Marbles of Venice, how long have you sat beneath an empty moon? Is that moon as empty as it is now, or is it full - filled with horror and vengeance past and to come? It is not ending yet. It is in turmoil, as much as muddied waters sluicing in along the canal bottom roil and threaten our homes, our lives, our histories.
     And now I must tell him the truth. Why is it that we are so turned around, Paolo? I tell you lies, and you believe me. I tell you truth, and you think I lie. Will this be such an occasion? This I may tell you, but you may not believe me - will you need the testimony of others?
     I could have her dead for this. For betraying you - for betraying your son. If I had but known...
     The thoughts march up and down the ivory plain of Cosimina's brow, unmolested by creases or lines. She has long been in the habit of composing her features so that they do not give her away; she knows now as well as any time, what it might cost her. If any one vibrating harp-string should become too far from the others, what might become of her? And still, she dresses in fine silks, pale like the moonlight, deceptive like the night that is forever caught in her almond-oiled hair. She stands with one hand to the small of her back, examining cracks in the walls, examining loose tiles upon the roof of the empty palazzo. Her footsteps are quiet. But they are there, the harbinger of one life become three...

     Of course he would pick a house that would have a good turnabout for his four-seat gondola, and good quality fastenings to secure it by night or by day. He expected to come here often. Perhaps stay here often...
     It has been a night and a night, but no more than this. A night and a night of only fitful drunkenness. He has railed from time to time, but he has done so only in his own presence. Before you, somber. Before his children, he was the sweet-faced father, the papa with warm hugs and little gifts. For his son, extra time.
     Work can wait...
     But his wound is deep. The world has been turned over. What was real is now not to be believed. What was thought as a lie... has that become truth? And what shall he make of you now? He does not know whether to love or hate, trust or mistrust, weep or glower.
     And so, he looks perplexed and distressed.
     His steps sound on the marble of the home's floor, the sound echoing with all of the emptiness. Paolo looks to the walls, his dark eyes scanning the bareness of it. "I am going to buy them art supplies, I want the walls covered with the magic from their own hands," he remarks. He sighs. Pivoting, he looks along the hall. "It is a good house, Cosimina... I hope you will be comfortable here..."
     What is a house in Venice without cracks in the walls? He barely notices them as he approaches you. His face is drawn, stern. It's not you.

     "It is a good house," Cosimina agrees, voice quiet, introspective. "And I believe that the children will flourish here. It will be a garden for them." A garden, tended by two sets of hands, populated by, in due course, four children. She rests both hands now on the small of her back, closing her eyes. Cracks? What cracks? She does not see any cracks.
     "You have been busy." The words come without accusation or fear. "So have I. The roof will be fixed, soon. The children will be helping to pack things, and Signora Montelli is watching them right now. They will not come to harm in my absence."
     She is a hawk, in her own way, watchful, brooding, protective...
     Now she turns, Cosimina does, hands still in place. "There is a bench in the herb garden. Let us go there and seat ourselves. After all," is that a light of mockery in her eyes, the curve of her lips? "I imagine we have much to talk of, you and I. Of the past. Of the now. Of the future."

     Nothing else matters...
     Venice...
     The Children...
     That is all...
     And their fates are intertwined. For in order to survive, Venice must have its children...
     Paolo turns, waiting for you to go ahead. He will not ask about your back, not now. Later, he will rub it even through your protests. You will probably fight. That is always the future. "I do not know what to think of Time," he soberly speaks as he comes up beside you. "Of the past... what is it but phantoms. Of the present...what is it be a mess. Of the future... I dare not ask..." his voice drolls out. "God forbid it get more interesting than this..."
     While he is upset -- he cannot abide lies, you know this -- he seems a great deal more resolved than before. Less flailing, more deliberance. His gaze is hard, his face is wooden. Paolo is angry. A cuckold. He wears the horns. And a faithless woman did this to him.
     And he hasn't even heard the bad news yet...

