushed.

'Word about Grandfather got around. You know how it is. People are scared; they're refusing to come to the shop in case they catch his illness. You'd think it was the plague the way they're carrying on.' He sniffed loudly. 'If you're worried, we can go somewhere else, but it's just a very bad cough. The dottore says he has an infection in his lungs. But he is so weak, and now this unnaturally cold weather ...' He waved a hand towards the outside. 'He'll have nothing left to fight with.'

'I'm so sorry, Dante. I know how much your grandfather means to you. But if he's anything like you, he'll fight this off faster than you or I could chase a cat into the basilica!'

Dante choked back a laugh. He stared at me with a strange look in his eyes. One I couldn't quite place. I was stroking his arm, relishing the feel of him. His shoulders slumped and the tension left his body, as if he'd changed his mind about something. One of his arms was still loosely draped across my back, his fingers softly kneaded my flesh.

His eyes travelled down my face. Through my lenses, my eyes lingered where his journeyed. I held my breath.

Ever so slowly, he began to lower his head to mine, and then he hesitated.

My mouth fell open and the edge of my tongue pressed against my teeth. Waves of longing swept over me.

Dante shifted, lessening the miniscule gap between us. His fingers on my back became more insistent. Behind my glasses, my eyelids fluttered. His hand crept from my shoulder to my neck and he slowly twined his fingers through my hair. My breathing became faster as heat pulsed through my thighs. He pulled me closer, turning his head just as I turned mine.

'Dante!'

Immediately, we broke apart – flushed, awkward. Dante slid away from me and jumped to his feet. I did the same.

'Yes, Zia Gaia?' he answered.

A slender woman with greying hair appeared at the top of the stairs. 'Your grandfather is calling for you. Oh –' Her eyes lit up. 'I didn't realise we had a customer.'

'This isn't a customer,' said Dante. His great-aunt's face fell. He crossed the room and moved behind the counter. 'This is Tallow, the candlemaker's apprentice. I've told you about him.' He shifted the beads on the abacus around.

'Tallow?' She came down the steps. 'Ah, yes. I remember now. You're the kind boy who gave us those beautiful candles. They helped my brother sleep. I just wish –' She seemed to remember herself. 'Sorry. I want to thank you.'

I gave a small bow.

Dante's aunt smiled again. This time, it reached her eyes. 'And you have lovely manners as well. Dante, you would do well to learn from this boy.'

Dante spluttered in protest. Some of the discomfort between us slipped away. 'If I learnt from half the people you tell me to, my head would be stuffed so full of irrelevant nonsense, I'd know nothing!'

His aunt sighed and raised her hands to the ceiling. 'God help me. He always has an excuse!' She flicked the towel she'd been carrying at him. 'Go to your grandfather. See if you can get him to eat some broth.' She saw Dante's eyes stray towards me. 'I'm sure Tallow will understand.'

'Oh yes,' said Dante, imitating his aunt's voice perfectly. 'He has lovely manners!' And with a small nod in my direction, he raced up the stairs. Just before he disappeared, he turned around. 'I'll see you soon, all right?'

'All right,' I said. I let out the breath I'd been holding.

'Well, Tallow,' said Dante's aunt. 'It's been nice meeting you, but I'm afraid I have to –' she indicated the stairs.

'Oh, yes. Please. I'm sorry. I'll be on my way.'

Dante's aunt stepped forward and clasped my chin. 'He missed you, you know. He didn't say. But I know him too well.' She gazed at me a few seconds longer. 'What a lovely-looking boy you are. How old are you?'

'F– fourteen. No, fifteen ... I think,' I stammered.

'You're not like other boys, are you?'

My heart pounded.

'What odd glasses,' she murmured.

I jerked my chin out of her grasp and her hand fell. We stared at each other for a moment. Then, she seemed to shake herself. 'Don't be a stranger, will you, Tallow? All being well, come back again soon.'

'I will,' I said and, before she could stop me, pulled open the shop door and escaped into the calle.

I half-ran, half-walked back through the campo, my mind racing. That was close, in more ways than one.

I was glad to have Dante back in my life, but sad to see him so distraught. I began to think how I could help him. An idea began to form. What if I were to make candles that could help his grandfather? His aunt said that the candles I'd already given them had helped him sleep, why couldn't I make some that could cure his ailment? I was no dottore; I didn't know what was wrong with him or how to fix a lung infection, but I could infuse candles with energy and life. If I used beeswax candles and distilled and magnified the essence of the bees and flowers, it would be easy. Pillar need never know. And if it made Dante's grandfather well again ...

I wandered back to the Candlemakers Quartiere lost in thought. I knew I wasn't supposed to do this kind of thing. But this was different, I assured myself. Surely nothing could go wrong if I just made one person better.

I was concentrating so hard on my idea that it was a while before I noticed the chill. Once again, the streets were all but deserted. Even the canal that led to the piazzetta was empty of craft. When I reached the square, I had to juggle my way through the vendors who were leaving as the temperature plummeted. They grumbled loudly about the lack of custom and the strange weather.

I'd just reached the other side when the faint hissing sounds started again. The hair on my scalp rose and began marching across my head. I found myself searching the skies, waiting for the wraiths to return. But I was looking in the wrong place.

Turning into the salizzada, I saw my neighbours heading home with their shirts and shawls wrapped tightly around them, their faces full of concern.

They couldn't see that the ghostly beings I'd encountered in the Chandlers Quartiere were enveloping their heads and upper bodies. This time, I could discern features. Gaping maws filled with rows of misty, pointed teeth leered at me. Preternaturally long fingers twined themselves around necks and chests, squeezing, probing. While I couldn't see exactly what was happening, I knew these beings were doing something terrible to the people. My Estrattore senses told me that their merest caress was utterly deadly.

To my horror, I saw the Ricardo twins folded in ephemeral arms. Signor Salinguerre di Torello, brother of Vincenzo from the local taverna, waved to someone from his shop door, oblivious to the grey monster reaching into his chest. Mario the candlemaker, his three daughters; Enzo the cobbler and his apprentice – all were fondled and probed. It was only when the ghostly limbs withdrew that I knew they'd left something of their spectral presence behind.

I wanted to cry out a warning, to tell these people to get inside. But although it was clear from their faces they knew something was wrong, they were unaware of the cause. They all remained heedless of that which gripped them and changed them in some inconceivable way.

And all the while a soft, seething laughter resounded. I knew the sound. It was the song that had haunted me my entire life. I knew I should do something: warn them, shout at them to get inside. But terror had me in its thrall and I was rendered mute. Instead, I chose to escape.

I ran. I didn't stop until I'd climbed the trellis, reached my room, cowered beneath my blankets and buried my head in the comforting ordinariness of Cane's warm fur.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Tallow's promise

THE KNOCK WAS QUIET, BUT it was enough to wake Cane. He gave a small growl. My eyes flew open.

'What is it, boy?' I whispered.

The knock came again.

I slipped out of bed and tiptoed across the floor. As I touched the door-handle I learned who was waiting on the other side. 'Come in, Pillar.'

He slid through the gap and shut the door behind him.

I fumbled for a rush light and lit the wick. A halo of light formed as I turned questioningly towards him.

'We need to talk.' He gestured to the rooftop.

I'd been expecting this. I nodded and led him outside.

It was a dark night. The moon and stars were hidden by water-laden clouds that slouched above us. The extraordinary cold from the afternoon was gone, replaced by the more familiar temperate evening. A balmy breeze drifted over the roof, bringing with it the brackish smell of the canal and the sour smell of render.

Placing the rush light down, I sat on the ledge, my legs dangling over the side. I looked anxiously at Pillar and waited for him to speak. In the dim light cast by the spluttering candle, I could see that his eyes were heavy and his forehead and cheeks shiny. I could smell the lingering odour of vino. I wondered how many mugs he'd downed before he had the courage to face me.

Pillar swayed back and forth, gazing over the city. A lone bat flew overhead; a cat mewled in the distance.

Finally, he spoke. 'Tallow. I ... I've come to a decision.'

I knew that wasn't quite true – it wasn't his decision alone. The raised voices that had prevented me from sleeping for hours were testimony to that. Pillar and Quinn had argued back and forth ever since dinner. Dinner that I'd been denied, as my belly loudly reminded me. I wrapped my arms around my stomach, muffling its complaints.

'We – that is, I, don't want you to use your ... talents any more.'

My heart was a leaden weight. 'What did you say?'

'You heard me. There's to be no more. Not until Katina returns.' Pillar began to speak quickly. 'Y– You've gotten too confident. And you're not experienced enough. Why, even Katina said that talent such as yours takes years to nurture, to hone and train. You've begun to take risks. We can't afford that – not me, you or Mamma. Katina warned me it might come to this. She was right. It's time for you to stop.'

'Completely?'

'Yes.' Pillar wouldn't look at me.

'But –' My thoughts were in a whirl. Why was Pillar ordering me to stop? Because of Gallame? It couldn't be. 'I've only made one mistake –'

'Have you?' he asked, and then he turned and faced me. He lowered his head until our eyes were level. 'Have you?' he repeated, 'or is this the only one we know about?'

His eyes dared me to look at him, contradict him. The vino on his breath was strong. My eyelids twitched behind my spectacles as I looked into his earnest face.

I was the first to break eye contact.

'I thought so,' said Pillar grimly. He sighed and moved away. He stood at the ledge in silence for a moment. 'I don't think you understand the danger you place yourself and everyone else in when you do ... whatever it is you do, Tallow.

'People are talking. They know that Gallame's change of heart was not normal. And those foolish people you gave the candles to are unable to keep their mouths shut. They're saying that Gallame rescinded the debt because of the candles and that they came from here – from you – the boy with the golden glasses.'

He gestured towards me and gave a half-laugh. 'The glasses that were meant to make your life – our lives – easier have also made you easier to describe. They've made you stand out.'

I self-consciously pushed them up onto the bridge of my nose.

'Fortunately,' Pillar continued. 'Most people are dismissing the claims as arrant nonsense. But all it needs is for someone to put two and two together and figure out that our sales have increased, that people are happier and more content when they burn our candles. Why, already there's even been a murmur of witchcraft from our rivals, and with the Gallame episode, that's too close for comfort.

'If someone even thinks of the Estrattore, we're doomed.' He hoisted himself away from me and crossed to the other side of the rooftop, overlooking the rami. He stared back over the city. 'So, for the time being, there'll be no more. Is that understood?'

Part of me wanted to dismiss Pillar's concerns, but an image of Barold Barbacan came to mind. Was that why he followed Dante and me that night and why he had sought me out earlier today? Had he somehow figured out what I was?

I bit my lower lip, mulling over Pillar's words.

'Well?' insisted Pillar, crossing the rooftop and standing before me, his arms folded, a fleshy barrier between his soul and my talents.

An image of Dante's grandfather jumped into my mind. I had to help him – help Dante. I had intended to do it tomorrow, when Pillar left the workshop. If I were to make any promise to Pillar – and mean it – then I would have to prepare the candles now, tonight.

'You really want me to stop?' I asked Pillar.

He sighed, his hands on his hips. 'No, of course I don't want you to stop, Tallow. Believe it or not, as scared as I am of what it is you do – and yes, I'll admit, I'm terrified – I want to keep making money so there's food on the table and clothes on our back. So one day you'll be financially secure and able to fend for yourself. But this isn't about what I want anymore, nor is it about what you want. It's about what we have to do. If you want to remain under this roof, you have to stop.'

He folded his arms again and stuck out his chin. I knew that stance; it was at times like this that he looked like his mother. He would brook no argument.

'I know this must seem as if I'm punishing you. But I'm not. I'm protecting you. Katina will return and, when she does, you can continue your training. Until that time, you must stop.'

'Do you really believe Katina will come back?' I asked quietly, glancing over my shoulder towards the mainland. While I couldn't see it, I knew the Limen was there – we all did. 'It's been months now. There's been no word, no sign.'

Pillar gazed towards the mountains. 'She's a Bond Rider and her pledge is to you. She has no choice but to return.'

We remained there without speaking, Pillar staring into the night, and me watching him. Our relationship had changed, but I wasn't sure how.

Pillar finally turned to me and took me by the shoulders. 'Now. Give me your promise.' He echoed Katina's words. 'As if you were a Bond Rider.'

I took a deep breath and looked straight into his eyes. 'I promise that once the sun rises over the Dolomites, I will not extract or distil until Katina returns or you tell me I can.'

Pillar raised his eyebrows. 'Not exactly what I had in mind, but it will do.'

He stifled a yawn. 'Come on then, let's get to bed. It's been a long day.'

I climbed up off the ledge, and he ushered me towards the door.

'Tomorrow, we start afresh,' he said, bending down to open the trapdoor. 'Our sales may suffer, but at least we'll know we have nothing to hide any more, huh?'

'Nothing to hide,' I agreed and followed him inside.

WAITING UNTIL PILLAR'S SNORES COULD be heard through the attic floorboards, Tallow shucked off her nightwear and slipped back into her shirt and leggings. Opening her door as quietly as she could, she crept down the stairs, through the shop and into the work area. She breathed in the sweet scent of the beeswax and the distilled tallow. Searching for the tinderbox, she quickly found it and lit a few rush lights.

Lying on the bench were finished tapers ready for packaging. Behind her, dozens of broaches hung, the candles waiting to be snapped and rolled. Completed votive and pillar candles sat in rows on the floor. Pillar had been busy. He'd already used the entire batch of wax she'd last distilled. He is serious. There is to be no more. She felt a twinge of regret and then chided herself. She didn't have time for self-indulgent emotion. She had work to do.

Laying out two of the finished tallow tapers, she picked up a votive off the floor and sat it nearby. Wrapping her hands around the small candle, she drew in a deep breath and, shutting her eyes, summoned all her talent.

She carefully extracted the purity and health she feltlying within the beeswax – the energy and vigour of its creators. Then she multiplied it, sending it directly into the finished tapers. Wave after wave of sheer power flowed from Tallow into the candles. She didn't care that this final distillation would not be subtle. Every layer of tallow would burn with the amplified essence of what she'd extracted. She poured her heart and soul into what she did, unaware that a golden nimbus had begun to form around her.

Radiating in ripples that increased the further they went from the centre, the pulsing corona enveloped every corner of the workshop, every finished candle whether made from tallow or wax. And, knowing who it was meant for, Tallow also added some of herself and the love she bore for Dante into her distillation.

Revelling in the moment, Tallow pushed herself as hard as she could. This might be her final act as an Estrattore for a long, long time. When she at last completed her task, she was weary but content. The two tapers before her glowed with a soft inner light. Tallow wrapped them carefully in a piece of rice paper.

Then she crept back into the shop and grabbed her cloak and hat. Opening the door that led onto the fondamenta, she stepped onto the cobbles.

Without looking back, she tore off around the corner and down the ramo, certain that if she kept away from the main streets, she could make it to the Chandlers Quartiere and back before dawn.

CHAPTER THIRTY
Francesca delivers
some news

THE FOLLOWING DAY, PILLAR WOKE me earlier than usual and set me to restocking the shelves in the shop. Quinn made it clear she didn't want me in her space but, as the morning wore on and only one or two customers interrupted my duties, she seemed to take pleasure in ordering me about.

I did what she told me, barely registering what she was saying. I was so tired. I hadn't come home till very late and had only managed to grab a couple of hours' sleep. I just hoped that Dante found the candles I'd left outside on his steps. I knew that if anything would protect – and maybe even heal – his grandfather, it was them.

I could still taste the distillation. It hummed through my weary body, sustaining me.

'No! Not there,' Quinn cuffed me on the back of my head. Startled, I swung around. 'Don't you look at me like that!' she warned, waggling a bony finger beneath my nose. I could smell vino on her breath. 'Listen! I said put them on the shelf above. And neatly! It's no good piling them one on top of the other. Customers won't be able to find what they're looking for.'

She stomped back to the counter, pretending to flick a duster over its clean surface. 'That is, if anyone decides to come today. Where is everyone? This place is quieter than the Isola del Morte!'

I'd been wondering the same thing, but didn't make a comment. I just did what Quinn told me, even though less than an hour earlier she'd instructed me to pack the last lot of tapers in piles to make the shelves look fuller.

Pillar appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands. 'Everything all right in here?' he asked. I glanced at him over my shoulder. He'd been busy cleaning the vats. I knew he believed that it would clear away any final traces of my work.

But I knew better.

'Fine,' I said as chirpily as I could.

Quinn muttered darkly under her breath.

'Come on, Mamma. You hate stacking the shelves,' said Pillar. 'You should be grateful that Tallow's able to do it for you.'

Quinn snorted. 'We all know why that's the case, don't we? Because the boy simply can't do what he's told.'

Pillar was about to argue when the bell above the door rang and in strode our neighbour Francesca, her full skirts sweeping the floor and raising eddies in the sawdust. She had a large basket over her arm, filled to the brim with various bits and pieces. As she deposited it on the counter, I noticed the beads of sweat on her forehead and how flushed her cheeks were.

'Oh!' she moaned dramatically. 'It's much cooler in here. You'd swear it was God's boiler-room out there on the cobbles and it's only early yet – wait till midday! Unless that freakish weather we had yesterday returns – and we'll all be praying that doesn't happen, won't we?'

She plucked a handkerchief from her shirt and mopped her brow. No-one said anything. We were all used to her ways. At a nod from Pillar, I quickly finished what I was doing and sneaked past her into the workshop. I pulled the door to, but didn't shut it.

'That's a load you're carrying there, Francesca,' said Pillar. 'Looks like you're stocking up.'

'That's exactly what I'm doing and I'd advise you to do the same,' said the fruiterer and promptly began pulling tapers and pillar candles from the shelves. 'These all tallow?'

'Why, yes –' said Pillar, glancing at his mother, who simply shrugged and reached for the abacus.

'Have they got those fancy slow-burning wicks in them?' she asked, turning them over in her hands.

'Yes, but –'

'Good. I'll have two dozen.'

'Francesca,' said Quinn finally, putting down the abacus. 'What's got into you? Why are you taking so many? Not that I'm complaining or anything. Is there a war going on we don't know about?'

Francesca stared at her in genuine surprise. 'So you haven't heard?'

'Heard what?' said Quinn.

'What?' repeated Pillar and stepped closer. He was blocking my view, so I opened the door further.

'About what's happened?'

'Obviously not. What are you talking about?'

Francesca leaned over the counter. 'Less than an hour ago, soldiers from the Arsenale arrived and told us that a curfew is about to be imposed.'

'A curfew! What for?' I could hear panic rising in Quinn's voice.

'They're saying that there's been an outbreak of disease on the other isles overnight. Just like that.' She snapped her fingers. The sound echoed in the shop. 'People are dying, dropping where they stand. No-one has seen anything like it ever before.'

'Is it ...?' began Pillar.

'No,' said Francesca quickly. 'No, it's not the plague. At least, that's what they're telling us at the moment. Apparently, the symptoms are very different. They're saying this is much worse – swift and deadly. We're under quarantine until further notice. There's to be no trading – no business – till it's clear. We have less than four hours to stock up, and then we'll be forced to stay indoors. Hadn't you noticed how quiet it is out there?' She pointed vaguely in the direction of the canal.

'Yes, but I –' muttered Quinn, her eyes darting towards where she knew I stood. I knew what she was thinking. While her life had changed for the better of late, the habits of years meant that leaving the house was still somewhat foreign to her. She relied on the likes of Francesca to bring news to her doorstep – and that included bad news.

'I was relieved to find you open,' continued Francesca. 'Many of the other businesses towards the salizzada have already closed. Obviously, the soldiers haven't reached here yet.'

'No,' muttered Pillar, 'they haven't. We didn't know.' He strode to the door and opened it, peering up and down the fondamenta. 'There's barely anyone out there.'

'There will be. Some are in the basilica offering prayers. Others, like your good selves, still don't know. I think I was one of the first to hear.'

