But it was Kat, this time, who bridged the awkwardness. Smiling: “What can you afford, Francesca? As long as it’s enough not to, ah, embarrass me . . .” She chuckled a bit nastily. “The truth is my greedy sister-in-law would eventually grab everything from my mother’s wardrobe anyway. I’d just as soon you get some of those items instead of her.”
Kat named a price, a better one than Francesca expected. Better enough, in fact, that she could afford a few extras. There was a little bargaining, and the arrangement was concluded. The transaction would still take practically every ducat Francesca had managed to save up, but it was well worth it. With that wardrobe, she could saunter confidently into any salon in Venice, including a soiree at the Doge’s palace.
The remaining arrangements were settled quickly. The first gown—the one she would need for her interview with the Madame of Casa Louise—would be ready within a day, and the rest within three. If Casa Louise accepted her, Francesca would have the remaining gowns sent there, to await her arrival. That was fast work, but if this seamstress was as expert as Kat claimed, it would be no great task for her to remake gowns in an older mode—perhaps a matter of new trim, adding the side-lacings, re-dyeing. As earnest, Francesca handed over half the agreed-upon price, and Kat generously offered to pole her to the Red Cat—or near it, anyway.
By the time they reached the Red Cat, Francesca sensed that the younger woman wanted to be friends, not simply business associates. That astonished her even as it warmed her heart. The knowledge was a bit of a treasure, even leaving aside the obvious advantage it would provide Francesca at a later time.
“When we need to meet again, where can I send word?” she asked, as she got gracefully out of the gondola without assistance, which was no mean feat.
Kat hesitated a moment. “Donatella can always find me,” she said at last.
Not quite willing to trust me yet. Or else she’s afraid her family will find out what she’s been doing. If she was the sole support of an Old Family, they would not necessarily want to know what turns she was making to keep them solvent. Having a summons come from a house of whores would certainly change that situation.
“Excellent. And thank you,” Francesca replied. “I will be waiting eagerly to see the results of our bargain.”
“By Wednesday afternoon,” Kat promised, and pushed off. Francesca turned and walked sinuously back to the door of the Red Cat.
There. That went much better than I’d even hoped, she thought, blithely greeting Fernando on her way to her own room. Next, the interview with the Madame at Casa Louise.
But before that, a full night at the Red Cat. She licked her lips and tasted garlic.
I had better go rinse out my mouth.
Chapter 12
A piece of plaster bounced off Marco’s nose, accompanied by a series of rhythmic thuds from overhead. By that sure token he knew, despite the utter darkness of his “bedroom,” that dawn was just beginning.
He reached over his head and knocked twice on the wall. He was answered by a muffled curse and the pounding of Benito’s answer. He grinned to himself, and began groping after his clothing.
Thudathudathudathuda—pause—(Marco braced himself)—thud. A series of plaster flakes rained down. A professional dance-troupe had the studio above their “apartment” from dawn to the noon bells. From noon till dusk it was given over to classes—noisier, but less inclined to great leaps that brought the ceiling down. From dark to midnight the thuds were less frequent. The groans muffled.
Nobody around the Campo dell’Anconeta talked about what went on then, and nobody watched to see who went in and out. Marco knew, though; at least what they looked like. Thanks to Benito’s irrepressible curiosity, they’d both done some balcony climbing and window-peering one night. A dozen or so hard-faced men and women had been there; and it wasn’t dancing they were doing. It was some kind of battle training, and all of them were very, very good. Who they were, why they were there, why they were practicing in secret, was still a mystery. Marco smelled “fanatic” on them, of whatever ilk, and kept clear of them.