“Ease my mind and have a look through there. I think you’ll like what I found, and I want to make sure that the goldsmith gave me the right thing.”
Thing. That would be the talisman. Francesca smiled; she wouldn’t wonder that Kat was suspicious—it didn’t look like something a goldsmith should have held in his keeping. She cut the string holding the parcel together and unfolded the dark, tabby-weave cloth.
Ah, the cloak. Kat had used the cloak she’d asked for as the wrapping, lining-side out. Inside were the dress, the undergown, the shifts, the hose, with one of the undergowns wrapped around another bundle.
“These are perfect,” Francesca assured the girl. “Especially the choice of colors. Every other courtesan is going to be in blue or red; not only are these good colors for me, but they’ll make me stand out immediately.” She untied the shift and shook out the ornaments. “These are even better, if that’s possible,” she pronounced. “Whoever taught you about jewelry was a wise woman. Never choose fake anything, when for the same price you can have something genuine.” She held up the sparkling strands of Murano glass beads that she would weave through her hair, then the three-tiered necklace with carved amber pendants and the matching earrings. “Can you see how much richer and substantial these look than gilt chains and faux pearls?”
“I didn’t like the look of the other things I was offered,” replied Kat. “I can’t explain it, and no one taught me.”
“Then you have very good instincts,” Francesca told her, taking out the last piece, her precious amulet. It had been her mother’s, and had come all the way from Aquitaine with Francesca. It was very crude—a wooden heart encased in a plain silver cage. It was also very old, and would probably get her burned on sight if one of the Sots ever got wind of it. It held a luck-spirit: not a terribly powerful one, but powerful enough to keep Francesca safe so long as she didn’t do anything monumentally stupid . . . and quite powerful enough to keep her safe from prowling canal monsters by making her invisible to the eyes of evil creatures and black spirits.
It was also indisputably pagan. Which was why Francesca had chosen her Jewish goldsmith to hold it for her while she was in the Red Cat.
“Instincts good enough for me to do what you’re doing?” came the bitter question.
Francesca clutched the amulet to her breast quite unconsciously and stared at the girl. “You can’t possibly be saying you want to become a whore!” she blurted.
Kat flushed, but persisted. “You seem to be doing well enough. And if . . . my grandfather dies, I may have no choice.”
Francesca had known from the first day she met Kat that the girl’s family was in dire straits. She was fairly certain she even knew, from the rumors that swirled through Venice along with the tides, which of the old houses it was—Montescue—even though she had never made any attempt to find out. But this . . .
She sat down on the head of the bed, put her talisman aside, and seized Kat’s hands in both of hers. “I am the exception to the general fate of women in this profession,” she said bluntly. “Or, at least, I intend to be. I’ve had to fight and scheme my way with every step I took since I came to Venice, and if I had not had the training from early childhood, and exceptional looks, I would not be going where I am.” She was not going to speak the name of Casa Louise aloud, not here. Until the moment she went out of the door in this dress, there was still danger.
“Listen to me—I’m not going to give you my life’s story, but I’m going to tell you enough. My family was the equivalent of Case Vecchie—elsewhere. My father was ruined by another old house when I was fifteen; then excommunicated and executed for supposed ‘treason.’ My older brother was murdered within a month. My mother fled with me and a single mule-load of her belongings. She set herself up as a courtesan in another city by appearing at a very exclusive House in one of her fine gowns and letting the Madame know that she—and her daughter—were available. The Madame tested her—and myself as well. A courtesan is not a whore; if she were, no man of wealth and taste would bother with what he could have cheaper, elsewhere. Simple rutting, however luxurious the setting, is not sufficient for the price that a man pays for a cortegiana.”