I wasn't surprised by that. Francesca had a knack of finding out everything before anyone else.

'When the crier makes his announcement, you'll be bombarded with customers. I'd get ready if I were you – for them, and for your own needs. In less than four hours, you'll have to fend for yourselves by whatever means possible.' Francesca reached inside her basket for her purse. 'Now, how much will that be?'

'Four hours!' said Quinn, ignoring Francesca and her handful of lire. 'Where did you hear this? I don't believe it!' Quinn raised anxious eyes to meet Pillar's.

'Nor did I, at first. Frightened men talk. Even hungry soldiers, finding solace in a full stomach of fresh fruit and a mind made less troubled by sharing their problems,' remarked Francesca gravely. 'They bought our produce and while they ate, they spoke.' She shrugged. 'What can I say? I listened. And, after they left, I took advantage of what I knew.' She held up her basket. 'I told the others and I'm telling you as well.'

'Did they say what they think caused it?' asked Pillar, shutting the front door firmly and joining his mother behind the counter. I saw him place a comforting arm around her shoulders. This time, Quinn didn't shake it off.

Francesca leaned towards Pillar and Quinn, lowering her voice so I had to strain to hear her. 'They say the deaths started happening not long after that freakish cold weather. The outer isles experienced it a day or two before we did – hours of blistering cold – and then, like that!' She snapped her fingers. 'Back to normal.'

'I remember it, all right,' muttered Quinn darkly.

'Yes, and now it's like the middle of summer again.' Francesca shook her head. 'It's not natural, I tell you. They're saying that it comes from God – that He's punishing us. That the cold was His breath, blowing away all our sins.' She paused. 'The wicked would do well to make their peace.'

I recalled the dreadful bitterness, the intensity of the chill, how it reached into my very soul ... and I remembered the nebulous figures I'd seen writhing in the fog, reaching, clutching. Could they be the emissaries of an angry God? No. I knew they weren't. They were not God's breath. They were something much, much worse.

But who could I tell? Who would believe me?

I craned my neck. I could see Francesca's ample bosom resting on the counter, her face inches from Quinn's. They were whispering. They both crossed themselves repeatedly. Pillar stood nearby, his eyes darting back and forth, the tic in his cheek pulsing. His fingers fumbled in his shirt for the little wooden icon he'd been wearing ever since Katina came into our lives.

Finally Francesca drew away. 'Until this disease has passed and the bells in the basilica toll, I'm locking myself away. You'd do well to do the same.'

'May God keep us all,' said Quinn, her voice catching.

May God keep us all, I repeated to myself, even though I knew that this time neither the Church's God or the old gods would be the arbiter of our fate.

Quinn finished calculating and with trembling hands held the abacus aloft.

'Right,' said Francesca, placing the coins on the counter. She slid the candles into her basket and then heaved it on to her arm. She looked around the shop. 'Hopefully, God will spare us and we will laugh about this one day, you and I. May He watch over you both.'

Not wasting any time, Quinn waited until Francesca was gone and then called for me. I entered the shop to find Quinn looking pale and drawn. Pillar stood behind the counter staring into space. Before I could ask any questions, Quinn handed me a purse.

'I know you were listening,' she said. There was no rebuke in her voice. 'Go! Now! Purchase wood, cheese, flour and vino. Hurry! Because if you don't –' She left the rest unsaid as she dropped the purse in my outstretched palm.

Without another word, I did as I was told.

FRANCESCA'S PREDICTION CAME TRUE. ABOUT a half-hour later, the quartiere crier, accompanied by two burly soldiers wearing the crest of the Arsenale, strode down the fondamenta.

I walked behind him, dragging two sacks full of supplies. His words were loud and clear.

'By the order of His Most Serene Highness, Doge Dandolo, you are hereby ordered to return to your houses until further notice. Only dottores and padres have permission to be abroad. The curfew comes into effect at midday. Anyone caught outdoors without authority after this time will be put to the sword. God be with you. By order of ...' The crier's emotionless voice droned on as he marched through the quartiere.

I heard wails of despair as the news spread and watched as women grabbed their children from the edges of the canal and thrust them firmly indoors. Windows slammed, shutters were pulled tight, and gondoliers turned their craft and rowed back to their own quartieri.

The fondamenta cleared so quickly, it was as if night had fallen early. An unnatural quiet fell upon the area.

But the calm was just an illusion. It didn't last.

I dragged my goods into the shop and Pillar helped me take them up the stairs. Together we stored the purchases in the kitchen. I noticed that Pillar had brought a pile of tapers with him. They sat in a heap on the kitchen table. I glanced at him.

'I don't want us to be left without light,' he said.

For the first time I saw something behind Pillar's eyes that I could not fathom. It was more than fear, more than concern. It was only in the days to come that I began to understand what I saw. It was an awareness that he had no choice. He was powerless to change what was happening.

I didn't ask what was wrong; I simply nodded and, leaving Pillar to finish his task, went back downstairs to help Quinn.

Minutes later, the door to the shop burst open and all the candles we'd made over the last two weeks were sold in less than an hour. I'd never seen anything like it. The shop counter was four deep with desperate people shouting their orders. We could hardly keep up. People I had thought kind pushed their way to the front, demanding to be served, snatching products from others, and even offering to pay more than they were worth.

I understood their alarm. If they were to be locked away for a period of time, not knowing whether they had contracted this deadly disease, they wanted to be able to light their enforced darkness. Afraid and saddened at what I witnessed, I handed over candles and accepted coin as fast and as methodically as I could.

When the last candle sold, Pillar ushered out the remaining few customers, closed the door and latched it. He then sank back against it in relief.

The knocking started a few minutes later. Pillar yelled that there was no more stock left but they refused to go and began pounding on the door. It was only when the bells in the basilica tolled that the people finally went away.

'What do the bells mean?' I asked.

'The curfew has officially started,' said Pillar.

'Either that,' said Quinn into her mug, her voice low and hollow, 'or someone is dead.'

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Morto Assiderato

DEATH DESCENDED UPON THE CITY.

After the warning was issued, there was a brief moment of silence before mayhem erupted. Terrified people rushed to stockpile supplies for the days or weeks ahead. Those who could afford to left the city, and their carts rumbled through the salizzada and along the calles. The canals were cluttered with sandolis, traghettos and gondolas, all laden with people and their chattels. They were headed for the supposed safety of the mainland settlement near the Limen, where many believed the clean air of the farmlands and mountains would ward off the mystery sickness. Nobiles, their families in tow, departed in their ships, leaving their casas in the care of their servants. Even the Doge sought shelter in the bucintoro, his huge ceremonial ship. It was rowed into the middle of the lagoon and anchored.

With the Doge fleeing, the padres could no longer reassure those who remained. Panic took over. Doors and windows were shuttered; folk withdrew.

It took less than three days for the sickly smell of death to begin to linger in the air. Smoke obscured the skyline as the houses of the dead were put to the torch, the controlled burning adding to the heat and claustrophobic feel of the city.

An unearthly quiet lay like a thick blanket over the region, all but smothering the distant cries – cries that indicated someone else had succumbed to the illness. The authorities might not have officially declared it a plague, but everyone treated it that way. Rumours about its sudden arrival and possible origins spread quickly and dominated the conversations that still took place through walls and over rooftops. No-one could make sense of it – there were no signs, no warnings, just a rapid change in a person's breathing and the colour of their skin, followed by a ghastly death. It had even been given a name, the Morto Assiderato – 'frozen to death'.

Tallow couldn't bear it, this morbid waiting game. For that's what it was. Like one of the Doge's lotteries, the sickness would either arrive at your door or bypass it. No-one could prevent it. They were all, regardless of beliefs or attitude, potential victims.

Forbidden from using her talents, but unable to sit in the kitchen and watch Quinn downing mug after mug of vino or Pillar clutching his talisman while muttering prayers under his breath, Tallow fled to the rooftop. Day after day she sat in any patches of shade she could find, whispering to Cane, listening to the talk of their neighbours carrying over the walls, planning what she would do when this was all over and she could see Dante again.

At least she could breathe on the roof, even if the air was tainted with the fetid breath of death and decay. It wasn't as cloying as listening to Quinn's dire predictions. Up there she had a sense of freedom and choice, as false as it was.

Tallow huddled against the sides of the rooftop one morning, gazing over the city. She absent-mindedly stroked Cane, her fingers pulling the knots out of his fur. He lay at her feet and panted. Though the sun was not long over the horizon, it was already hot. Distant steeples shimmered in the growing haze. The plague thrived in heat – she'd heard Quinn say it. Would this disease, brought in as it was by the cold, do so as well? As if in answer to her thoughts, another cry sounded, a long, plaintive wail followed by angry outbursts loud enough for her to hear every utterance.

'Carlo, no! God, no! Spare him, please!'

The cry was soon joined by other voices.

Tallow's heart contracted. She knew little Carlo, the butcher's boy. No more than five years old, he used to skip stones along the canal.

It had taken less than a week for the sickness to reach her street. It spread by unnatural and malicious means and there was nothing she could do about it, no-one she could tell.

Irrespective of the heat, she pulled Cane into her lap and held him close.

When Pillar found her a few minutes later, she hadn't moved.

'Tallow!' called Pillar from the trapdoor. He looked around the roof, as if afraid the disease might suddenly crawl over the ledge and claim him. 'Mamma and I think you should come inside now.'

Tallow raised her head. 'Why? So it doesn't get me?'

'Tallow,' he pleaded.

She sighed and letting go of Cane, rose to her feet, brushing her trousers. Another wail sounded.

'Carlo –' Tallow began, glancing over the ledge. Four houses away; only twenty people between them and death.

'We heard,' said Pillar gravely. 'The dottore tells us that so far, seventeen people in the quartiere have died. Ten times that many have been struck down in this sestiere. Carlo is simply another.' He shook his head sadly.

Tallow was shocked by how quickly the disease spread. Each day, the toll doubled. 'That many already,' she whispered, looking down onto the fondamenta. How many had the ghostly beings touched?

'And more to come, I'm afraid. Come on. Let's get you inside.'

Every night, the local dottore, wearing his hawk-like mask and accompanied by two young padres from the seminary, would knock at each house in the quartiere to ask how the residents were faring. He would offer herbs and potions that everyone knew were ineffective, but most took anyway. It was the dottore who knew who had succumbed and who hadn't. Those with illness in the house woke the next day to find their front door marked with a red cross.

The sign of death.

Until now, there had been no marks on the doors along their canal, but that was about to change. Soon, the sexton would stride past Carlo's home and utter his sunset command: Bring out your dead. Tallow couldn't accept that. She wouldn't.

'Pillar –' Tallow began, pausing beside him at the trapdoor. 'Can't I do something?'

'No, Tallow,' said Pillar firmly, recognising the determined jut of her chin. He pushed her through the door and followed her down the stairs. 'It's too late for that. You can't risk leaving the house. And anyway, you're not a dottore. How could you help?'

Tallow shrugged. 'I don't know. I just feel I could do something – anything rather than sitting here listening to the ever-growing tally of the sick and dying. You've heard them – this sickness isn't natural. Maybe, with my ... talents ...' She waved her hands around in frustration. 'I can't stand it, not knowing if or when.' She flopped onto her bed. Visions of grey arms and mouths hovered in her mind's eye.

Pillar hesitated. 'Tallow ...' She turned her head to look at him. 'There is something I think you should know.'

Tallow pushed her glasses onto the bridge of her nose. 'Yes?'

Pillar swallowed, summoning his courage. He'd kept the news to himself since last night and wasn't sure how to share it. But he wanted to tell Tallow before his mother did. 'It's about the Chandlers Quartiere.'

She sat bolt upright. 'Yes?'

'You were already in bed when the dottore came last night. He told us that he'd heard it has been hit very hard. Entire calles have been wiped out – everyone. Only a few people have survived. And they don't hold out much hope for them.'

'Dante –' Tallow's mind filled with dark images. Her eyes burnt and her throat grew dry.

Pillar shrugged. 'I asked about him. But the dottore didn't know. How could he? There are too many, too many.' He shook his head sorrowfully.

Not Dante, please, God, not Dante. Spare him. She sounded like Carlo's mother and the other voices she'd heard – pleading, promising. She blinked away her tears. 'We'll be all right, won't we Pillar? Dante will be all right, won't he?'

'I won't lie to you, Tallow,' he said. 'This is not like anything we've ever experienced before. I honestly don't know.'

Cane looked at them both and, throwing back his shaggy head, howled.

LATER THAT NIGHT, AFTER A frugal supper of cheese and bread, Tallow lay on her bed, her arms folded under her head. The dottore had called and, officially, the dead in their area now numbered fifty-two. Unbeknownst to Pillar or Quinn, she'd crept out on the rooftop and watched as a rickety old cart rumbled its way down the cobbles, halting outside each marked door. Since morning, five red crosses had been drawn on doors in their part of the fondamenta alone. A man with his mouth and nose bound tightly in a dirty grey cloth had ordered the two men pulling the cart to stop and rapped sharply on the marked doors with a thick stick. Relatives had carried out small and large bundles and thrown them onto the wagon before falling into each other's arms, weeping uncontrollably. Regardless of size, the bodies had landed with dull thuds, their fall broken by a layer of other dead. Tallow had seen the little votive candles their relatives held aloft, a last offering to their loved ones.

Her thoughts turned to Dante. Was that to be his fate? Tossed out like old baggage. Dying, dead, with no-one to perform last rites.

Or, what if he was alive? What then?

She sat up.

Regardless of the danger, she had to know.

Pulling on her boots, she thought of Pillar's warning. He'd told her not to do anything; that she couldn't help. Well, he was wrong. She could. She could find out what had happened to her friend.

For just a moment, uncertainty pricked at her resolve. What if she contracted the Morto Assiderato? What if she brought it back into their home, a home that had so far been spared? But the disease wasn't contagious like everyone believed. She knew the real reason the people of Serenissima were dying. She'd seen them infected with her own eyes – brushed imperceptibly, violated by some invisible malice. And those who were touched were – whether it was in hours or weeks – doomed to die.

But why had the creatures come? For what purpose? Tallow had no answers. All she cared about was one person and his fate.

Tallow pressed her ear to the floor. Quiet snores were all she heard. Giving Cane's coat a last ruffle, she slid up the stairs, out the door and over the roof.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Return to the
Chandlers Quartiere

I COULDN'T BELIEVE THE NUMBER of doors I saw bearing the symbol of the Morto Assiderato. Everywhere I turned the sign of the cross had been hastily slashed, the red paint so fresh it bled in rivulets down the wooden cracks.

I expected the calles to be empty, but there were people everywhere. Mostly silent, they scurried about, gathering scraps of information, sharing a quiet drink on doorsteps and watching me suspiciously over their shoulders. Down one of the rami I saw people raiding the homes of those who had died. I wondered at the desperation that led them to take what many believed were potentially contagious objects. Like war, disease – a reminder of one's own mortality – did strange things to people.

A sexton's wagon rumbled through the piazzetta. I held my nose as it passed, stiff blue-white limbs protruding at unyielding angles through the sides of the cart. I shuddered and quickened my step.

Beyond the basilica, I thought I saw a movement in the shadows. I paused and held my breath, slowly scanning every corner and overhang. Memories of the grey wraiths still haunted me. What if they returned to inflict more heartache and loss? What if they touched me? I spun on my heels at a slight whooshing noise behind me. But there was nothing there – at least, nothing I could see. It was probably a bat or an owl. I reassured myself that the unnatural, whispering cold that had signalled the presence of the mistral beings was absent, and continued on my way.

It didn't take me long to reach Dante's calle. I ran along the cobbles, horrified to see that every door was scarred by the now-familiar carmine sign. Some were shut to the street, others hung askew on broken hinges, their dark maws reeking. Many of the shops had broken windows and, by the dim light, I could see the shelves had been stripped bare. All exuded a pungent, heavy smell. My stomach protested.

I covered my mouth and nose and hurried towards Dante's shop. I was so terribly afraid of what I would find. I stopped outside the house next to it and tried to compose myself.

Slowly, I gathered my courage and with heavy steps walked past the shop window. It, at least, was intact. I paused, willing myself to look up at the door.

There was no mark. No sign.

The knots in my shoulders relaxed. I fought back a sob of relief.

I pounded on the door. 'Dante!' I cried. 'It's me. Open up!'

I waited a moment. There was no answer. From somewhere in the darkness, a cat let out a pitiful mew. A dog began barking. I pressed my face against the glass. All I could see was the dusky interior.

I kicked the door and shouted. 'Dante! Are you there? Answer me – please!'

A window above me flew open and a head popped out.

'We can't help you. Go away!'

It was Dante's Zia Gaia. Her hair was in disarray and her face pale.

'Wait!' I cried as she began to shut the window. 'It's me, Tallow.'

'Tallow?' The echo came from behind her.

My heart soared.

It was the voice I needed to hear. Dante squeezed in beside his aunt and looked down onto the street. 'Tallow? What in God's name are you doing here? Is everything all right?'

'Dante!' My relief was overwhelming. He looked thinner but seemed to bear no sign of illness. Then I saw the dark humour in his question. 'How can you ask me that? Of course everything's not all right.' I threw my arms out wide, gesturing up and down the calle.

Dante made a funny noise that could have been mirth or sorrow.

'But it is, now I know you're alive,' I added.

It took him a moment to respond. Zia Gaia put an arm around him and squeezed him close. 'Yes, I am. Thanks to you,' he said.

'Me? What are you talking about?' The little warning voice inside my head began to murmur.

'It's those candles you gave us,' said his aunt, her voice quavering. 'I swear you are our angel.'

'How's your grandfather?' I asked, desperate to change the subject.

'The illness has infected us all and yet you remember to ask after Grandfather.' Dante shook his head in amazement. 'He's fine. He's recovered. I burnt the candles you left by his bed and within hours he was eating and sleeping without fever.'

'It was a miracle.' Zia Gaia stared at me in awe.

I shifted awkwardly under her gaze. 'No, it wasn't. Not really.'

'Oh yes, it was,' she insisted. 'You don't understand. When we saw what the candles had done for Father and heard that this sickness had come to Serenissima, we burnt them some more. And we prayed. Night and day, we prayed. Our prayers were answered. The disease passed over us. It spared us when, like our neighbours –' Her voice broke. 'We should have been taken.'

'Perhaps it was your prayers?' I offered.

'No, God wasn't listening. The good people around here prayed as well. If it was only prayers that spared us, then they would have been saved, too. God did not save us. It was the candles, your candles, Tallow. They're our salvation. You are our salvation. We owe you our lives.'

The moonlight touched her face, revealing the earnestness of her expression. 'Thank you, young Tallow. Thank you. I don't know what you're doing here, but it's not safe. I cannot let you in. If the soldiers found out that I admitted someone from out of the quartiere, we would be severely punished. I hope you'll forgive me, as good as you have been to us, for I do not want to jeopardise the family further. Can you understand?'

'Yes. It's all right. I understand. I just wanted to find out how Dante was. How you all were.'

'I'm fine, Tallow. Really.' He withdrew for a moment and spoke quietly to his aunt.

'Very well,' I heard her say. 'But don't be long.' Her head reappeared. 'Goodbye, Tallow,' she said and, with a wave of her hand, disappeared.

Dante stuck his head back out and put a finger to his lips. He turned slightly and I knew he was waiting until his aunt was out of hearing.

'What are you really doing here, Tallow?' he asked.

'I told you. I wanted to make sure you were all right.'

There was a moment of silence.

I cleared my throat. 'We heard that lots of people had died and I couldn't bear not knowing – if you ... if your family ... you know.'

'I know,' he said quietly. I could feel his eyes upon me. 'And you? You're well?'

'So far. We all are. But our neighbours –' I shook my head. 'When is it going to end?' I looked up and down the calle at the deserted houses and shops, newly created memorials to the dead.

'Tallow,' said Dante after a moment. He leant out the window as far as he dared. 'What did you do?'

'What do you mean?' I stalled.

