“No. Where is she now? She must be somewhere.”
“Certainly, but the Maestro has to discover where that is. She and her, um, captors may be drifting aimlessly in a boat on the lagoon. Or she may be tied up in a dark attic-” My listeners hastily crossed themselves. “Either way my master might see her in his trance and still be unable to tell where she is. Whereas it is also possible that they have made an appointment to meet someone tomorrow at a certain time and place. Is that still illogical?”
“No,” Giro admitted. “That makes sense.” He meant that it was a plausible excuse, not that he believed it.
I noted that no one had asked me to define they. He might be thinking kidnappers. More likely we were all agreed on lovers.
“I will tell my wife the good news.” Zuanbattista departed.
“Of course I will come with you tomorrow,” Giro announced.
“That would be inadvisable,” I countered. “Suppose, for instance, that the malefactors recognized you before Grazia arrived?”
Cold winds of suspicion blew while the lawyer considered this objection. I wished he would sit down and not loom over me. I pressed on.
“I have brought this letter of agreement. If I do not bring your sister home safely within three days, or at least supply proof of her whereabouts, your parents owe the Maestro nothing.” Just in case he might think that we had been in on the plot from the beginning, I added, “Your sister will explain what happened and who abducted her.”
I had a momentary nightmare of a spiteful and unwilling rescuee declaiming, And after Zeno had done his worst, Maestro Nostradamus carried me down the ladder on his shoulder… For now, though, the Sanudos had to trust us or dismiss us. Giro knew that and had nothing left to lose, for the terms were more than fair, even if the price was not. I passed over the two copies of the contract, emblazoned with the Maestro’s seal and a signature more beautiful and imposing than any he could have done himself.
“And you will be able to identify the man with her?”
Man, not men, I noticed. A man Giro already knew, I strongly suspected. Had Grazia done something utterly appalling like running off with a tiler or a gardener? The family’s reputation would be ruined for evermore.
“I do not expect to,” I said. Did he think I hobnobbed with members of the kidnappers’ guild? “My efforts will be entirely directed to rescuing your sister. I have also brought this letter for your father to sign, giving me authority to bring her here, because I do not wish to be arrested in place of the genuine kidnappers.”
His father swept back into the room, a vastly more dynamic presence than his colorless son. “My wife is much relieved and sends her thanks. Your master inquired about a likeness.” He indicated the wall behind me.
I rose and inspected the family portrait, but it told me nothing useful. Zuanbattista, Eva, and even Giro looked much as they still did. Grazia was only a wide-eyed child, as her father had said, impossible to imagine as a temptress inspiring a lover to insanity. It was an insipid piece of work, and a more skilled artist would have concealed Grazia’s excess of nose better.
I would much rather have spent half an hour examining the Madonna and Child next to it, which I thought might be a genuine Jacopo Palma Vecchio. The model had certainly been Palma’s daughter, Violante, but as I dragged my eyes away from it, on the adjoining wall I spotted both a face and a style I knew.
“Andrea Michelli!” I exclaimed. “Commonly known as Vicentino?”
“Indeed, you are correct, sier Alfeo.” Zuanbattista sounded impressed, as he should be.
I could do even better. “I have never seen a wedding portrait by him, messer, but surely the bridegroom is Nicolo Morosini?”
“You knew Nicolo?” This time his surprise meant I was too young.
Time rolled back, and again I was looking at Nicolo, exactly as he had been that first morning of my apprenticeship, epic nose and all-that was where Grazia’s curse had come from. At his side a glorious beautiful, succulent young bride. I tore my eyes away.
“I saw him once, clarissimo. It was six years ago, only weeks before his sad death.”
“The book was cursed!” This unexpected croak from Aunt Fortunata made me jump-she was still not dead? Nicolo died of a rotting finger, and popular superstition at the time attributed that to a paper cut he had received when handling a forbidden book, one of the titles on the Index.
“So it is said, madonna,” I replied.
I caught sier Zuanbattista studying me. Assuming that he was wondering whether I believed such twaddle, I looked noncommittal. Before either of us could comment, the hardheaded family lawyer brought us back to cold reality.
“I think you may safely sign both these documents, Father. I admire the penmanship. Who is the Maestro’s scrivener?”
I bowed.
Giro bowed back. As his father headed to a desk in the corner, he added, “Is there anything else?”
“The garden. I should like to see how the abductors gained access to the house.” I also wanted to search Grazia’s bedroom for signs of forced locks or love letters under the mattress, but I knew I would never be allowed in there. The grounds I might manage.
“Why?” Giro snapped, in his first sign of human emotion. “What has that to do with Nostradamus and his crystal ball?”
“Nothing,” I said as blandly as I could, “but it might limit the damage to my skin tomorrow. I hope I can find footprints to tell me how many men I may find myself up against. Will I need to enlist companions? And the ladder,” I continued before he could interrupt. “I assume that they brought the ladder with them? It normally takes two men to carry a ladder long enough to reach a Venetian bedroom. Unless your sister slept on the ground floor?”
He frowned at my jibe, for only servants and the very poor live in sea level dampness. “I have already looked. The grass is dry after the heat. There are no footprints.”
“I will show sier Alfeo the garden,” Zuanbattista said as he brought back the letters, shaking sand off his signature. “Go and reassure your mother.”
Giro and I bowed our farewells. I expressed gracious wishes for future good fortune to Fortunata, who did not react in the slightest, and was escorted out by Zuanbattista. He escorted me down to the androne, for Ca’ Sanudo evidently lacked an exterior staircase, a feature of most Venetian courtyards. It did have a well in the center, for courtyards overlie cisterns, lined with clay and filled with sand to filter rainwater, although nowadays everyone except the poor drinks imported water from the Brenta River. The Sanudo yard was a garden, small but well planned. A century ago, it might have grown vegetables and held chickens, but now it was given over to flowers and fruit trees. The adjoining houses overlooked it on either side, the far end was closed off by a wall with a gate, and I could hear voices going by along the calle beyond.
The ladder had been laid against the house wall. It looked brand new and was short enough that one man could carry it, although the Signori di Notte would certainly stop and question anyone lugging a ladder around the city by night. It was also short enough to fit in a standard-sized gondola.
“The watersteps three houses along in that direction, messer,” I said, “they can be reached from the gate?”