'Zia Gaia's right. There was something in the candles – something that saved us. I could feel it. It reminded me of what you did that time to Cane, except this time there was also a beautiful perfume.'

I shook my head. 'No. You're mistaken. You were just lucky, that's all.'

'Lucky to know you,' said Dante. 'Don't tell me if you don't want to, but I know what I know. You saved my life – my family's lives – with your candles. I owe you, Tallow.'

'No, no you don't,' I said quickly. 'Please, just be my friend.'

Dante smiled and I could see some of his old self return. 'You don't have to ask me to be what I already am ... always. For eternity.'

'Dante!' called Aunt Gaia.

'Better go,' he said, glancing over his shoulder. 'Coming!' He turned and smiled down on me. 'When this is over –'

'Yes, I'll be there,' I said and watched while he closed the shutters and shut the window. For eternity.

I let out a long sigh, releasing all my pent-up anxiety of the last few days. Dante was all right. His grandfather and great-aunt were, too. And they believed it was the candles. With questions dancing in my head, I made my way back to the Candlemakers Quartiere.

When I reached the salizzada, many of the doors there had been spared the virulent red mark. Francesca and Giuseppe's door was clear, as was Roberto the tailor's and Giovanni the baker's. To my dismay, everyone I'd witnessed being touched by those ghastly wraiths had been infected. I prayed for their souls – what else could I do?

It was then that something occurred to me. Those whose households didn't bear the mark had purchased candles from us the day the outbreak was declared – the day after I distilled the candles for Dante.

I turned into the fondamenta. The crosses on the doors glared accusingly at me. Most of our neighbours hadn't purchased from us because they were candlemakers, too. They made their own light.

Or was this just a coincidence?

In the life of an Estrattore, there's no such thing as coincidence.

Katina was right. This was no coincidence. Somehow, I'd created an extraction and distillation so powerful that it stopped the disease in its tracks – held death at bay.

Perhaps it wasn't too late to save our neighbours.

I broke into a run.

I burst into the workshop and began searching frantically through every box, every trough, looking for stumps, leftovers, anything that might contain some of my last distillation. But Pillar had done a good job of cleaning. There was nothing. Not a scrap of tallow or wax; not a thread of wick.

Then I remembered Quinn's box of remnants. I flew into the shop and dragged the box out from under the counter. At least a dozen bits of broken tapers and one cracked pillar candle stared back at me. I let out a whoop of joy. Grabbing one, I ran back into the workshop and lit it. The aroma was rich, heady, invigorating. Tiredness fled my bones; my concerns disappeared with each inhalation. Energy began to replace the lethargy and depression that had dogged my last week.

I stared closely at the candle and saw it was surrounded by a golden nimbus. Dante and Zia Gaia were correct, it was the candles! Now, all I had to do was melt down the remnants, make lots of tiny votives and deliver them to as many houses as I –

'Tallow, what are you doing?'

I let out a squeal of fright. I'd become so lost in my plans, I hadn't heard Pillar come down the stairs. He leant wearily against the workshop doorway.

'Pillar!' I cried. 'You're not going to believe this. But I know a way to prevent the disease from spreading!'

'What are you talking about?' Pillar shuffled into the workshop. 'The Morto Assiderato can't be prevented any more than it can be ... oh.' His face changed as he caught a whiff of the candle.

'See?' I said quietly, watching the exhaustion and worry slough off him. 'I didn't realise that my last distillation had been so strong.'

'Your last one?' asked Pillar. 'But this is a remnant from the batch I poured. I tested those and they smelled nothing like this. They certainly didn't have this effect.' He stretched as he spoke and smiled. 'We wouldn't have let them out of the shop if they had.'

Guiltily, I explained what I had done. How, without breaking my promise, I nonetheless had made one last distillation, one that I knew Pillar would never approve, and then taken the candles to Dante.

'And see, they worked.' The words spilt from me. 'But not in a way that I ever thought possible. Why, Dante says that his grandfather is fine and they –'

'Dante?' said Pillar, his tone changing.

I cursed myself for a fool.

He took in the sweat that dotted my forehead, the soot and dirt that streaked my face. 'Oh, Tallow, please don't tell me you went to the Chandlers Quartiere.' The expression on Pillar's face was terrible to behold. He began to back away from me.

'Only for a while. But it's all right –'

Before I could explain, there was a scream from the door. Quinn burst into the workshop. I spun around just as the broach she'd raised above her head slammed into my cheek and I heard a sickening crack. Pain shot through my head. Blood gushed from my nose and into my mouth. I held up my hands to protect myself as she raised the broach again. But she threw it to one side, knocking over the candle, staunching its tiny flame.

'You stupid, feckless little bastard. You went to the Chandlers Quartiere and you came back. You've brought the Morto into the house! You've brought the Morto Assiderato here. Now we're all going to die!' she screamed.

'No,' I coughed, and shook my head. Blood splattered on the floor. 'Please listen to me. This isn't a normal sickness, it isn't spread the way you think. We're not going to die if –'

'Not before you, I won't,' she shouted. 'Even if I have to kill you myself! You stupid, ignorant child!' She pushed me so hard, I fell against a vat and then onto the floor. She rushed at me and began kicking and punching.

Behind her, I could see Pillar.

'Pillar!' I pleaded. 'Please –'

But Pillar just stood there, his arms folded. I could even see the tears that filled his eyes. That was, until he turned around and, without a word, left the workshop.

The first few kicks hurt the most.

After that, I don't remember.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Baroque's letter

GIACONDA LOOKED UP FROM THE letter she was reading. 'Father! Baroque has found the child!' she exclaimed, before regaining her composure and continuing to read. 'At last! He has found the child,' she repeated quietly, her lips curled in satisfaction. 'Ah, he says here that he weaves his way into the community, just as we ordered.'

'Hopefully not so far that he contracts this Morto Assiderato,' said Ezzelino.

'Yes,' Giaconda said. 'After all the money we've given him and all the time we've invested in this.'

'What else does he say?'

Giaconda hid her smile. For all that her father pretended indifference, he was as keen to learn more of the boy as she was.

Her eyes flew down the page and she let out a long, satisfied sigh. 'We were right, father. He is an Estrattore!' She shook the letter triumphantly.

Her father sucked on his pipe, blowing clouds of smoke into the room. 'Possibly. Don't get your hopes up too high.' He nodded to her. 'Keep reading.'

Giaconda finished the letter and raised her head. She quickly explained the contents to her father. 'We have him. He is ours.'

'Well, well, well,' sighed Ezzelino. 'So the boy is being called an angel of mercy by the family of his chandler friend. I wonder how many others they've told?'

'Baroque doesn't say.' Giaconda scanned the contents again. 'Just that one of the women who lives in the house let it slip to the dottore who happened, over a few vinos, to mention it to him. But this missive is days old. The entire sestiere could know by now.'

At a nod from her father, she held the letter over the hearth, watching as the corner caught fire. The edges blackened before the flame spread and the paper crumbled.

'What do I tell Baroque now?'

'Nothing. He can neither send nor receive communiqués anymore. Not even the promise of a ducat could persuade a courier to travel between quartieri at this time. We were lucky to receive that.' He gestured to the burning letter. 'I don't know what Baroque paid to have it delivered.'

'I don't want to know,' agreed Giaconda. 'But whoever took his coin deceived him. It was days old.'

Ezzelino dismissed her observation with a wave of his hand. 'For now, we play a waiting game. Like Baroque, we are all victims to this disease.'

Giaconda hissed in exasperation. 'So close.'

'And yet not nearly close enough.'

'But at least Baroque is there, in the quartiere,' she added.

'For the time being.'

'What do you mean?'

'If the sickness does not claim him, then the boy will.'

Giaconda stared at her father in surprise. 'What do you mean? The boy is no murderer!'

'No, he isn't.'

She stood in front of her father and leant over, her hands gripping the arms of the chair, enclosing him. 'What are you up to, Papa?' she said softly, her face level with his.

Her father slowly drew on his pipe. 'When the usual avenues of communication reopen, you are to tell Baroque that he must kidnap the boy and bring him to us as soon as possible. No-one must see him. After he's successfully delivered our talented prize, Baroque, unfortunately, will meet an untimely end. No-one must know what we have – no-one.'

'I see,' Giaconda's lips curled. 'As you say, the boy will claim him.'

'In a manner of speaking.' He sent a puff of smoke directly into Giaconda's face.

Giaconda coughed and straightened, moving away to the window. 'I wish you wouldn't do that.'

'According to the dottore, it keeps the illness at bay.'

Giaconda snorted then coughed again. 'Nothing keeps the Morto Assiderato at bay, Papa. You know that.'

The old man stood up and stamped out the small fire in the grate. 'Nothing, it seems, but a young, untutored Estrattore.'

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The morning after

TALLOW WOKE TO SOMETHING SOFT and feathery tickling her face. She tried to brush it away, but her arm was too heavy. She forced her eyes open.

'Cane,' she croaked.

The dog gave a small yelp and then licked her. Once he started, he didn't stop.

'Hey, hey.' She shook her head, then groaned. Sharp pains shot through her skull, making her eyes burn and her temples throb. 'That's enough,' she said firmly and tried to lift him off her. 'That's enough.' With a last swipe of his tongue, Cane backed away and watched her, his tail sweeping the floor.

Tallow sat up slowly, grimacing with every movement, every intake of breath. It wasn't hard to remember why she was in this condition. She raised her hand carefully to her face and did an inventory: nose, most likely broken; cheek, shattered and split from nose to chin; teeth, loose but all there; eyes, one swollen and one coated with – she pulled her fingers away – blood. She probed further. The blood came from a long, deep gash that ran along the back of her head and above her eyebrow. She wiped her hand on her trousers and looked around for her spectacles. It was then she registered she was still in the workshop.

She looked at Cane. 'How did you get in here?' She turned her head. The door was ajar. How long had she been there?

Using the table, she drew herself up and squinted at the light coming in the high windows. It looked to be early morning. But it was hard to tell. The glass was dirty and the light dull and diffused. She clicked her fingers and Cane came to her side.

'How long have you been here? How long have I been here?' She pulled gently on his ears. 'If Quinn finds you, we'll both be worse off than I am now.'

She began to laugh but a broken cough quickly replaced the laughter. It had been a while since she'd received a beating. She'd almost forgotten the aftermath – the agony of healing, of remembering.

She started searching for her glasses.

It didn't take long.

A shattered piece of glass caught the dim light. With a groan, Tallow dropped to her knees and picked up the twisted frame and honey shards. 'Look at this,' she said, holding the pieces towards Cane. 'So much for my days of freedom. Unless Katina comes home soon, I'll be no better off than I was before.' She placed the broken spectacles on the bench and stood up again.

Glancing towards the door, she grimaced. 'I guess I'd better go upstairs and face them.' Bitter images of Pillar turning aside while she was beaten darted around the edges of her mind. Why had Pillar let Quinn do this to her? She drew a shuddering breath, and almost called out as it pinched her ribs. Why didn't he stop Quinn? She knew he was upset with her for leaving the house, for entering a quartiere rife with sickness, but hadn't he also smelled the candle? He could have said something. But he didn't. In leaving, he'd condoned her punishment.

Why?

Knowing she was only delaying a confrontation, she forced herself to limp across the workroom floor, through the shop and up the kitchen stairs.

Before she had even entered the kitchen, she was aware of a cold, unnatural stillness that permeated the room. Behind her, Cane whined.

There was no-one in the kitchen. The curtain across Pillar's bedroom area was open and she could see that the covers had been removed from the bed. She made her way to the table and was about to sit down when she heard mumbled voices. They came from Quinn's room. Without knocking, she entered.

The room was dark and, despite the warmth outside, so cold that Tallow's breath frosted with each step she took. Pillar sat on the edge of his mother's bed. Quinn lay completely still under layers of blankets. Her neck and face were alabaster white and the skin had lost its loose, fleshy look. Instead, it looked as though her features were carved from ice. The fingers wrapped around the edges of her blankets were the same – hard, stiff and devoid of warmth or life, like a marble statue had been placed in the bed.

The stench of sickness almost overwhelmed Tallow. She retched.

Pillar swung around.

'Get out, Tallow,' he said.

Quinn groaned. 'My head!'

'What's wrong?' Tallow ignored Pillar and stepped further into the room. A rush light spat and dripped by the bed. From its small nimbus, Tallow could see the rigidity of Quinn's skin, the ghostly pallor of her flesh.

'I said, get out!'

Quinn had the illness. It was like nothing Tallow had ever seen before. Morto Assiderato, indeed.

The creatures must have touched her.

All of Tallow's anger and despair fled. She limped to Pillar's side. 'Pillar! I can help! Let me burn a candle for her, please!'

Shockingly, Quinn looked much worse up close. The disease had ravaged the old woman's body. Wherever Tallow looked, her skin was ivory white and rock hard. Quinn's breath escaped in a rush of opaque mist, curling around her head, clouding the old woman's vision. But worse, oozing out of her mouth was a pale liquid. It ran in rivulets down her neck, pooling behind her head and onto the pillow. It was from this that the stench arose. Tallow placed gentle fingers on Quinn's hands and then drew them away in fright. For all the appearance of being frozen, her skin was burning!

Quinn coughed and spat, a huge dollop of sputum dribbling onto the pillow. 'You just can't do what you're told, can you, missy?' she growled. 'You never listened to me, or to him, just did what you liked. And look what's happened. And now you want to fix it – when what you should have done was obey in the first place! Haven't you done enough already? Look at me. I'm hot and cold – frozen solid on the outside, while my insides boil away.' More stinking liquid poured out of her mouth as she spoke.

'Tell her, Pillar,' said Tallow, shaking Pillar by the shoulders. 'Tell her what my candles can do.' Her tears were falling freely now. No-one deserved this sort of death – not even Quinn.

'Tell her what, Tallow?' said Pillar wearily. 'That you didn't bring this disease here? Do you want me to tell her that?'

'But I didn't –' Tallow paused. Surely Pillar didn't really believe that her visit to the Chandlers Quartiere meant she'd brought this into the house. Why, it didn't work like that. It was the creatures, their touch. She wasn't responsible, was she?

'Yes, you did,' said Quinn forcefully. 'One way or another you did – you and your candles.' A gurgling began in her throat, turning into a moist cough that spattered the sheets. Pillar sat her up and wringing out a damp cloth, wiped her face. 'What they bring, they also take away. I knew my good fortune wouldn't last. You've got your wish.'

'No, that's not true –' began Tallow. Then she stopped herself. She had wished Quinn dead any number of times, but not like this. 'I want to help you, Quinn, please, please let me. Pillar, make her listen to me. You have to, you must!'

Quinn raised her dark, filmy eyes to Pillar's and searched his face, a crooked smile splitting her face. 'What are you going to tell her, son?' Pillar's mouth worked awkwardly for a moment before the words exploded.

'Get out, Tallow,' he said savagely. 'There's not a thing you can do now.' Pillar finally met Tallow's helpless stare.

'But I can! My candles will help. Or let me extract and distil! Anything –'

Quinn began to shake uncontrollably. 'You heard him, Tallow. My son has made his decision. If you won't listen to me, then listen to him. Get out.' She began to wheeze, long aspirations that made her chest rise and fall rapidly. 'I said she'd be the death of us, Pillar, didn't I? Defend her now, if you dare. Defend her now!'

'Pillar! Please.' Tallow wrung her hands, tears flowing down her face.

'For once, Tallow – do what you're told!' Pillar shouted.

Tallow stumbled backwards. He'd never spoken to her like that before.

Without another word, she turned and left the room, shutting the door firmly behind her.

FOUR HOURS LATER, QUINN WAS dead.

Pillar emerged from the room, his face streaked with tears, his shirt stained with his mother's fluids. He looked at Tallow sitting quietly by the empty hearth, the dog at her feet. He saw her bruised and cut face, her matted hair and dirty shirt. He saw the hope in her eyes turn to sorrow.

Unable to bear the compassion he saw there, he sank into a chair and rested his head on the table.

The tears came slowly at first, but when they started, they wouldn't – couldn't – stop.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Pillar's choice

I DIDN'T KNOW HOW TO console Pillar. Nor did I know how to reconcile his anger with me over the loss of Quinn. On the one hand, I knew that not having her in my life would complicate it less. The threats, the beatings, the abuse whenever I was around her were now things of the past. But Quinn had not deserved to die like that.

The sexton came that night and took the body away.

Pillar and I sat in silence in the kitchen. We neither ate nor looked at each other. He drank the vino quickly, I more slowly. The smell of corruption lay heavy in the room. I wanted to open the window, but I knew that Pillar wouldn't allow it. I longed for my attic refuge.

When Pillar finally rose, I saw with some surprise that he went to his mother's room. He was claiming it for his own. The bed had been stripped, the sheets taken away with Quinn. He shut the door behind him. As soon as it was quiet, I crept downstairs to the shop. Cane followed me hesitantly, the clattering of his claws on the wooden floor breaking the all-consuming quiet.

'I guess you can go where you like now, boy,' I said, ruffling his coat to reassure him.

The box of remnants was where I'd left it, on the shop counter. I reached in and grabbed a handful. Then I went and retrieved the tinderbox from the workshop. I remembered the candles Pillar had salvaged from the workshop, the ones he said were for emergencies. Didn't his mother's illness count? I searched for them. They weren't hard to find. They were in the box reserved for kindling. I pulled out two and carried them up to my room.

Pillar may have had doubts about the candles, but I didn't. Not any more. I lit one carefully, standing over the wick and inhaling the fumes.

The last thing I recalled as I fell onto my bed was that my head didn't seem to ache nearly as much as it should have.

I AWOKE LATE THE NEXT morning, my head thick with the soup of sleep. Beside me Cane twitched in his dreams. I lay there for a moment, not wanting to disturb him. I slowly took in the events of the night before. So much had happened. Quinn was dead. Pillar was bereft. He was also very, very angry with me.

I could feel that my life was about to change again. But it was changing in a way that not even I could have imagined.

As I lay there, my head felt clear and my ribs didn't pull with every breath I took. I touched my chest carefully. It wasn't sore. I probed my face, stroking my cheek, the side of my nose, feeling where the gash on my head had been. I ran the tips of my fingers over my eyes. Nothing. Not a thing. Not one pain. Not one piece of broken skin.

I sat up and threw back my blankets. Cane twisted and sat up, looking at me accusingly.

'Sorry, boy,' I said, examining my legs and arms. I pulled up my nightshirt. All the bruises that had dotted my torso had gone. Even an old scar, earned from a thrown candlestick years before, had disappeared.

I picked up a piece of my glasses and threw open the window. When I twisted the glass fragment just so, I could see my reflection. The gouge that split my lip had gone, as had the line that ran from the corner of my right eye and along the top of my cheekbone. I'd borne those scars since I was little – badges of Quinn's anger.

I wasn't a vain person, but I was delighted with the results – the unblemished me. Every single cut and bruise, yesterday's and those given to me over the years, had disappeared; healed without leaving a mark.

Beside me, a tiny stump of wax smouldered. I touched it briefly and it radiated in return. My body pulsated. If I could do this ... I felt strength and an unaccustomed determination flood my body.

I would never doubt again.

'Thank you,' I whispered skywards.

FOR ALMOST A MONTH, PILLAR and I remained confined to the house. In that time, we barely said a word to each other. Occasionally, I'd catch him staring at me, his face drawn but intense as if his thoughts were dire. If he noticed how quickly I'd healed from his mother's beating, he never made mention of it. We slipped into new roles. He cleaned, I cooked. Neither of us bathed. There didn't seem any point. Candlemaking was put on hold, as was the inevitable discussion of the future. Most days were spent with Pillar propped at the table or in the chair by the grate of the fire, drinking his mother's vino. Our supplies slowly dwindled away.

Despite what had happened, I was concerned. I'd never seen Pillar so reckless with his drink before. He would fall asleep with the mug still clenched in his hand. I tried to move him once, but he lashed out at me. After that, I left him alone.

Outside, the sexton's wagon rumbled and his cries echoed long after night had fallen. Days passed and his call for the dead became less frequent, until one day his cart didn't come at all. The dottore also stopped calling. At first I thought it was because he too had contracted the sickness, but other signs indicated that he had no reason to any more. The smoke that had filled the sky dissipated and the lingering smell of death was gradually replaced by the fresh winds that swept down from the Dolomites.

I dared to hope again.

Exactly four weeks after Quinn died, I awoke to a cacophony of bells and loud banging.

I slipped on my shirt and trousers and took the stairs two at a time, Cane close on my heels. But Pillar was already there. He pulled aside the curtain that had been drawn across the front door and swayed in the sunlight, looking curiously through red eyes at whoever was outside. There was shouting. The words were hard to hear and Pillar seemed loath to open the door.

I quickly turned and ran to the rooftop. I leaned as far over the ledge as I could and saw at least ten people. More were running up the fondamenta. Francesca and Giuseppe were there and Fabrizio and Carlita – even Enzo, the cobbler. It was the first time we'd seen our neighbours in weeks. They looked pale and careworn. Surprisingly, they were smiling. Despite all that had happened, I smiled in return.

Their voices carried up to me.

'It's all right, Pillar. It's over. It's over. Let us in!'

Francesca held up her arms. 'The disease has gone! It's left the city! God be praised. We've been spared.'

I heard the bell ring and the door swing open. One by one they disappeared inside the shop.

I stood still for a moment and inhaled, filling my lungs. I didn't need the shouts from downstairs to tell me the Morto Assiderato had gone. I could feel it, smell it and see it. There was a clarity and sweetness to the air that I'd forgotten. The oppressive heat of summer had gone, and with it death had passed as well.

I thought briefly of those who had died and my heart swelled with pity. So many – too many. Now we'd all have to rebuild our lives. There would be some who would never be able to do that. The pain of their losses would be too great to bear. But for the time being, they would choose to give thanks. Later, the recrimination and guilt would set in.

I sank to my knees and embraced Cane. His wagging tail hit the ground, the sound reverberating around the room.

'Come on then, boy! Let's go downstairs and see the others.'

At the top of the kitchen stairs, I heard Francesca speak. 'They're saying it's your candles, Pillar. Your candles!'

Cane tried to bolt down the stairs. I caught him by the scruff of his neck and pushed him behind me, blocking his way. Now I no longer had my glasses, I couldn't go downstairs.

Instead I crouched on the stairwell, just out of sight, and listened.

Pillar muttered something.

'No good protesting,' said a voice that I thought belonged to Enzo. 'When my little Sophia showed the symptoms, I was sure it was over for her. But Carlita gave us one of your candles. I placed it by my Sophie's bed and the next day, her headache and fever were gone.'

'She was misdiagnosed,' said Pillar flatly.

Enzo laughed. 'It was the candle, Pillar. It's no good denying it. You're a hero.'

There was a chorus of voices, each trying to tell their story.

It took Pillar almost a minute to shout them down.

'If these candles were so miraculous, don't you think I would have used them to save my own mother?'

I bit my lip and sank onto the step.

There was quiet followed by murmurs of sympathy.

'Quinn is dead?' asked Francesca.

'Four weeks today. It was quick. Too quick.'

'They were all quick,' said Francesca crossing herself.

'But –' began Enzo.

'I tell you,' insisted Pillar. 'It's got nothing to do with my candles. You're mistaken.'

'But it's not just us, Pillar,' pleaded Carla. 'They're talking about it all over the sestiere. There's even a family in the Chandlers Quartiere who swear burning your candles saved their lives.'

'They're wrong. They're not mine, I tell you.'

'No?' said Francesca. There was a sly tone to her voice. 'Then perhaps they are the work of your little apprentice? I hear they're calling him the angel of mercy.'

I didn't stay to hear the rest. I turned and fled up the stairs to the safety of the rooftop. They'd guessed. Somehow, the people had worked out that it was the candles and – worse – that I was behind them. But it had only been a matter of time. It was bound to happen, wasn't it? I bit my lip. Or had I exacerbated things by not doing as I'd been instructed? Pillar had made me promise not to use my talent any more and I'd broken that promise. You did more than break his promise. You broke the one you made to Katina as well.

Guilt ate at me. For months I'd been extracting and distilling into the candles I made without raising suspicion. And now, the one time I do something to the candles so I can provide genuine help, I'm caught. I threw my head back and closed my eyes. Why now? Now, when I knew I could really do something to help people.

What would Pillar say? What would we do? If people were starting to jump to those sort of conclusions, it wasn't a huge leap before they made the connection – that there was an Estrattore in their midst. All it would take was one disgruntled customer to report what they'd heard to the authorities or, worse, the Church. There'd be a search, maybe even some more omicidi.

That was all the people needed after what they'd just been through – more death and distress.

But perhaps that was what they needed. Not distress, but a scapegoat – someone upon whom to pin their grief and despair. I looked down at the murky waters of the canal and shook my head. A feeling of foreboding began to build inside me. I would have to be careful – very, very careful.

I was still standing there when Francesca and the others left an hour later. They moved in a huddle, the joy that had infused their arrival gone. I sensed anger, confusion.

And I didn't like it.

It was mid-morning before Pillar came up to the rooftop. I knew he would come – eventually. He moved slowly towards me, a mug in one hand, the other hidden in his pocket. His eyes were downcast. Cane ran towards him, nudging his leg with his wet nose, but Pillar didn't respond. He took a long, slow drink from his mug, and then placed it on the ledge and stared down at the street. I waited for him to say something, but he just stood there.

I searched for the right words, anything to make it all right between us. Nothing came to mind, so I remained mute.

Just when I thought he wasn't going to speak, he started.

'Tallow –'

'Yes?' I said eagerly, determined that, whatever it took, I would make up for what I'd done.

'I ... I want you to understand that I have no choice with what I'm about to say. I want you to leave.'

They were not the words I expected to hear.

'Leave?'

'Yes.' He swung around and looked at me. 'Mamma was right. You've been nothing but trouble.' He held the mug to his lips for a long time.

I was speechless. How could he say that? Surely he didn't believe it?

'Oh, don't look at me like that. You know what I'm talking about. You may have single-handedly turned my business around, but at what cost? Mamma's dead; the neighbours are all abuzz with talk of magic and miracle cures. If that wasn't enough, there's you.'

He swept his arm towards me. 'Look at you. Look at those eyes. I've hidden you for so long, disguised you, stopped you from mixing with anyone. But did it matter? I warned you about the danger – Katina told you, too. But did it stop you? Has it stopped you?'

The unfairness of his words stung. Apart from Dante, I hadn't really spoken to anyone properly except for social niceties, and then only enough to avoid suspicion. And as for Dante, it was Pillar who had given me permission to see him – well he knew what I was doing. I longed to defend myself. But I could tell from Pillar's tone that there was no point. Not today.

'The problem is you don't listen, Tallow. Not to me, not to Mamma. You didn't even listen to Katina. Even if I thought I could continue to hide you, protect you from what you are, I don't think I could – I don't think you'd let me.'

He gave a long, profound sigh. 'You're dangerous, Tallow – not only to me, but to yourself.' He raised his head and, without the shield of my glasses, locked his wretched gaze upon me. 'And I can't take it anymore. Not now.' He turned aside and finished off what was in his mug.

I can't describe what hearing his words did to me. To say I was crushed, numb, full of fury, sadness and disbelief would only touch on the emotions coursing through me. This gentle, lonely man – a man who had been father and teacher to me, who had anchored my entire life – was now abandoning me.

Tears welled in my eyes and a great lump sat in my throat. I tried to swallow a few times and willed myself not to cry. I would not break.

As Pillar said, not now.

Pillar looked in my general direction. His eyes were red and kept losing focus. I wasn't sure if he saw me or not. He swayed on his feet. I returned his gaze, seeing him properly for the first time in weeks. What I saw shocked me. I saw how weak his chin was, how thin his lips. His cheeks had suddenly hollowed, his brows thickened, the grey hair in scattered clumps giving him a fractured, surprised appearance. The loss of his mother was an open wound that divided his soul and crushed his spirit.

It was then something profoundly shocking occurred to me.

It had never really been Pillar who'd protected me; it had always been Quinn. In some strange way, despite the beatings, she'd made sure I'd been hidden, trained and given a sense of family. Like an Estrattore, she extracted the best and worst from Pillar and used it to suit her own purposes. In challenging her son, his every decision, his every action and reaction, she'd drawn out the little strength that lay within him. Her contempt defined him; her abuse propped him up and, through her, my presence as well. He refused to be scared of me when she was around. Instead, I became an ally, a companion by default.

Quinn had known that.

Now that she was gone, he no longer had the courage to keep me. I was simply a constant reminder of what he'd lost. Now there was no enemy to bond us, I'd become a burden too great to bear.

No, I corrected myself. Not a burden. I was the enemy and, as he said, a dangerous one.

I absorbed his words slowly. I knew my face mirrored my emotions but doubted that Pillar would recognise or understand how I felt. Not in his current state.

'All right, Pillar,' I said. 'If that's what you really want. When would you like me to go?'

'Now,' he said sharply.

I nodded, doing everything I could to hold myself together.

'Very well. Can I ask, how will you explain my absence?'

Pillar scratched his face. 'There won't be a need for much explaining. If anyone asks, you've simply gone back to my cousin in Jinoa. Your apprenticeship is over.'

I took a deep breath. 'All right. I can see you've thought this through. But what about the gossip? How are you going to respond to what they're saying about the candles?'

'Oh, you heard that, did you?' I didn't answer. 'Well, if you're not here, that should blow over in a couple of days. People have more important things to think about than some so-called miracle candles.'

I hoped he was right, for his sake.

We stood for a moment in uncomfortable silence. He stared mournfully into his empty mug – his mother's mug. He'd finished what he had to say. It was my turn. I placed my hands behind my back and pressed my palms against the rooftop walls. I began to draw from the stone. I extracted its strength, its firmness, and allowed it to infuse me.

'Pillar.' I squared my shoulders, fought back the tears. 'Before I go, there's something I have to ask you. Why didn't you let me burn a candle by Quinn's bed? I could have saved her, you know.'

Pillar looked directly at me. 'I know. But she didn't want you to. She said – she begged me – not to let you near her. So, I –' His bottom lip trembled.

'Did what your mother said.'

'Wouldn't be the first time.'

He was right. It occurred to me, what if this had been another of Quinn's tests – another one of her attempts to goad Pillar into defying her and force him to stand up for himself, make his own decisions. If it was, he had failed, and Quinn had paid the price of that failure.

'Don't look at me like that!' said Pillar suddenly, backing away, pointing a shaking finger at me. 'Don't you dare judge my behaviour. It was you who brought that ... that disgusting sickness, here, Tallow. It was you who killed Mamma. Not me.' He began to sob. 'Not me. Don't you judge me. Don't you accuse me.'

I wanted to put my arms around him – take away his pain and explain what I believed was the real reason behind the sickness. But I knew he didn't want that – my explanations, my touch or my talent – not at this moment, not ever.

For perhaps the first time in his life, Pillar had made a choice. It wasn't my place to question it. Instead, though I longed to rail against his injustice and plead with him to change his mind, I would respect his choice. I spun on my heel and went to the door, calling for Cane. I grabbed the handle and glanced back.

Pillar stood in the sunlight, his head bowed, his back bent.

I couldn't hate him. I couldn't even pity him. 'Pillar?'

He raised his head.

'I don't care what you say. We always have a choice.'

He didn't reply.

'Quinn was right, you know,' I added. 'You're exactly like your father.'

Pillar froze and for just a second I thought he hadn't heard. But then I saw the tic in his check pulsing. He knew what I meant. I'd hurt him deeply, just as he was hurting me.

He turned his back to me.

I left.

I gathered my belongings, picked up Katina's scabbard and satchel and, without another glance, left the only home I'd ever known.

I don't know when I started crying. All I know is that my tears didn't stop the pain.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The charade unravels

DANTE WAS BUSY RESTOCKING HIS great-aunt's shop. Now that the quartiere had been declared disease-free, it was time to think about getting on with their lives and restoring lost business. While no-one wanted to profit from the tragedy of what had happened, it was unrealistic not to be prepared. With people from the ghetto moving in and survivors staking their claim, it wouldn't be long before things returned to normal. Dante knew that both Zia Gaia and his grandfather, Renzo, had a great deal of work ahead of them, and, as much as he despised anything to do with chandling – soap or otherwise – the least he could do was stack shelves while they made arrangements for family members who had survived.

One of Dante's uncles and two of his cousins had died in the last days of the outbreak, which meant that there were grieving parents and a widow to care for and console. Gaia and Renzo were doing all they could to help secure their nieces, nephews and children some sort of future. Already, the widow and her four children had moved next door – the boys were already apprenticed to chandling. Renzo's son and daughter-in-law would join the business as well.

Dante couldn't help but be relieved that his grandfather and Zio Colzo would have four more cousins to train. It meant his chances of finding something else to do with his life were improving. But for now, he would help in whatever way he could, even if it meant rendering the fat that had been sitting in the vats for weeks or selling soap.

Evening gradually draped itself over the calle, the shop's interior dimming to a dull grey. Dante climbed down from the small ladder and fetched a candle. He could hear his grandfather and Zia Gaia talking with his uncle in the workshop behind. Placing the thick stump of wax on the counter, he lit it, watching as the flame sputtered and caught. The candle led him to think of Tallow, and he wondered how his strange young friend was faring. Hopefully, when he had some spare time and people were again comfortable moving around other quartieri, he could find out for himself.

He stood in the middle of the shop, hands on hips, and gazed up at the remaining empty shelves. 'You won't stack yourselves, will you?' He sighed and bent to pick up some more bars of soap. A movement outside caught his attention. Something was there. A thin stream of moonlight pierced the calle, forming shadows on the opposite walls. He studied them warily, convinced they were nothing but phantoms of his tired mind, when one of them broke away and came towards him. It crouched under the window-sill. His heart hammered against his ribs and his palms became damp.

Damn, he thought. Don't those wretched thieves realise – the people in here survived! Looters had been a problem in the calle. At the height of the trouble, they'd broken into houses and shops, stealing whatever they could. Well, they aren't going to take anything from this shop. He quickly searched for something heavy. He'd teach them a lesson they wouldn't forget. The piece of wood used to prop open the workshop door caught his eye. He hefted it in his hand and, picking up the candle he'd just lit, tiptoed his way to the front door.

Dante counted to three and then, with all his might, swung the door open. A body rolled over the threshold and slammed into his ankles, almost bringing him to his knees. He yelped and dropped the candle. The light went out and, in the dark, he lashed out with his boot, kicking hard. There was a series of grunts. He lifted the wood above his head as something large flew through the door and leapt on him.

He fell to the floor, flailing, his makeshift weapon skittering out of reach. 'Get out! You have no right to be here!' he cried, the sound muffled in rags, hair and limbs.

'Cane, get down! Off!' ordered a familiar voice.

'Tallow?' Dante thought he must be mistaken.

The struggle ceased immediately. Splayed on the shop floor in a jumble of arms and legs, Tallow and Dante stared at each other, their eyes becoming accustomed to the dark. Cane, freeing himself from beneath them, started barking.

'Cane! Shut up!' ordered Tallow. Cane bounded through the open door and down the calle, still barking.

'You kept him!' exclaimed Dante.

Tallow nodded. 'Of course I did. I didn't have a choice, really.'

Dante laughed. 'You never told me.'

'You never asked,' said Tallow.

Dante sat up slowly, taking in Tallow's filthy clothes and the dirt smeared across his face and neck. He noticed the scars that used to chequer his cheeks and lips had disappeared. And those silver eyes. They were luminous in the half-light. He found himself drawn to them. But he looked away lest Tallow remember he didn't have his glasses on and become uneasy. It was too soon for awkwardness. He wanted to know what his friend was doing here, curled up like a gypsy on the doorstep.

He cleared his throat. 'To what do we owe the pleasure?' Then a thought struck him. 'Why didn't you knock?'

'I did,' protested Tallow. 'For ages, but no-one heard. Eventually, I fell asleep. That is, until you so kindly woke me.'

'Woke you? How long have you been out there?' Before she could answer, he screwed up his nose. 'You could have at least had a wash before you came.' He hoisted himself to his feet, found the flint and relit the candle. Holding it above her, he shook his head, 'Look at you. You're a sorry sight. You smell worse than the canal in summ–' He saw the look on Tallow's face and stopped. 'Tallow? What is it? I didn't mean –'

'OH, DANTE,' SAID TALLOW. 'I'VE made a real mess of things ... everything,' she said and bowed her head, unable to speak any more. Her shoulders started to shake. Dante stood there, uncertain what to do or say.

'Well,' said another voice. 'I always think even real messes don't look nearly so bad when they're at least partly cleaned up, wouldn't you agree?'

'Zia Gaia,' moaned Dante. He hadn't heard her come in.

'Don't you Zia Gaia me, young man; I heard the commotion. Close that door and get out of my way. Our friend here needs help. A nice warm bath and some clean clothes will do for starters – and by the feel of those ribs ...' she said, one arm around Tallow's waist as she helped her stand, the other lifting the candle she carried, '... a good feed, too.' She took stock of the young person she held. 'Come on, no buts,' she said as Tallow tried to pull away.

Tallow didn't want to argue. But the idea of a warm bath set her heart racing – and not just because she'd never had one before. Not when a wash behind the ears with a cool, wet cloth would do. It was the bandages around her chest she was worried about. How would she be able to hide those, let alone the rest of her from prying eyes if she had a bath? She tried to formulate a plan, an excuse. Until she came up with something, however, she would be meek and grateful.

'Thanks, ah ... er ...'

'Oh, you can call me Zia Gaia. Everyone else does.' She smiled at Tallow. 'My, would you look at those eyes of yours. I swear the light's playing tricks in here, because they look like a pair of mirrors!'

Tallow almost broke out of Gaia's grasp. Of course! Her eyes. Damn! She glanced at Dante who was grinning at her stupidly. Did he even know what her eyes signified? She'd forgotten how they revealed her Estrattore blood. Especially now that she'd become used to controlling her urge to extract from anything she touched. But she'd also grown so accustomed to her spectacles. She'd have to get used to keeping her head down again, not looking at people so much.

Almost reflexively, she pushed her hair across her eyes. As she did, her thoughts went to Katina. If Katina were here, she wouldn't have to worry. In fact, she wouldn't even be here – with Dante. Katina would never have allowed Pillar to throw her out. But where was Katina? For the first time in months, Tallow found herself thinking about the Bond Rider and wondering why she hadn't returned. And if she did, would Katina be able to find her? She found you the first time, didn't she?

Pushing aside her misery as Gaia dragged her out of the shop, she tossed around a few excuses in her head – something, anything to get her out of the promised bath, which would reveal her secret. But it was no good. She could tell from the grip Gaia maintained that this was a woman who, once she had made up her mind about something, could not be persuaded otherwise.

Led into a small washroom out the back, Tallow was left against a wall while Gaia bustled around, boiling water and fetching towels, chattering the entire time. In time with his Aunt's conversation, Dante repeatedly opened and shut his fingers behind her back, causing Tallow to stifle a giggle.

'Hmm? What's that?' asked Gaia glancing over her shoulder.

Tallow looked away, while Dante ceased his mimicry immediately and simply shrugged. Gaia arched a brow at them before returning to her preparations.

There was no shortage of soap and Tallow was given a bar all to herself. When everything was ready, Gaia waited by the steaming wooden tub, a small jug in her hands and a wash rag hanging from her fingers. Dante sat cross-legged in a corner. The water looked hot, and Tallow's eyes strayed uneasily from the tub, to Gaia, to Dante and then back again.

'Well, come on,' said Gaia playfully. 'Dirty bodies don't wash themselves, you know. Take those ... clothes ... off.' She pulled a face. 'I'll see if I can salvage them later.'

'Oh.' Tallow's eyes widened. It had never occurred to her that her clothes were so distasteful, but Gaia's expression told her they were more than that. She pulled her shirt away from her torso and for the first time noticed the blend of old stains and new streaking the front. Her cuffs were very dark, as were the tattered ends. She compared her worn, grey shirt to Dante's crisp cream one. Dante was right, she must look a sight. She sighed and waited for Dante and Gaia to leave. She'd have the bath then and try and do something about her clothes as well.

'For goodness sake!' exclaimed Gaia, putting the jug on the floor and clutching Tallow's shirt front. Her fingers began to tug at the laces. 'We haven't got all night!'

Tallow recoiled. They were going to stay and watch her? 'No. Please!' She gently knocked away Gaia's hands and pulled her shirt across her chest. 'I'm not used to, you know, washing in front of others.'

Dante burst out laughing. 'Tell the truth, Tallow. You're not used to washing!'

'Dante! Don't be so rude,' snapped Gaia. She looked helplessly from Tallow to Dante. She clearly hadn't expected this sudden display of modesty. Not when she was accustomed to a family who practically bathed together. 'Go and grab one of your old shirts and a pair of breeches, Dante. One of the sets you don't fit into any more.' She indicated that he should leave.

Dante rose to his feet reluctantly. 'But –'

'No buts. Do as you're told,' she said firmly.

Gaia faced Tallow. 'Come on then, you don't need to be self-conscious around me, young man. I've helped raise enough nephews that nothing you have could surprise me.'

She opened the door and shooed Dante out.

Dante went into the shop. His heart was lighter than it had been in days and he knew it was because Tallow was here. He was about to climb the stairs and fetch the clothes when he heard a scraping at the door. He turned around and saw Cane's long nose pressed against the glass.

'Sorry, boy! We forgot about you, didn't we?' He quickly unlatched the door and let the dog in.

Cane jumped on him gratefully. Thrown off balance, Dante fell onto the floor. Thinking it was a game, Cane launched himself on Dante, licking and yapping. Laughing, Dante pulled him onto the slate and began wrestling. Just as he did, a loud shriek came from the washroom, followed by hearty laughter.

It was Gaia.

Dante leapt to his feet and ran down the corridor, Cane on his heels. He tried to open the washroom door, but something was preventing him. He pounded with his fist. 'What's going on? Are you all right?'

Through the door came the murmur of voices. 'Zia Gaia? Tallow? What's going on?'

He heard a giggle, followed by whispers.

'Come on! What's so funny?'

'Go away, Dante. Everything is fine – just fine,' laughed Gaia. 'We'll be out in a while. Turns out young Tallow here did surprise me after all.'

AFTER A LATE SUPPER AT which Tallow was introduced to Dante's grandfather and his Zio Colzo, Gaia made up a bed for Tallow in the kitchen.

'What are you doing, Zia Gaia?' said Dante. 'Tallow's sleeping in the attic with me.'

'No,' said Gaia firmly. 'No, he's not. He's sleeping right here where I can keep an eye on him.' She glanced at Tallow, who flashed her a small smile.

After the initial shock of seeing Tallow's breasts, Gaia had listened to Tallow's story of a cruel uncle who had beaten her ruthlessly and wanted to sell her into slavery until kindly Pillar had rescued her and disguised her as a boy. But Pillar, her only saviour, had disappeared during the outbreak. She had nowhere to go, no-one to turn to.

'Even now,' Tallow had woven her tale quickly. 'My zio searches for me. If anyone were to find out my real identity – anyone – I would be taken away and given to the Vyzantians.'

Tallow could sense that Gaia didn't really believe her. Too sensible to credit such a wild story, she studied Tallow's face. Desperate now, Tallow decided to risk everything. She met Gaia's gaze and, summoning her powers, rested her fingers lightly on the woman's arm.

It had been easy to extract honesty and credibility from the surfaces in Dante's home. The entire place contained the essence of everyone who had ever lived beneath the roof. Magnifying her extraction by drawing on Gaia's own sense of rectitude made it even stronger. Quickly, she distilled it into the woman, allowing it to mix with the qualities Tallow could feel Gaia already possessed.

Releasing Gaia, she lowered her eyes and waited.

Seconds passed.

Finally, Gaia spoke. 'You'll not go to any zio, let alone a dirty Vyzantian, while you're under my roof,' she said.

It sounded like an oath.

Tallow breathed a sigh of relief. Exultation filled her. She'd never done that before, used her gift to deliberately manipulate someone. But her excitement was contaminated by remorse. It had been too easy! Katina hadn't told her. Why, if she could influence someone as grounded as Gaia, then perhaps things might be all right after all.

Until Katina returned to finish training her, Tallow knew she had to stay low and keep safe, and that wouldn't be easy. Hopefully, she wouldn't have long to wait and, maybe while she did, she'd be able to stay here with Dante and his family. After all, she needed Katina's help to improve her talent. There was no way she was ready to strike out on her own. Seeing the earnestness in Gaia's face gave her pause. Or was she? Her skills had improved immensely since her first clumsy efforts. Was it simply courage she lacked, courage to stand on her own two feet?

No. She still had a lot to learn, and not just about being an Estrattore. Now that someone else shared the secret of her sex, the pressure of maintaining the charade on her own lessened. She decided that while she was under Dante's roof, she would try and learn as much as she could about being a woman from observing Dante's female relatives.

Using the soft towel Gaia gave her, she dried herself, marvelling at how different her flesh looked and felt. She relished the smell of Dante's old clothes against her clean skin, the freshness of the fabric, and the knowledge that these garments had once rested against him. She took her time, knowing she had some important decisions to make. But at least now I have an ally, she thought, glancing at Gaia fussing around her.

For the next five days, Tallow lived the type of life she'd always been denied. Meals were shared without fights. Vino was drunk in moderation, not to hasten forgetfulness and sleep. Even the work, which was laborious and long, wasn't infected by the usual recriminations and criticisms. Bedtime was not something to look forward to as an escape, but as a genuine rest period that Tallow not only found she needed, but actually regretted because it took her away from Gaia, Renzo and Dante.

Work was initially a problem as Gaia tried to keep Tallow in the shop with her. But, as Renzo and Colzo pointed out, Tallow's skills as a candlemaker would be very useful because the two crafts were so similar. Gaia reluctantly conceded. Tallow knew that while it was good to have Gaia on side, she would have to do something lest the kind old woman accidentally reveal her sex.

There was another reason Tallow wanted to help in the workshop. Not only did she get the chance to meet Dante's other relatives; most importantly, she was able to work side by side with Dante.

Each day she observed him from under her floppy cap, and listened to how he teased his cousins and cajoled his aunts and uncles. When Dante was around, the misery that had tainted their lives seemed to flee. Even boiling the putrid fat and scooping the render became a game, an adventure, and all because Dante made it so. She saw how he'd ensure he was by Renzo's side when something heavy had to be lifted, or become Zia Faluza's eyes when the light grew too dim for her to see the fat she was slicing into bars of soap. When the babies needed comforting, it was Dante who scooped them out of the crib and danced them across the workshop floor, through the steam and into the street, laughing and pulling faces.

'He's a treasure, that boy!' the widow Zia Dulmia would claim, her hands on her sizeable hips, a smile spread across her freckled countenance. 'A real tresoro, priceless.'

Tallow didn't need it pointed out. She was beginning to see how much his family relied upon him, especially now.

Dante had always seemed to be a carefree, impulsive young man who ducked his responsibilities and wove unrealistic dreams. But as the days flew by and she saw how he interacted with his family and neighbours and listened to his plans for the future, she understood that he was much more than that. For Tallow it was heartbreaking that people like Dante, like her, were trapped in a world not of their making, where roles and rules were imposed long before they were ever born.

At night, long after supper had been cleared away, they would all sit around a small fire and share talk of neighbours and others who had drifted into the quartiere. Gaia would tell them who had come into the shop that day and what losses they'd suffered over the last weeks. Or she would report stories of hope and rebuilding, and they would raise their mugs in a toast and offer prayers to God.

From time to time, Tallow became aware of the others' lingering glances and her heart would thud. She knew they were curious about her and her eyes. Gaia had told them that she was half-Jinoan and that seemed to satisfy them for a while, but Tallow knew that the aunts and uncles were discomforted by her appearance. Once she caught Zia Dulmia making the sign of the evil eye over her baby after Tallow had comforted him. But no-one confronted her directly and, certainly, Renzo and Gaia showed no inclination to ask her to leave.

One night Tallow noticed that Gaia was quieter than usual. During lulls in the conversation, her face had turned towards Tallow, a frown creasing her brow. When Tallow had looked at her questioningly, Gaia had given her a distracted smile and turned away.

Tallow tried to shrug off the uneasiness that marred what was otherwise, for her at least, an idyll.

MIDDAY PASSED AND ALREADY TALLOW had been in the workshop for over six hours. It was a warm autumn day and a mild breeze drifted from the calle that ran along the rear and in through the workshop door. Feeling hot and sticky after working over the tub of fat, Tallow dragged a stool towards the wide rear entrance. Confined to the house since she had arrived, she hadn't yet explored the neighbourhood, although Dante promised they would soon.

Out there in the fresh air, she was able to breathe again. While the smell in Pillar's workshop had on occasion been unpleasant, it didn't compare to the stench of chandling. She took some deep breaths and, perching herself on the stool, looked around. Behind her, the vats were bubbling merrily; directly in front, a huge block of soap was hardening in the sun.

She'd only just sat down when Renzo strolled outside and handed her a hunk of bread and some cheese. 'Here,' he said. 'Enjoy. You've earned it.'

Tallow took the food gratefully. 'Thank you.'

Renzo smiled and then looked up and down the calle. From beneath the brim of her hat, Tallow followed his gaze. A number of people were looking in their direction but quickly looked away when they saw Renzo scowling fiercely at them. 'I don't think it's a good idea for you to sit out here, Tallow,' he said.

Tallow was surprised. 'Really?' She waited for an explanation. It didn't come. 'I won't be long. I just need some air. The fat –' She patted her belly and pulled a face.

Renzo smiled. 'Yes, it can be overpowering for those who aren't used to it.' He squeezed Tallow's shoulder. 'Five minutes. No more.' He cast one more glance up the calle and strode back inside.

Waiting for her stomach to settle so she could eat, Tallow fed titbits to Cane who, tied to a stool nearby, sat obediently at her feet. Tallow had been forced to tie him up to stop him barking and bounding after the passers-by.

Biting into the bread, Tallow chewed slowly, enjoying the activity around her. In front of her the long, wide calle was filled with businesses, workshops and warehouses. For the first time since Serenissima was declared disease free, vendors had finally returned to the nearby piazzetta and shops – many with new owners.

As a result, people slowly wandered from the piazzetta back to the calle. Custom had started to pick up and, for Dante's family at least, there were large orders to fill. Tallow watched as children ran beneath their mothers' skirts, bumping their shopping baskets as they wandered from store to store. In a huddle not too far away, a group of washerwomen sat on their small stools hard at work. In the chandlers' workshop opposite, the new owners laboured over their vats, calling out to each other, and occasionally sending one of their apprentices over to ask a question of Renzo or Colzo.

A gangly young apprentice emerged out of the doorway across the calle and approached her. His apron was filthy, his cheeks and hands carrying the burns typical of his status. Her hands used to look like that too, she thought. That was until she made those candles – the candles that saved so many in her quartiere. Her thoughts, as they often did, drifted to Pillar. She wondered how he was faring without his apprentice. Did he miss her?

'Er, scusi,' said the apprentice. Tallow guessed he would have been her age. 'Is Signor Colzo there?'

'Inside,' she said, jerking her thumb behind her.

The apprentice nodded and wandered in, his eyes wide. He glanced at Tallow over his shoulder, almost crashing into a vat.

He wasn't the only one staring.

What Tallow failed to notice as she lost herself in memories were the eyes that lingered on her, the faces that stared through the secrecy of shop windows; the swift glances and quick nods. Neither did she hear the whispers that attended her any time she was even glimpsed in the calle.

The young apprentice wandered out and back to his own workshop, his neck twisted round so he could look at Tallow for as long as possible.

Tallow might not have noticed the attention she was receiving, but Dante did.

So did his family.

A gentle tap on the shoulder interrupted her musings.

'Tallow?' It was Gaia. 'I think you should come inside now.' Gaia draped an arm around her and coaxed her in the door. Making sure Tallow was safely out of sight, she stepped back into the calle. 'What are you lot looking at?' she shouted, her arms raised in the air. Some faces turned away, others stared brazenly at her. Her ire began to rise. 'He's just a boy. A good boy, do you hear me? Leave him alone.' She shook her fist at them.

'What's going on?' asked Tallow as Gaia stormed back in. She'd heard every word.

The entire family stopped their excited babbling and stared at Tallow in silence. 'What is it?' Tallow half-laughed, looking at Dante for an explanation. He folded his arms and refused to meet her eyes.

Uncomfortable under their scrutiny, Tallow lowered her head and scraped her foot backwards and forwards through the sawdust, tracing patterns. 'Have I done something wrong?'

No-one spoke.

Gaia made a noise of exasperation and took a step towards Tallow, but, before she could say anything, Zia Dulmia spoke.

'Is it true?' she asked.

Tallow felt a familiar coldness creep over her body. Gaia stopped in her tracks. 'Is what true?'

Zia Dulmia glanced at her sister who gave an encouraging jerk of her head. 'That he has magic powers.'

'Magic?' Tallow still didn't raise her head. She wanted to laugh, but she couldn't. She was afraid it would turn into a moan.

'No.' It was Renzo. 'More than magic,' he said, putting down his lunch and stepping closer. He indicated to Dante to shut the door.

It rattled noisily as it was pulled shut.

Renzo bent down until his face was level with Tallow's. Placing a long, calloused finger under her chin, he gently raised it. 'It is true,' he said, his eyes locked on hers. 'It's more than magic. It's who you are. You bear the mark, the true sign. Eyes like mirrors, the legends say. In my lifetime, I never expected to see ... You are an Estrattore. A descendant of the old gods.'

There were some gasps and many nods.

Tallow backed away, looking from one to the other. 'No, no, I'm not. Really. You're wrong.' She focused on Renzo, compelling him to look her in the eyes. 'I'm not. I'm half-Jinoan. I'm not an Estrattore ...'

Renzo's eyes widened and his mouth fell open.

Tallow began to draw on her talent. She raised her arm, reaching for him. All she had to do was touch him ...

'Don't be frightened, Tallow,' said Gaia softly.

Tallow's arm dropped.

Gaia came forward, a smile on her face. 'We are no threat to you, not after what you did for us.' Her smile fled when she saw her father transfixed, unable to look away from Tallow. 'Don't do this, Tallow. I promise. We aren't going to hurt you or turn you over to the authorities.'

'How do I know that?' said Tallow finally, breaking eye contact with Renzo. The old man shook his head. Dazed, he rose to his feet.

A sense of inevitability pricked Tallow's purpose. Her fiery resolve to maintain her masquerade shattered into a thousand painful shards. It was over. There was no point pretending any more. She looked around. The uncles couldn't meet her eyes, and the aunts tried to smile but their mouths trembled too much. Zia Dulmia made the sign to ward away evil over and over. The children simply stared. Tallow was trapped, helpless but she would not, could not surrender. Not yet. Sadness bubbled in her chest. 'How do I know that you won't tell the soldiers or the padres and claim the reward?'

'Because we're your friends, remember.' From behind her, Dante stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder, his long fingers resting lightly on her shirt. The warmth of his touch, the truth of his words penetrated her clothes and sank into her flesh, resonating through her body as she opened her mind to what lay in Dante's core and found something so real and terrifying –

'Don't touch me!' she cried, spinning around and breaking free of his grasp. 'Oh, please, don't touch me! You don't understand.'

'Tallow –' protested Dante, and went to reassure her again. Gaia opened her arms wide, her face flooded with sympathy. Renzo shakily held out his hand. The uncles stepped towards her, followed tentatively by the aunts. They were all talking, promising, coaxing.

Pressure began to build in Tallow's head. She thought she was going to fly apart.

A sibilant chorus began chanting in her mind. Images of burning bodies, their limbs cruelly hacked off, danced before her. Wicked laughter followed by vicious taunts rose out of the whispers. Katina's words followed by Pillar's warnings overlapped with Quinn's threats, became louder and louder.

And underneath it all, like a forceful current, the murmuring continued.

Don't listen, Tallow. They'll turn on you; they always do. Their promises are poison upon which you sup at your own peril ...

It was more than Tallow could take.

Before anyone could stop her, she bolted to the door, wrenched it open and fled into the calle.

Outside, a group of people had congregated. As the door opened, they froze and fell silent. When Tallow burst out of the workshop, they paused in surprise before beginning to whisper to each other.

Tallow stopped in mid-stride, bewildered. Who were all these people? What were they doing here? Why were they staring at her like that?

'That's him! That's the candlemaker's apprentice!' declared a lone voice. The cry was taken up. 'It's the angel of mercy. Stop him!'

From inside the workshop, Cane began to bark, straining at his ties. Tallow didn't wait to hear more. Pushing people aside, she fled.

Momentarily confused and a little frightened, they allowed Tallow to pass. They hadn't expected the person they were discussing to materialise. They watched her for a few more seconds and then, as if waking from a dream, broke into a run after her, shouting, ordering him to stop.

'Oh, God!' moaned Dulmia, running to the door. 'I didn't mean for –'

'None of us did, none of us,' said Renzo sombrely, comforting his daughter.

'We should have spoken out earlier – after the rumours started. We should have known it would be like this,' said Gaia, shaking her head. 'All the talk, the whispers, the accusations.'

'All the questions,' agreed Dulmia.

They watched helplessly as Tallow rounded the corner, the crowd closing on his heels.

Dante grabbed Gaia's arm. 'I have to go after him. Make sure he's all right.'

'Of course you do,' agreed Gaia. 'Bring him back to us. He can't help what he is.'

Dante stared at his great-aunt and nodded. 'How will I know where he's gone?'

'Take the dog,' said Renzo, untying Cane from the stool. 'He'll know.'

'Right!' said Dante and, winding the rope around his wrist, led Cane onto the cobbles. Cane pulled and tried to run. 'Find Tallow, boy,' he said. 'Take me to him!' Cane let out a volley of barks and, with a flick of his tail, bounded up the calle.

Dante gave his family a quick wave before being dragged out of sight.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The spy vanishes

VINCENZO DI TORELLO REGARDED GIACONDA suspiciously.

'You say you know Signor Barbacan?'

The nobile woman swallowed her annoyance. Was the taverna owner being cautious or deliberately obtuse?

'He was working for my father,' she said, careful not to place her gloved hands anywhere near the sticky counter. 'He was being paid to seek business opportunities in this sestiere on behalf of a client. He is overdue with his reports. Considering that the outbreak was particularly severe in your area, and the danger has now passed, my father thought he would call in person. He seeks to firstly inquire as to Signor Barbacan's health, and, secondly, find out why the reports are no longer reaching him.'

Vincenzo glanced over the woman's shoulder at the old man who had entered with her. He sat smoking a fragrant pipe at one of the tables, one leg outstretched, his cane resting against a chair. While he appeared not to listen, Vincenzo knew he hung on every word. The tobacco he blew around the room smelled like quality, and the woman's haughty manner certainly bespoke a class that did not frequent this taverna. But their clothes contradicted their airs. Made from the finest material, they were faded and patched and, while he couldn't be certain, he thought they were out of fashion.

Vincenzo couldn't work the woman out. She looked like a nobile, but she certainly didn't act like one. No nobile woman would ever enter an establishment like his, father or no father, or address the proprietor in such a forward manner. If they were so concerned about Barbacan, why didn't they send a servant? Affable enough, Barbacan was very private and seemed to prefer his solitude. But if this woman was a courtesan, as he suspected, why would she want to see Barbacan's room? No matter the reason, Vincenzo didn't like it. One thing his clients could count on was his discretion. He wouldn't let anyone, regardless of who they purported to be, enter a guest's room.

'Excuse me, Signor.' Tired of the stalemate, Ezzelino decided to intervene. Rising to his feet, he tapped his way over to the counter. He placed a closed fist upon the sticky surface. 'I admire your loyalty to your customers – your reluctance to allow access to Signor Barbacan's room. But perhaps this might persuade you to change your mind.'

Ezzelino opened his fist and two ducats clattered onto the bar.

Vincenzo's jaw dropped. Giaconda shot her father a look of surprise. He fixed his gaze upon the taverna keeper. 'Give us the key,' he said affably, leaning forward conspiratorially. 'No-one need ever know. We'll be ten minutes, not a second more. All we want to do is look.'

Vincenzo cleared his throat, his eyes locked on the coins. He hadn't seen that amount in a while, not since the sickness struck. He quickly scanned the room. There was only the young waiter, Guido, brought in to replace his nephew, Enrico, after he died. The old man was right. No-one need ever know. Anyway, wasn't he a businessman at heart?

He placed one hand over the gold and with his other, handed a key to Ezzelino. 'This is the master key. Your man still has the other. The lock's a bit stiff. Pull the door towards you as you turn.'

Ezzelino smiled and passed the key to his daughter.

'He's on the first floor. I'll give you your ten minutes,' reminded Vincenzo, pointing to the stairs. 'Ten minutes – not a moment more.'

'ALL OF BAROQUE'S BELONGINGS SEEM to be here,' said Ezzelino, picking up a dirty shirt between thumb and forefinger and throwing it over a chair. 'It's as if he's half-packed.'

'Or unpacked,' said Giaconda.

The room was small, tiny even. Dark beams criss-crossed the low ceiling, giving the space an oppressive air. There was a bed, a wooden washstand, a writing bureau placed beneath a narrow window that offered little in the way of light, and a shabby-looking rug on the floor.

'That's good,' added Giaconda, picking up a bag and placing it on the bureau. Opening the lock, she began rifling through the contents. 'At least that means he hasn't gone very far. The owner said he's only been missing two nights. I don't care how long he's been gone; what I want to know is does he have the boy?'

'Yes. And if he does, why hasn't he brought him to us?'

'What if he's double-crossed us?' asked Giaconda, pausing in her search.

'Unlikely,' said Ezzelino. 'Not with what we know about him.' Giaconda smiled. Her father could be so ruthless when he had to. She hoped that when the time was right, she would be the same. She was about to withdraw her hand from the bag when she felt something.

'Wait a minute, what's this?' She probed deeper. 'There's

a false bottom in this bag.' She glanced excitedly at her father. 'What's Baroque got to hide?'

'Plenty. The Doge didn't dismiss him and then put a price on his head for nothing.'

Giaconda tried to lever the bottom out of the bag, but it wouldn't budge. 'This is better made than it looks,' she said through gritted teeth.

Her father stood beside her. 'Standard issue for all spies and diplomats. He was meant to return it when he ... left the Doge's service.'

'I suppose he believed he was owed something.' 'Don't we all?' Ezzelino watched her struggling a moment longer, then bent down and pulled something from a tiny sheath strapped to his ankle. He handed her a small silver dirk.

She was surprised. How many other concealed weapons

does my father carry?

As she ran the blade along the silk lining, something snapped. A trigger was released and the base sprang open. 'At last!' said Giaconda and peered in at the contents. Ezzelino brought the candle closer and looked at what Baroque had wanted to conceal: four mouldy green books. Giaconda plucked one from its case and opened it, turning the pages carefully. 'They appear to be journals of some kind.' She began to read aloud.

The Vyzantian ambassador succumbed quickly. Whoever dosed him had mismanaged the amount. After just two sips of vino, he collapsed onto his plate, convulsing and frothing at the mouth. Within seconds, his eyes had all but departed their sockets, his breathing had stopped and it was evident to all but his hysterical wife that he was dead.

Called to administer what aid I could, I knew not to touch his mouth. The tell-tale purple colour and rapid swelling of his tongue announced poison more loudly than the unexpected absence of the Phalagonian minister.

As I helped the distressed servants remove his body, I knew I would have to work quickly to uncover the culprit and prevent another war. The Doge was clear on that. Serenissima could not afford a war, not for another four years at least ...

Giaconda flicked through the rest of the pages. 'He's documented everything. Absolutely everything. Look. A trip to Kyprus, and here it covers time he spent in Jinoa. In the wrong hands, I imagine these could be quite incriminating.'

'How fortunate, then, that they've fallen into ours.' Ezzelino picked up a journal that looked newer than the rest. 'What about this one?'

Giaconda took it from him and opened it. She was about to read when her father stopped her. 'No. Go to his last entries. What does he write?'

The journal was almost full. Giaconda quickly scanned the pages. Her eyes widened and her face broke into a smile. 'Listen ...'

I have my instructions. I am to kidnap the boy and take him to my employers, the Maleovellis. It's the type of work I've done for decades. I wonder then at my reticence. What is it about this boy that makes me hesitate, even when my life is at stake? My plans are in place, all I have to do is act. I know he was forced from his home in the Candlemakers Quartiere and now dwells beneath the roof of his friend, the chandler Dante Macelleria ...

Giaconda lifted her head. 'That's something we didn't know. I wonder what happened?'

'Continue,' said Ezzelino, tapping his cane on the floor. 'Our time is almost up.'

Giaconda flipped the next few pages. 'He goes on and on about his ambivalence. He seems to be quite smitten with the boy.'

Ezzelino smirked. 'Then he's typical of his kind.'

'Wait!' There was an edge of excitement to Giaconda's voice. She read in silence for a moment. 'He says here that he went to find the boy. He was leaving the taverna, intending to hide in the Chandlers Quartiere until the boy was left unattended so he could kidnap him and bring him to us.'

'You believe that's where he is now? In the Chandlers Quartiere?'

'Where else?' asked Giaconda. 'But why didn't he take his belongings?'

Ezzelino frowned. 'That, my dear, is a very good question.'

'Do you think he's met with foul play?'

Ezzelino didn't answer immediately. 'I don't know. I just know I don't like a mystery. Not when it's costing me money.'

'Should we go to this quartiere then? See what we can find out?'

Before Ezzelino could reply, a shadow filled the doorway. 'Time's up.' It was Signor Vincenzo. Giaconda turned her back on him and carefully closed the journal. She returned it to the case, lowering the false bottom and pushing it until it clicked.

'Ah, Signor di Torello,' said Ezzelino, limping to the door, using his cane to push furniture out of his way. 'We were just leaving.'

'Really?' said Vincenzo. There was something about this pair that left him with a bad taste in his mouth. He wanted them gone, coin or no coin. 'I'd be obliged if you'd give me back my key and go. You've seen what you came for.'

'Yes, yes we have,' said Ezzelino. 'My dear.' He gestured to Giaconda. 'Bring that shirt and the case. Show the good man that it contains nothing but Signor Barbacan's clothing and a few odds and ends.'

Giaconda plucked the shirt off the chair and thrust it into the bag, holding it open beneath Vincenzo's nose for a second. Then she snapped it shut.

'We'll be taking this with us,' said Ezzelino.

'This is quite unorthodox –' began Vincenzo. 'I'm afraid I can't allow –'

'Ah, Signor,' said Ezzelino quickly. 'Think. If we empty the room of the previous tenant's belongings, you can rent it out again, can you not? Signor Barbacan has but one case and that was already packed. Obviously, he was intending to leave – presumably to report back to us, his employers. But, if you wish, we can leave the case, and then you can rent out the room to a piece of luggage. When the bill is due, you can demand it pay you, yes?'

Vincenzo looked flustered. Ezzelino pressed yet another ducat into his hand. 'That is for rent owed by my employee. Paid in full. If I leave here without the case, any fees incurred are no longer my responsibility. Am I clear?'

'Yes, yes,' said Vincenzo hurriedly. He couldn't afford to leave the room empty. 'Take the case. Take it and go, please.' He took the key and showed the pair out of the room. He watched as they went down the stairs: the old man with the hooded eyes and the attentive, beautiful woman.

Vincenzo had always prided himself on his taste in women. He couldn't understand why this one's obvious charms did nothing for him. She left him cold, uncomfortable even, like one of those women in paintings with mouths that promise while their eyes follow you everywhere.

He waited until they were out of sight and then entered the room. He looked briefly about before closing the window and snuffing the candle.

'Where are you, Signor Barbacan?' he asked the darkness. 'Where are you?'

'YOU TOOK A RISK THERE, Father,' said Giaconda as they stepped back into the campo. 'What if he'd said no?'

'He wasn't going to. Once he took my coin, he was ours.' Ezzelino peered up at the sky.

'What do we do now?'

'We will return to the gondola. According to Baroque, the Chandlers Quartiere can be accessed from the water. I believe we should go and explore the area and see what we will.'

'Very well,' said Giaconda, shifting the suitcase to her other hand. Time was running out. They had to find the boy before someone else did ...

If they didn't, all their plans, their years of research, bribing, scheming – and above all, hoping – would amount to nothing.

Linking her arm through her father's, they strolled back to the canal, talking in low voices, unaware of the leather-garbed Riders watching them from the rooftops.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
On the Ponticello di
Mille Pietre

MY CHEST WAS ON FIRE. My throat was dry. Behind me, I could hear the babble of excited voices. As I ran through calles and rami, tore across the campo, I could hear them calling. 'It's the candlemaker's apprentice. Stop him!'

Yet again, I was running away. I'd left myself with no choice. I'd started this; now I had to keep going. But I'd have to stop sometime, and then what would these people do to me?

A burst of energy spurred by fear put extra distance between me and the trailing masses. I ran across the bridge that spanned the canal dividing the Chandlers and Candlemakers Quartieri and dashed down a sottoportegho, relishing the brief shade it provided. I raced across another campo, aware that everyone was staring at me. Patrons had emerged from the taverna. Signor di Torello's voice rose above the throng. 'Tallow? Where are you going? Why do you run so?'

I was back in my old territory.

Back home.

I knew then where I had to go – where I would be safe. I would go to Pillar.

I left the exposure of the campo and dashed down the salizzada. Before I knew it, I'd negotiated the labyrinthine calles and rami and was running along the fondamenta to my old home. The shop was shut, but I pounded on the door anyway.

'Pillar, it's me!' I cried. 'Let me in, oh God, please, let me in!'

There was no answer.

'Pillar!' I screamed. I ran to the adjacent workshop door, slamming my fist into the wood. I was desperate now.

I could hear them coming. A crowd of about fifty rounded the corner and spilled onto the fondamenta. On spotting me, a cheer rose – whether in celebration or as a prequel to battle, I couldn't tell.

I didn't wait. I couldn't afford to. Not even my beloved rooftop would afford me protection. The mob would simply follow and I'd be trapped.

With no option, I took off again, heading for the bridge at the other end of the fondamenta. Perhaps once I crossed into the Tanners Quartiere, I'd lose them.

I struck out over the bridge, my head down, my arms and legs pumping. The shouts behind me became louder, fiercer. Doors had opened and people were pointing and crying out, adding their words to those already filling the air.

A dark shadow carved the sunlight in two and I was no longer the bridge's only occupant. I looked up and what I saw made me freeze in my tracks. Someone was at the other end, waiting.

I wiped sweat out of my eyes and stared in disbelief.

'Katina?' I gasped. 'Is that you?' My heart was beating so hard, I was certain it would bruise my ribs.

The bridge shook as my pursuers began to cross. I spun around. They slowed to gather in a huddle in the middle of the bridge, shuffling and pushing, murmuring among themselves, waiting for someone to take the lead.

Breathing heavily, they stared at me and I at them. We all waited to see what the other would do next.

I didn't know what to do, but I knew who would. I spun to face Katina.

But she'd gone. Vanished. I couldn't believe it. I gave a small whimper and wiped my face again. Were my eyes playing cruel tricks? Offering me hope where there was none? My legs wouldn't move. I knew fate had finally caught up with me.

I turned back to face the crowd. Someone was moving swiftly through them, jostling to get the front.

Cane and Dante exploded out of the throng. 'Tallow!' shouted Dante. My heart soared. Cane began barking and ran towards me, dragging Dante behind him at the end of a crude leash.

For a moment I hesitated. Should I run to Dante and show how happy I was to see him – that he cared enough to own me as a friend? Or would my obvious allegiance place him and his family in danger? Should I turn and flee instead? I was still trying to make up my mind when someone else emerged from the mob.

'Tallow?'

Standing there, dishevelled and alone, was Pillar.

Dante swung around at the sound of the voice. Cane barked even more loudly, straining in an effort to reach Pillar.

'Pillar,' I whispered. He looked terrible. His clothes hung on him in rags and his face was hollow, covered with a grey beard.

'You came back!' He began to stagger towards me, his arms outstretched.

Just then, a noise behind me made me glance over my shoulder. I fully expected to see the constabulary – or worse, soldiers.

What I saw made my blood turn to ice.

Mounting the steps on the other side of the bridge was a huge chestnut horse. On its back sat a tall, well-built rider wearing a dragon mask.

I couldn't move. The horse leapt over the last step and bore down on me, its hooves thundering over the stone. The sound was shocking. Horses never rode through our quartiere. They just didn't.

The crowd at the other end of the bridge screamed and broke away, trampling each other to get off the bridge. In their panic, I was momentarily forgotten.

I screwed up my eyes and waited for the blow, hoping it would be over quickly, when the rider leant down and, in one smooth action, grabbed my arm and hauled me up onto the saddle.

I fought, kicking and punching, but it was no good. I was clamped soundly to the rider's chest. Ahead, I could see people running in all directions, wailing in terror. Pillar flung himself against the sides of the bridge to avoid being crushed. But closer still, I could see Dante standing directly in the path of the horse.

Cane barked furiously.

'Dante!' I screamed. 'Look out!'

I waited for the rider to pull in the reins, to swing past them as he had me. But he didn't. Instead, he rode straight for Cane and Dante. Without hesitating, the horse bore over them. Cane yelped and Dante shouted before both were silenced by the sickening sound of crunching bones.

I shouted and struggled harder. I had to get away – to Dante, to Cane. They were hurt. They needed me.

But the rider held me. Using all my strength, I bit down on the exposed bit of skin that gripped the reins. I ground my teeth into his hand and felt my mouth fill with blood. I tore the flesh away and spat. The rider cried out and loosened his hold. It was all I needed. I flung myself sideways, forcing him to release me. I hurtled through the air and slammed into the stones. I rolled for a moment, the wind knocked out of me. My left arm hung uselessly. But I didn't care. I rose to my feet unsteadily and staggered back along the bridge. I was dimly aware that the rider had halted his horse. He watched me.

As I came closer to where Cane and Dante lay sprawled on the bridge, my heart seized. A chill coursed through my body, as if winter had entered my bones. Blackness threatened to overwhelm me, but I pushed it all away.

'No, no,' I moaned as I reached Cane. I dropped to my knees before him. Using my functioning arm, I pulled his broken, lifeless body into my lap. His tongue lolled out of his mouth and his ear caressed my own. His brown eyes wore a dull, opaque film. His blood soaked my shirt, but I didn't care. 'Oh, Cane, Cane. My beautiful boy.' Tears stung my eyes; my chest filled with rage and sorrow. Then I looked over the top of his soft, umber head and saw Dante.

I lay Cane down gently and crawled along the bridge towards my dear friend.

Dante's eyes were closed. Apart from the blood that flowed from his nose and mouth, he looked asleep. But I could see from the pallor of his cheeks and the blue that tinged his eyes and lips that his injuries were dire.

'Dante?' I lifted his head onto my knees. He groaned and his eyes fluttered open. 'Dante?' I repeated, stroking his cheeks, feeling him back to life.

'Tallow?' he said, ever so softly. He began to smile. His teeth were red with blood. 'I found you.'

I couldn't help it. I began to cry. 'Yes, yes you did.' I took a deep breath, ignoring the fire that ignited in my side, and tried to pull myself together. 'Dante, I have to help you.' I became aware that the crowd was cautiously mounting the steps towards us, curiosity overcoming their fear. The enigmatic horseman waited on the fondamenta, his mount dancing skittishly on the spot.

'No, Tallow.' Dante lifted a hand to my cheek and rested his cooling palm against my hot face. I leaned into him. 'There's nothing you can do, my friend, nothing.'

'You're wrong,' I said, and leaned over to press my cheek against his. My lips were close to his ear as I whispered, 'I can help you, like I did Cane.'

'No,' said Dante. His eyes were rolling back in his head. 'If you do, they will know what you really are. Your life will be forfeit.'

'I don't care,' I said. My tears ran tracks through the blood on his face.

'But I do,' he said. His eyelids began to flutter. 'May God forgive me, but I love you, Tallow. My little dorato.' His breath came in short, sharp gasps. 'Some ... some may say ... that what ... I ... f– feel is wrong. It's not. Not this. I ... want you to know I ... love you ... now and ... for eternity.'

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I wanted to scream, fight the injustice of the whole damn world.

'Oh, Dante. I love you.' I pressed my lips against his. I could just feel the tip of his tongue inside my mouth. I lifted his hand, all grazed and bloodied, and pressed it against my body. 'I love you, too.' With our lips joined, my words flew into his mouth.

As I clutched his hand to my chest, I forced his fingers apart. I saw his eyes widen and a frown crease his forehead as he felt the natural swelling that I'd tried so hard to hide. His broken fingers cupped my breasts. 'Tallow?' My name came out as one long gurgling breath. Blood flowed freely over his teeth and lips. I held him tight, showering kisses on his face. I could taste his blood in my mouth. I was his pledge stone, he was my Bond Rider. 'I love you, I love you.' The words were my mantra against the inevitable.

He gave a violent shudder. Blood gushed from his mouth in one final exhalation. Then he lay still. I gripped him tighter, sealed his lips with mine, willing him back to life. But it was no good.

'No!' I screamed. 'You can't leave me! Don't you dare, Dante. Come back!' I sat back on my knees, his head heavy in my lap. My hand ran lightly over his features, pulling gently at the lips that moments before had uttered words I'd never thought to hear. This wasn't happening. 'Dante,' I whispered.

A quick clatter was all that alerted me.

The rider had finally urged his mount forward and, as I held Dante, he careered towards me, leaning low in the saddle.

I wavered for just a second. I didn't want to leave Dante. He'd given his life for mine. But that same inner voice that had first told me to run now told me leap.

I clambered over the edge of the bridge, clawing my way over the stone railing with my good arm, and launched myself into the canal.

I heard the gasp of the mob and the angry shout of the rider before water closed over me and I knew no more.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The significance of
failure

'HE MISSED,' SAID KATINA, HANDING over the spyglass to her companion. 'I can't believe it. He has her in his grasp, then the idiot goes and drops her. And now she eludes him again.' Katina was glad that her voice did not betray the fear that had claimed her when Tallow had hurled herself into the water.

'What did you expect?' asked the tall, blond Bond Rider, squinting to better see the events unfolding on the bridge. 'Give a mission like that to a newcomer and it's bound to fail.'

'Get off my back, Stefano,' snapped Katina. 'It wasn't my idea and you know it.'

Katina's mind was racing. On the one hand she was glad their mission to kidnap Tallow had suffered a setback, while on the other she was anxious for the girl. She had to find her, protect her. But not the way the Council demanded– not by forcing her to come with them.

She'd followed orders to observe Tallow before approaching her. The mess she'd found had dismayed her – not only from the disease that had destroyed so many Serenissian lives, but in Tallow's life itself. Nothing was as she'd left it.

Stefano grinned at her. 'Your idea didn't work either, did it? Tracking her, waiting for the right time to reconnect. All we did was arouse curiosity – at least the horse stopped the mob charging her. This ...' He gestured to the crowd on the bridge. 'This mess is as much our fault as anyone's. Perhaps the Elders should have listened to you after all. Turns out, there was no right time.'

Katina glared at him and then, leaping to her feet, ran nimbly over the roof tiles, parallel to the canal. There was still no sign of Tallow. Katina felt sick. 'Come on!' she ordered. 'If we're to have anything to report, we're going to have to see if she surfaces.'

'Shall we take her?'

'Only if we can,' Katina was torn. Oh Tallow, be safe, she thought. But stay out of sight. I need to think. I need to get this right – for all our sakes. 'We're not supposed to be seen, remember?'

Stefano grimaced. 'Then what was Santo doing?'

'What he's always done ever since he joined us – indulging in spectacle.' Katina longed to confront the Rider, and not only for this morning's disaster.

Katina and Stefano jumped from rooftop to rooftop, running over the shingles, sliding down drains, making their way to the street. Away from the commotion on the bridge, they finally rejoined the canal, leaping onto the fondamenta and linking arms like lovers out for an afternoon stroll.

'Follow the current,' murmured Katina, her calm voice belying her angst. 'She's bound to surface somewhere along here.' Her eyes scanned the waterways. Apart from a gondola in the distance, she could see no sign of boats or bodies. Come on, Tallow, she thought. Don't let all this have been for nothing. We can do this. Don't die on me now.

'Could she swim?'

Katina shrugged, pretending indifference. 'I don't know. Perhaps.' Beloved gods, protect her, she chanted to herself.

'What about what happened on the bridge? The young man? Do you think he's dead?'

Katina looked at him blankly. 'You mean the chandler's apprentice? I would think so, wouldn't you? The steel shoes on our horses' hooves don't miss much. They're not supposed to. At least Santo didn't fail us there.'

Katina wondered about this young man with whom Tallow had formed such a close relationship. A little flame of jealousy flickered. Why the Council had demanded his death, she had no idea. At least that part of their mission had succeeded. But the look on Tallow's face, her despair, the fact she'd flung herself into the canal rather than be taken – this young man was clearly someone for whom Tallow cared deeply. Katina frowned. What was going on? How had so much happened in so short a time? She caught herself. But it wasn't a short time; she'd been gone for months and everything, everyone, had changed – including herself.

An idea began to take shape in her mind. Perhaps she could yet salvage this mess. But she would have to be quick and discreet – it was an enormous risk, and her life and Tallow's depended on it.

'No,' drawled Stefano. 'When all is said and done, Elder Dandolo will be pleased.'

Katina glanced at her companion. He mustn't know what she was thinking. 'Quit the sarcasm. I'm in trouble and I know it. This mission has been one huge bungle from beginning to end. But before you go and get too cocky about it, Stefano, remember you've contributed to the failure, too. You're part of this feeble effort.' She punctuated every word with a jab in his chest. 'Now, shut up and help me find the Estrattore. If she's alive, we need to find out where she is. If she's not, then we'd better think of where it's safe for us to hide in the Limen.'

'From the Elders?' said Stefano. 'Nowhere.'

'Exactly,' said Katina. 'So you'd better pray she's alive, hadn't you?' She stared at him for a moment. 'Let's get on with it. We have to meet Santo, Debora and Alessandro at the pledge stone by sundown.' She shaded her eyes with her hand and glanced at the sky. 'By my reckoning, we have two hours.' She stormed off, scanning the banks carefully, her cloak flying out behind her.

Stefano watched her, resentment brewing in him. The smart-arsed bitch was right. They had to find the Estrattore.

For, as the Elders continually reminded them, the Bond Riders' very existence depended on her.

CHAPTER FORTY
Claudio's dreams

COUNCILLOR LORD RODBURY WAITED UNTIL he was announced before walking into the queen's chamber. He noted the lady's maid, who squatted on the carpet mending another torn curtain, before coming to a halt beside the queen's desk and bowing deeply.

'Your Majesty,' he said, in his deepest voice.

Zaralina looked up from the report she was reading. 'Ah, my Lord Rodbury. What is it?'

Rodbury straightened slowly, taking the opportunity to search the chamber for the queen's unholy confidant, Shazet. The Mortian was nowhere to be seen but the chamber was very cold. And, Rodbury remembered, just because you couldn't see a Mortian didn't mean it wasn't there, as too many of his peers had learnt to their misfortune.

What did draw his attention was the small child bouncing on the huge canopied bed in the corner. It was the captive prince, Claudio Dandolo. Rodbury swallowed his surprise. He hadn't thought the queen would tolerate such behaviour. The rumours were true, then; she was indulging the boy.

Aware the queen was studying him impatiently, he snapped to attention and cleared his throat. 'I thought you would want to know, Your Majesty, that Lord Waterford has successfully crossed the Mariniquian Seas and reached the lagoon of Serenissima.' He handed her a small, tightly rolled scroll.

'Already? That's less than four months.' She put down the report she was reading and unfurled the scroll. Her eyes scanned the page. 'He has made excellent time.'

'Indeed, Your Majesty. As you can see, he reports that the winds were extraordinarily favourable.'

The queen waved her hand. 'Yes, yes. But more importantly, has he been well received by the Serenissians?'

'It is too early to tell, ma'am. He's been forced to weigh anchor. It seems that Serenissima is recovering from what seems to be a type of plague – the second in less than a hundred years. Early reports say that almost a quarter of the population perished.'

Rodbury shuddered. He'd read accounts of the disease: unholy in its speed, indiscriminate in its choice of victims. The deaths had been swift, gruesome and like nothing ever seen before. He sent a swift prayer that it never came to Albion – not in his or his children's lifetime.

'Really? A type of plague, you say?' The queen rested her chin on her hands and gazed out the window. A thick slab of snow smothered the landscape. 'How unfortunate. Must be something to do with the fetid marshes upon which they chose to build the city in the first place. Perhaps Waterford's timing is more fortuitous than we realised.'

'Yes, ma'am,' said Rodbury. The child's bouncing in the background was beginning to irritate him. 'You will also read that Waterford hopes that the cargo he carries will be very much desired, if not essential, to the Serenissians.' Rodbury hesitated. 'Your Majesty showed remarkable foresight in sending grain, barley, corn, wheat and wine among the other precious gifts.' He bowed again.

'Yes, I did, didn't I?' Zaralina laughed. 'The Council couldn't understand why I would send what the Serenissians appeared to have in abundance – at least, they did while their peasants were still alive to reap their harvests and other nations were prepared to trade with them. But who on the other side of the Limen would have the courage to trade with a disease-ridden city – particularly when it had been struck by a new type of plague that had no precedent.

'The gods were on my side, Rodbury. One must always be prepared to take risks – to prepare for the unexpected. I had a feeling about this, and I was right. I saw what others did not – a seemingly affluent city desperate for the most basic of items. Jewels do not assuage hunger. Even the Serenissians know that. Of course they will be grateful to have a friend. And, when the time is right, they will welcome Waterford, and thus Farrowfare, with open arms.' The queen's eyes narrowed and her face took on a faraway look. 'Thank you, Lord Rodbury. Keep me informed of any updates, won't you?'

'Y– yes, ma'am,' said Rodbury. He shot a glance at the little dark-haired prince who had stopped bouncing and was staring at him, slack-jawed. He quickly looked away. There was something about the boy, something in his countenance ... Rodbury bowed again to cover his unease.

The queen watched him out of the corner of her eyes, a small smile playing on her mouth.

'Alyson?' The queen gestured to her lady's maid.

'Ma'am?' Alyson leapt to her feet and, dropping the damask curtain she was mending, curtsied.

'Show the lord out and then leave me and Claudio alone for a while, will you.'

'Yes, ma'am,' said Alyson.

Once the door was shut, Zaralina began to laugh. 'He has the temerity to compliment my foresight; did you hear that, Shazet? As if the entire enterprise were an accident.'

From out of the shadows, a grey shape swirled and became manifest.

Claudio fell back onto the mattress and crawled into the pillows strewn against the bedhead, clutching them to his chest.

'Yes, ma'am, I did.' In mockery of Rodbury, Shazet's bow scraped the ground.

'Stop it. It's hard enough feigning interest in reports when I already know the content without having to bear your affectations as well.'

Shazet pretended to be hurt. 'Affectations? Hardly. I value my queen, I respect my queen.'

'So you say; a little too often,' said Zaralina, between tight lips. Then she relaxed. 'Your minions did their job well. Over a quarter of their population, gone.' She smiled. 'Not only will it be easier to find the Estrattore with fewer people, but tragedy loosens tongues. He might have been able to hide before, when everyone was content with their lives and focused inwards on themselves. But let him try and hide now.

'In the climate of fear we've created, it will be impossible. Everyone will notice everything and rumours and accusations will fly. And Waterford will be there to catch them and follow them, right to their source.' She stared out the window, images and portents dancing before her eyes. 'Let your creatures know, I am very pleased with them. Very pleased. It seems the first stage of our plan has worked.'

'Second stage,' corrected Shazet, glancing at the child curled on the bed.

'Ah, you're referring to my little poppet.' With upturned lips, Zaralina ended her reverie. 'My precious little pet.' She slapped her lap. 'Come here, Claudio. Let Aunt Zaralina, your Zia, hold you for a while.' She watched as the boy hesitantly climbed off the bed, one eye on Shazet. Once his feet touched the floor, he darted across the rugs and threw himself into her arms. She laughed as he clung to her neck and buried his face in her long flame-coloured hair. 'Ah, there, my love. Don't be frightened of Shazet. I've told you a hundred times. He won't hurt you.' Not until I tell him to. She stroked the boy's forehead, cooing and placing little kisses upon his brow. When she pulled her face away, a series of tiny ice-white marks remained wherever her lips had touched.

Shazet frowned. 'You keep the boy too docile.'

The queen flicked her hand. 'Nonsense.' She untangled Claudio's hands from her neck and held his chin in her fingers, close to her face. 'Claudio's my squire, and I look after him. Don't I, Claudio?'

Claudio nodded, mesmerised by Zaralina's frost-blue eyes. He tried to snuggle into her again, but she kept him at arm's length. 'Who loves you, Claudio?' she whispered.

'You do,' lisped the child in his thick Serenissian accent.

'Do I love you more than Shazet?'

The boy nodded.

'More than Lord Waterford?'

The boy nodded and began to smile.

'More than your mamma and papa?'

His face darkened. He hesitated. She tightened her hold, her nails pressing into the tender flesh of his jaw. He winced. 'Si– I mean, y– y– yes.'

'How much do I love you?'

'More than the whole of Vista Mare.'

'That's right. And who will always be there for you, loving you and protecting you, no matter what?'

'You will.'

She leaned forward and placed a soft, lingering kiss on his pursed lips. 'That's right!' she whispered and let go, allowing him to fall against her breasts. From beyond the child's little shoulders, she raised her eyes to Shazet. 'And who will always protect me, no matter what?' she whispered.

This time, Claudio pulled away, his hands on her shoulders, his knees on her lap. 'I will,' he said. 'I will. Always. Forever and ever, Amen.'

'Amen.' The queen laughed delightedly. 'Good Claudio, beautiful Claudio.' Zaralina began to stroke his head again and, with her eyes fixed on Shazet, sang a sweet melody. When she'd finished, the child was sound asleep. She rose to her feet and carried him over to the bed.

'You make the child sleep too much.'

'Rubbish,' said the queen, returning to her desk. 'Growing children need sleep. Anyway, he annoys me too much when he's awake, with his churlish behaviour and sulks, never mind that dreadful accent. And this way, I can control his dreams.'

'And of what does he dream?' asked Shazet.

'Of me,' smiled the queen.

Shazet raised his eyebrows.

Zaralina moved to the window. Her barren, windswept world unfolded before her.

'Yes, of me. I am standing by his side on the waterfront at the Doge's palace. The sun is shining; the air is warm and clean. We are welcoming our guests as they arrive by gondola.'

She turned around and, facing Shazet, leant back on the sill. 'And the heads of our enemies watch us with empty eyes from the top of the staves upon which they are impaled.'

Shazet nodded, the semblance of a smile upon his face. He glided closer to her, his body undulating before hers. 'And what of us, Your Majesty, your Mortian allies. Where are we?'

The queen looked deep into his soulless eyes. She licked her lips. 'You're everywhere, my Shazet.' She extended a slender finger and watched his face alter as she penetrated his malleable exterior. He shuddered in ecstasy.

'Everywhere,' she murmured.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Tallow's deliverance

'CAN YOU HEAR THAT, FATHER?' Giaconda leaned out of the felze in the gondola, surprised to see at least fifty people running along the fondamenta.

'I can indeed,' said Ezzelino, peering out from behind her. 'Appears we don't need Baroque, after all. We've found our boy.'

'Yes, but why are they chasing him? What has he done?' It seemed that everyone they'd met in the quartiere was running after the boy.

Giaconda and Ezzelino withdrew and stared at each other at length. 'What should we do?' said Giaconda.

'We follow them,' said Ezzelino simply and tapped his cane on the roof. 'Follow the rabble, Salzi,' he ordered.

The Maleovellis' boatman shuffled along the deck. 'It's a chase, sir. They're after that ragamuffin boy.'

'We aren't blind, Salzi!' exclaimed Giaconda. 'We can see what it is. Do what you're told. Follow them!' Giaconda slid out of the felze and sat at the other end of the gondola. She shielded her eyes. They were all heading in the same direction – towards the Ponticello di Mille Pietre, the Bridge of a Thousand Stones.

She saw the boy run up the rampart and start to cross. His cap had fallen off and his hair was in his eyes. Halfway across, he suddenly stopped. At first she couldn't see why, but then she saw the enormous horse and his dark rider. 'Father,' she said urgently, beckoning Ezzelino. 'I think you'll want to see this.'

Ezzelino joined her. 'What's a Bond Rider doing here?' he asked in astonishment. 'And with his horse? What do they want with the boy – what do they know?'

There was no reply.

Father and daughter sat, unable to look away as the drama unfolded. Even Salzi stopped rowing, allowing the current to carry them forward. The bridge loomed closer and closer, the sides growing in height, casting shadows on the water, obscuring their view.

They passed beneath the bridge's massive girth just as a commotion started above. They were almost clear when a body plunged over the side. They watched in horror as it fell headfirst into the canal.

Giaconda leapt to her feet. 'Quick! It's the boy. Get him!' she cried above the hollow boom of shod hooves on stone, more screams and cries and the sound of dozens of people fleeing.

Salzi leapt to the oar, manoeuvring it in the forcola so they glided to where the boy had vanished. At first, they couldn't see anything in the dark and murky water.

'The current has taken him,' cursed Ezzelino.

'No, look!' said Giaconda triumphantly, pointing towards one of the stone pillars that supported the bridge. A small body floated face down in the water.

The boatman brought them up alongside the sodden figure. The current had just begun to dislodge him from the weeds at the bridge's base. As he drifted past the gondola, Salzi and Ezzelino dragged him over the side.

They dropped him in the bottom of the boat. The boy lay there, unmoving, lifeless. His hair was plastered to his face, his eyes closed.

'Is he alive?' asked Salzi.

'I don't care what he is – get him out of sight before we're exposed,' ordered Ezzelino. 'Put him in the felze, quickly! They'll be looking for him.'

Salzi pulled the unconscious youth across the bottom of the boat and shoved him in the cabin. He pulled the curtains across.

'Now, get back on that oar and get us out into the middle of the canal,' demanded Giaconda behind him, straightening her hair and skirt. 'No-one must realise we have him. No-one. Do you understand? We saw nothing, we heard nothing.'

'Si, Signorina,' said Salzi. He'd been with the Maleovelli family long enough to know not to ask questions.

As the gondola remerged from under the bridge, the sunlight struck the black wood. Ezzelino and Giaconda sat primly in the prow, their eyes fixed ahead. Anyone seeing them would assume that nothing had disturbed the nobiles' passage.

The gondola glided away, turning into one of the thinly populated side canals. It slowly made its way towards the Circolo.

'Do you think he's alive?' muttered Giaconda under her breath, repeating Salzi's earlier question.

'I hope so. Go and see,' demanded Ezzelino.

Crawling along the bottom of the gondola, Giaconda pulled aside the curtain and stuck her head into the felze. The boy lay there, his eyes tightly shut, his face pale. His chest rose and fell in ragged movements.

'He's alive,' called Giaconda over her shoulder.

On hearing a strange voice, the youth's eyes fluttered open. Giaconda gave a little cry and instinctively recoiled. Eyes like mirrors. Just like the legends say.

'Who are you?' said the boy hoarsely and began coughing. Overcoming her initial repugnance, Giaconda gracefully moved beside him and stretched an arm behind his shoulders to help him sit up. The boy coughed some more before vomiting water to one side.

'I'm sorry,' he said, wiping his hand over his mouth. 'Sorry.'

Giaconda's mind was racing. They were right. An Estrattore! All they had to do was play their cards right ... 'It's all right,' she said soothingly, praying the boy couldn't hear the tremor of excitement in her voice. 'Don't worry. It's nothing, only sea water. I think you've swallowed a great deal. That was quite a fall you had there.'

The boy frowned and his amazing eyes glimmered as he recalled recent events. 'I didn't fall. I jumped.' His voice began to break. 'D– Dante is dead. Cane's gone. He tried to take me, so I jumped. I shouldn't have left them ... I shouldn't have left him –'

He began to struggle, trying to sit up on his own, but he was still weak from the run, the near-drowning and the emotion he'd expended. Giaconda held him tight. 'Shush. You're with friends now.' She brushed the hair out of his eyes.

Exhausted, the boy fell back on the cushions. 'Thank you,' he said, looking at Giaconda. Then he closed his eyes.

Giaconda slowly removed her arm and stared at him. She'd been able to see herself so clearly within that mercurial gaze. It was unsettling. She was afraid that if she looked for too long, she would not like what she saw.

The strange boy might feign sleep, but he was not yet ready to lose himself in the world of dreams. Neither was she ready to let him. She wanted some answers, now, while he was still vulnerable. 'That's my pleasure,' she said, glancing over her shoulder at her father.

The boy moved slightly and his eyes flew open again.

'I think I've hurt my arm,' he whispered and made a strange noise that was half laugh, half despair.

Giaconda made noises of sympathy and gently stroked his arm. It was hot beneath the wet sleeve.

Beyond the entrance to the felze, Ezzelino watched them, the smoke from his pipe rising into the pinkening sky. Giaconda glanced back at him. He signalled for her to keep talking.

'I am being very rude,' said Giaconda. 'My name is Giaconda Maleovelli, and the man you can see out there is my father, Ezzelino. We're from the Eighth Casa of Nobiles' Rise. Casa Maleovelli.'

The boy leaned heavily to one side, clearly favouring his injured arm, and pushed himself up so his face was almost level with Giaconda's. 'My name is Tallow,' he said.

Giaconda nodded solemnly, working hard to keep the triumph she felt rising within her from her features. 'Where are you from?' she asked, searching for a candle. They were coming to a narrower part of the canal where the sun didn't reach.

The boy named Tallow laughed at the question. It turned into a hoarse cough. 'Nowhere.'

Giaconda paused and nodded. 'Is that so? What is it you do then, Tallow from nowhere?'

'I was once a candlemaker, lately a chandler, and now I am nothing – a nothing from nowhere.'

'And who do you call family?'

Tallow's lips began to tremble. 'No-one,' he said in a voice that was barely audible. Giaconda couldn't tear her eyes away from the emotions that played across the boy's unusual face. She could see the pain, the exhaustion, and the confusion as clearly as if they'd been verbally expressed. The boy gave one great, long exhalation and then sat unmoving.

Giaconda waited.

'I call no-one family anymore,' said Tallow finally.

Giaconda controlled her urge to smile. 'Why do you say that?' she asked, keeping her voice steady. 'What has happened to you, Tallow, to make someone so young so cynical? Tell me. I promise you, I am good at keeping secrets.'

Tallow hesitated. Giaconda could sense the boy weighing his options. To speak or remain silent? Giaconda forgot to breathe. So much hung in the balance.

Without any preliminaries, Tallow began to talk. He spoke about his master, Pillar the candlemaker, and his mother Quinn and her terrible death; about the Bond Rider, Katina, who had abandoned him months earlier; he told Giaconda about Pillar's decision to throw him out. He even told her about how he'd sought out Dante, and how good it had been with his family. And then he told Giaconda what happened on the bridge: how the horse had ridden down Dante and Cane and deliberately killed them.

Giaconda repressed the feelings of triumph that rose within her. All this loss and tragedy had made the boy both weak and vulnerable – in other words, exactly how Giaconda needed him. As her father always said, fragile people are pliable people. How pliable was about to be tested; but Tallow's despair was palpable and with his natural defences all but gone, Giaconda could not have been happier.

The entire time Tallow spoke, not once did he mention his talent. When Giaconda asked why he was being chased, he'd quickly told her that his candles were sought; that for some reason, people thought they cured the sickness. So, the boy wasn't completely broken. Not yet.

His eyelids fluttered and he stifled a yawn. He was so white, the dark shadows that cradled his eyes defined them sharply. His head wobbled on his neck and his limbs quivered. It was apparent he needed sleep – to heal and to forget.

Forget about the dog, about the dead boy.

It was obvious he blamed himself.

'That's not true.' Giaconda beamed at Tallow. The boy started. 'You are not nothing. Even I can see that,' Giaconda glanced at her father who, having drawn closer to the felze, nodded. She caught his eye and gave a slight inclination of her head. It was time to risk everything. She hoped her reading of the boy had been correct. 'I can see it in your eyes.'

The boy swiftly raised his hands to his face. His fingers rested just under his lower lashes, pointing towards the one thing he could not hide: eyes that had no whites, just a huge black pupil drowning in a sea of silver. He looked at Giaconda wildly, around the little felze, and beyond her to the canal outside. Then his shoulders slumped. Giaconda went to offer comfort when the boy drew himself upright and shook his head defiantly. She paused, uncertain. He looked straight at Giaconda and gave her a deadly grin.

'You're right. What have I got to lose anymore? He who has nothing cannot risk anything. Anyone who looks at me can see what I am. They say the eyes are the mirror to the soul – well, they're not for me. They're the key to my identity. They're the key to whether I live or die. And wherever I look, whoever I look at – even those I thought I could trust – they say I die.'

Giaconda went to interrupt, but Tallow held up his hand. 'I'm an Estrattore. There, I've said it. You'd probably worked it out already. Now, you can claim your reward.' He challenged Giaconda simply by looking at her, his little chin jutting. 'I can see from this gondola,' he added, 'that you're not of my class. You're a nobile. You have connections with the Doge. I'm sure once you show him what you've found – an Estrattore for him to execute and display – you'll be richly rewarded. I've heard that with the exception of one, maybe some more – I'm not sure – none have been seen for over three hundred years. Regardless, there's still a high price on the heads of Estrattore.'

'So there is,' agreed Giaconda.

Some of the boy's courage appeared to desert him.

'But we're not interested in those sorts of rewards. Are we, Papa?' Giaconda moved out of the way so her father could enter. He pushed aside the curtain, his shoulders blocking the light. The candle spluttered briefly. Together they faced Tallow. The rich scent they wore was not enough to mask the odour of bile, sweat and dirty canal water that filled the space. Giaconda wanted to gag, but she controlled herself. This was too important.

'No, we're not,' said Ezzelino, his hawkish eyes taking in Tallow's appearance.

'What sort of rewards are you interested in?' Tallow looked from one to the other. Giaconda and Ezzelino exchanged a long look.

'The kind that come from embracing the powers of the Estrattore,' said Ezzelino.

'What do you mean? What sorts of rewards can they bring when harbouring an Estrattore means death?'

'Only if you're caught,' smiled Ezzelino, his craggy face creasing into folds. 'And with you working by our side, we don't ever intend to be. Do we, Giaconda?'

'By your side? Ah. I see. You want to form a colleganza.'

'Of sorts,' said Ezzelino.

'I think this should be discussed properly later, when the boy has had a chance to recover. Don't you?' Giaconda slid beside Tallow, shaking her head at her father and pushing Tallow back down into the seat. 'You're clearly very tired and, from what you've revealed, it's evident you've had some dreadful experiences. No-one should have had to endure what you have – all the losses, all that death.'

Ezzelino took his cue and silently withdrew, closing the curtain. Only the solitary flame of the candle bore witness to their conversation.

'Why did the Bond Rider kill them?' asked Tallow quietly.

'I don't know, my friend,' said Giaconda. 'Who knows what a Bond Rider is thinking? But maybe, if we combine our resources, we can find out what happened and why.'

The boy didn't speak. He stared at the candle, tears filling his enormous eyes. His hand rose to brush them away. It was trembling.

'You don't need to make a decision now. I think we should take you back to our casa,' said Giaconda soothingly. 'You look very poorly. This has been a terrible shock. We'll get you cleaned and give you something to eat. You're very thin.' She wrapped her fingers around Tallow's wrist. 'If you come with us, we'll feed you. And then, after you've rested, we'll talk.' She smiled. 'I think, young Tallow, since you're a nothing from nowhere with nobody to go to, you might like what we have to say. What do you think?'

Tallow regarded Giaconda for a long time. Giaconda pretended not to notice his curious stare or the rapid workings of his mind, a mind that was clearly weighing the benefits and disadvantages of what was being offered. This sad, lonely boy – no, being, corrected Giaconda – had no real choices anymore. He felt responsible for the deaths of his master's mother, his pet and his friend. He could no longer face those he once trusted; he felt that by bringing death into their lives, he'd betrayed them. He also felt betrayed but whom exactly had done this, Giaconda hoped to discover. Most of all, he'd revealed what he was to the crowds and, in doing so, had exposed his master who was as good as dead, too. Giaconda enjoyed the flutter of triumph. The scenario could not be more perfect, not even if they'd orchestrated it themselves.

A shudder tore through the boy's thin frame. He stifled it quickly. 'I think I would like to go to your casa.'

'Very well then,' said Giaconda, barely keeping the victory out of her voice. 'If that is your desire, that's what we'll do.' She reached under the seat and pulled out a golden flask. 'For now, I think you should drink some of this. We still have a fair way to travel before we reach home.' She pulled out the stopper. 'This will help you relax, take away your pain.'

'Nothing can take away the pain I am feeling,'

'No, that's true. But it will help make it easier to bear. Here,' insisted Giaconda.

Tallow shrugged and, taking a generous swig, gagged and then inhaled deeply and swallowed again before handing the flask back. 'Thank you,' he said, falling back against the cushions. The quiet splash of the oar in the water and the hiss of melting wax and candle flame became a lullaby that made Tallow's eyes grow heavy and finally, close. Giaconda watched as his breathing became deep and even.

She waited a few minutes more, then picked up the candle and held it above Tallow. The boy had high cheekbones and a full, pink mouth. His skin was good. Dirty, but nothing a long soak and scrub couldn't fix. His hair was dark – rich black, thick and long. Giaconda screwed up her nose. He really needed a bath. But with decent clothes, a haircut, training and education, he should present well.

According to legend, Estrattore were very fast learners. Well, they would see. If this Tallow was to convince anyone he was a Maleovelli, he would have to learn very quickly indeed.

Her eyes travelled down Tallow's body. He was small for his age – which she guessed to be about twelve, maybe thirteen – and very fine-boned. She watched as his eyes moved beneath his lids. Of what, she wondered, do Estrattore dream?

Putting down the candle, she searched for a blanket to cover him when something grabbed her attention. 'Father,' she hissed. 'Come here.'

Ezzelino pushed back the curtain. 'What is it?'

Giaconda started to laugh quietly. 'I've found out something about our candlemaker that not even Baroque could uncover.'

'What do you mean?'

'Look,' said Giaconda and pointed at Tallow's chest.

The damp shirt clung to Tallow, outlining every bone, every sinew and even the tatty bandages that were now only partly wound around her breasts.

Ezzelino's mouth fell open. He quickly closed it and began to chuckle. 'So, our boy is not a boy after all.'

'No, it seems not.' Giaconda laughed.

With one last glimpse at the sleeping girl, they left her in the felze and retreated to the seat in the prow. Instead of facing Salzi, they turned so they could meet their destination.

'Who would have guessed?' said Giaconda.

'This will make it so much easier,' said Ezzelino. 'Who will ever suspect that the candlemaker's apprentice, the little boy, is the Maleovellis' new guest? Ah.' He clapped his hands together. 'For once, God is on our side.'

'God might be,' agreed Giaconda. 'But whose side are the Bond Riders on?'

'I think that remains to be seen. I must say, I didn't expect them to throw their hand in the game.'

'No-one did. Their role in the legend is over now; they're incidental.'

Ezzelino watched the brackish wake strike the walls of the passing casas, his mind ablaze with ideas. 'We'll discuss this later, my dear. But I'm thinking that perhaps Baroque may not have outlived his usefulness after all.'

'If he's alive.'

'Of course. He's no good to anyone dead.'

Salzi pushed the gondola into the Circolo and rowed towards the Ridotto Sestiere. Giaconda breathed the fresh air and watched Serenissima slide past. Evening was descending and the sky had transformed into a lilac veil punctuated by strings of stars.

Never before had her city seemed so beautiful.

'So,' said Ezzelino breaking the silence, blowing rings of smoke skyward. 'How do you feel about our Estrattore now we know she's a girl?'

Giaconda smiled and Ezzelino found himself transfixed by her beauty.

'It's always easier to teach a girl than it is a boy, Father. You said that yourself.' She reached over and took his hand.

'Ah, yes. But you are unlike other girls, my dear.' He squeezed her hand and dropped it back in her lap. 'It's also less likely that suspicion will fall on a girl.'

'Yes, especially one as refined and beautiful as Tallow is going to be.'

'We can't keep calling her that.' Ezzelino pulled a face. 'It's so common.'

'As the child herself has been reared to believe she is.'

'But the time we've finished with her, there'll be nothing common about her.'

'No.' Giaconda smiled. In the distance she could see the bronze dome of the Doge's palazzo. She drank in the way the light speared the metal, sending shafts of reflected colour into the low-hanging clouds. Pennants flapped at the tips of the spires, waving their glory to the casas and canals below, while the marble colonnades blushed prettily as the sinking sun gave a last burst of radiance. 'Nothing common at all.'

The gondola glided into a side canal and the palazzo disappeared from view. 'After all,' observed Giaconda, turning her back on the opulence. 'There's nothing at all common about an Estrattore who is also an assassin.'

Glossary

THESE TERMS ARE EITHER ITALIAN or Venetian, or sometimes fantasy variations of the two. I have, on occasion, taken liberties with meanings and spellings.

acqua alta: an unusually high tide

arrivederci: goodbye

basilica: church

Bond Rider: a person who surrenders a part of his or her soul to a pledge stone in order that he or she may fulfil a specific task – a Bond

broach: wooden rod from which wicks are suspended, then dipped repeatedly in either tallow or wax to make candles of varying thicknesses and lengths

bucintoro: the Doge's ceremonial ship

buon giorno: good morning

biricchinos: street boys

calle: alley

campo: local marketplace or square, plural is campi

candles: used for both heat and light. The cheapest are formed from animal fat (mostly beef) and render, often a mixture of different types, while more expensive candles are made from beeswax and even different types of oil. The most popular types are: long, slender tapers; small, squat votives placed in glass containers, often used for religious purposes; pillar candles, thicker and taller than votives. Rush lights, lumps of tallow rolled around a basic wick, are popular with the poorer classes because a one-metre homemade rush light burns for about an hour. Wicks can be made from any flammable fabric that maintains a consistent burn and temperature, e.g. hemp or cotton. Additives can also be applied to the wax to sweeten the candle's scent

casa: grand house owned by a member of the aristocracy

cavola: literally 'cabbage', but also slang for 'bitch'

colleganza: a short-term business partnership

Doge: elected ruler of Serenissima

dorato: golden

dottore: doctor

Estrattore: someone who has the ability to extract specific emotions and feelings from a person, animal or object and alter and transfer this emotion/feeling, positive or negative. This process is known as distilling

farmacista: someone who dispenses medication

felze: small passenger compartment on a gondola

fermata: jetty where gondolas, traghettos and other craft stop to take on passengers

fondamenta: cobbled path that runs beside the canal

forcola: the oarlock on a gondola

fuoco: fire

grazie: thank you

grazie mille: thank you very much

Limen, the: a peculiar space that divides countries and, according to legends, worlds. Within the Limen, time stands still. Only Bond Riders and their horses, or those who have a partial soul or no soul at all, can dwell in these parts.

mi amo: my love

Morto Assiderato: a plague, literally means 'frozen to death'

Mortians: wraith-like beings whose specific origins are unknown but who currently have an allegiance with the Queen of Farrowfare, Zaralina. They are able to breach the Limen and can move mostly undetected. It is also believed that they have formed a treaty with a Bond Rider faction to enable them to navigate the Limen more readily. Also known as Morte Whisperers

nobile: noble; aristocrat

ombretta: small glass of wine

omicidi: murders

palazzo: palace

paline: red-and-white striped poles in the canals to which personal watercraft are tied

piano nobile: main floor of a palazzo or casa

piazzetta: small square for markets or concerts, often linked to other parts of the quartiere by bridges and calles. Casas, businesses and local basilicas usually line piazzettas

pledge stones: name given to the strange monoliths that absorb the souls of Bond Riders. Each is named after a major Serenissian nobile's House.

ponte: bridge

Ponticello di Mille Pietre: Bridge of a Thousand Stones

quartiere: a district; plural is quartieri. In Serenissima, quartieri are named after the major profession or trade of the area

ragazza: adolescent girl

ragazzo: adolescent boy

rami: very small, often dead-end, alleyways

Redentore: the Redeemer

sandolo: water taxi; large gondola hired for short trips through Serenissima

salizzada: main street, means 'paved'

scuola: school or trade group. In Serenissima, scuola are non-religious establishments based in areas where master craftsmen live. The group decides on tithes, training and the general rules by which craftsmen and women should live.

senta: literally, 'listen'; a common way to start a conversation

La Serenissima: Republic formed by a group of islands nestled in the lagoon area of the Mariniquian Seas and surrounding mainland areas, between the Jinoan and Vyzantian pensinulas

Serenissimina: a conquered island off the coast of Hibernya. Forms part of an important trade route between Moroko, Hibernya and Serenissima. Literally 'little Serenissima'

sestieri: the six major areas of Serenissima, which are then broken up into quartieri named for the dominant craft in each area; singular is sestiere

sottoporteghi: passageways through the city; tunnels formed when buildings meet over open spaces

squero: boatyard

stazione: jetty where passengers wait for sandolis or traghettos, also known as fermata

ti amo: I love you

traghetto: a gondola ferry

tresoro: treasure

vi amo: I love you (plural)

Zia: Aunt

Zio: Uncle

Acknowledgements

ONCE UPON A TIME, A daydreamer walked into a shop that sold candles and voilà! A story was born. That's really how it happened ... to start with. But beginnings and ends have very long middles and acknowledgments go some small way to thanking all of those who helped shape the heart of this novel.

First and foremost, I wish to thank my completely wonderful and amazing agent, Selwa Anthony, who stood by me through the best of times and the worst. I never doubted her and she, more importantly, never doubted me when many others would have abandoned me by the wayside. Thank you, Selwa – graze mille e tutti bacci.

Then there was Anthony Eaton, sublime writer and friend extraordinaire who patiently listened to my angst and dreams and counselled me wisely on numerous occasions – both on the writing and publishing process. I owe you, Tony, my literary rock – and Imogen and Toby as well. Likewise, James and Vicki Roy, Simon and Annie Higgins, Geoffrey Shearer, Jim McKay, Sam Strutt and Jane Fynes-Clinton – a person could not have better or more generous friends.

A very early draft of the novel was read by Mark Macleod, who provided some invaluable feedback and terrific suggestions, most of which I took on board and which influenced what followed – thank you. The novel's strengths owe a great deal to Mark and Anthony's early ideas, and their beautifully rendered reports as well as the sharp eyes and wonderful skills of Carol Campbell.

Once the book landed in the capable and kind hands of Leonie Tyle, it moved into calm and fabulously creative waters. Thanks so much for your insights, patience and faith, Leonie. Sarah Hazelton, my other editor – what can I say? I have never worked with someone who understands the gifts that words can bring, their power and beauty, as much as Sarah. She also has a knowledge of genres that is unsurpassed. It's been a blessing and an utter delight working with you. The wonderful team at Woolshed and Random House, especially Linsay Knight, but also Justin Ractliffe, Sarana Behan and Yae Morton must be thanked – profusely. They have made this whole process very exciting, challenging and so worthwhile.

Thanks must also go to my Facebook friends and the Sassy online fantasy community. The words of friendship and faith as well as cyber-humour go a long way to reminding a writer that he or she is not alone and can laugh, even about something as serious as writing. Your emails, notes and reminders to live a little and have hope have meant a great deal.

During the writing of this book, so much happened in my life. On the positive side, we moved to one of the most beautiful locations in Australia and were made to feel welcome in a great and vibrant community. I also commenced a new job at Southern Cross University, where I work with some fabulous colleagues and have terrific and talented students. My beautiful daughter, Caragh, was married and thus we gained a lovely son, Paul, but lost her to the USA. Thank goodness for the internet. My fabulous son, Adam, was both hit by a car (he's fine) and promoted into a job that challenges him and keeps him stimulated and happy – something he has deserved for a long, long time.

On the negative side, I lost my mother to cancer after years of struggle and pain. My beloved grandmother died as a result of a tragic house fire – I still miss her every day. My father's health has declined and I have watched him fall into a torpor that's difficult for those around him but no more so than my step-mother who battles on regardless, demonstrating faith and love in equal measures.

Two of my dearest friends have waged a terrible and vicious war with cancer. Their courage in the face of such an invidious illness and their phenomenal personal strength has been inspirational in every way – I love you, Sara and Grant.

All of the above puts life in perspective.

Nonetheless, I still wish to thank all my friends and family – particularly my sister, Jenny, and my wonderful uncle, Peter Meyer, Lesley Roberts, Frances Thiele, Lisa Hill, Catherine Dicker and Jojo Lee, Jenny Daly and my amazing Italian teacher, the incomparable Lauren Charrington – mia bella, vorrie malto grazie per tutto; hai sensazionale.

Finally, this book would not have been conceived, never mind written, if not for the amazing love, support and friendship of my partner whose patience with my foibles and workaholicism is limitless. I am one of those lucky people who, when still relatively young, found a genuine life-partner. I do what I do for and with him. I certainly can't and don't want to do it without him.

This, like all my creations, is for you, Stephen. Ti amo.

Associate Professor Karen Brooks is Deputy Head of the School of Arts and Social Sciences at Southern Cross University in Lismore and has a PhD in cultural studies.

Renowned internationally for her work on popular culture, Karen is also a dynamic and award-winning teacher. She is a columnist for The Courier Mail and an 'expert' on Channel 7's Sunrise, The Morning Show and Today Tonight. She is also a regular on ABC's The Einstein Factor as part of the Brains Trust. Author of the popular Cassandra Klein quartet and Rifts through Quentaris, Karen's first non-fiction book Consuming Innocence: Popular Culture and Our Children was published in 2008 to rave reviews. In recognition of the public debates she has stimulated and her academic and creative contributions to Australian and global society, she is cited in Who's Who of Australian Women 2007-2009.

Karen has a wonderful partner, Stephen, and two children, and shares her house with three dogs, a cat and an assortment of chickens and sheep as well as resident birdlife and possums. She lives in a place known as the Rainbow Region, the perfect environment for writing fantasy.