     Footsteps wind along marble through the palazzo and to its back, down shallow steps to the garden and to the stone benches. She eases herself down upon one, closing her eyes. "In a few months," Cosimina remarks darkly, "I will not be able to sit myself upon this. The effort to stand again would be too great."
     She will grow large with the children within her, large as a house, some might whisper. Her hand brushes against her belly absently, then settles next to her. "Genevra has asked if Damiano will be staying. I have told her that he will for as long as you wish it. I believe she intends to plead with you for his remaining. Already, she loves him. It is good that they have met now and not later."
     Such dark sights those fates might hold for one...
     "Time is as it ever was, gondolier. Our enemy and our ally and something to which we must be resigned while never once ceasing to fight." Cosimina rolls her head back on her shoulders, feeling the shifting of her hair while paying it no attention at all. "However, I have not asked you here for this reason. I have asked you here to speak with you of matters which you both wish to know and yet dread to hear - matters which you have requested I examine."
     Her voice is so cool, her expression so impassive. Does she care at all, what she is about to tell you? Is there any softness in her heart for you? Will she delight in your pain...
     "Are you prepared, Paolo?" Cosimina's eyes are dark and fathomless. "I will tell you, but you must bid me to speech this once."

     Paolo actually smiles. It is a true smile. It is a warm smile. "I will help you. It will be the least I can do, no?" He looks to your belly. It is a solace to him. A moment of joy. A moment and a place where he might be happy, if only in the most temporary of senses. He takes a seat beside you, exhaling as he does.
     His hands rest upon his thighs, his head bowing a moment, and then he looks up to the sky. "Yes, I am ready, Cosimina. I ... must hear it. There is no point running from fortune, fate or time. They will always catch you." Dark eyes turn to you, his face shown to you and his expression.
     It is serious. The smiles are gone now. There is no judgment turned to you. "So... what was found..."
     It must be something...

     To the promise of help, she says nothing. She will accept it, of course; she would not have much choice, would she? And fighting the inevitable is only useful under some circumstances. Cosimina's eyes close again, lips parting as she begins her litany.
     "I did not search alone," Cosimina starts with, voice cool, emotionless. "There were four Fate witches other than myself, and the herb witch, Signora Morelli. We were overseen by Alessio, so that one of your own number would be present, as witness. I thought it best."
     There will be questions. There will be suspicions. There will be accusations. This will not do away with them. But it may save some pain - if not her own, if not your own, then the children's...
     She allows that a moment to sink in, then begins to speak again, quietly and precisely, eyes open and looking not to you but to the garden, as if measuring by eye, where she will plant what, what will be removed and how it shall look when all has been accomplished. "There was nothing upon Damiano's clothing. No charms against drowning, no little curses - nothing. Damiano is as he is, and there is nothing of his mother's touch upon him. You may take this as you wish, Paolo. However, there is still the matter of your own clothing..."

     The weight of a world eases from his shoulders and he leans forward with a great rush of breath, a whispered prayer. For a moment, for this moment, he cannot think of himself, does not think of himself. His elbows on his thighs, his head in his hands, he takes time to release his worry.
     And to hold in his heart that she did ... does... love her son... Damiano is hers... as much as his. She bore him. She suckled him. She sang songs to him at night when he was a dark-haired infant.
     Paolo sits up, his eyes rimmed with water and redness. He nods. "Grazie, signora..." He composes himself and nods. "My clothing," his mouth twists, eyes lifting to you. It is a hard look. "What did you find?"

     For her own part, Cosimina has a very different belief, a very different view of Rosalie's actions and attitudes; but this, she does not speak of, does not remind you of the nursemaiding of the little girl, of all the rest. She waits, she folds her hands over her stomach, she accepts the hard look, the distancing, all in silence as she looks again to the garden.
     Dead and withered things, what will join you today? I do wonder...
     "There were four charms worked into your clothing, gondolier," Cosimina says quietly, looking over the grounds as if picking up stones with her eyes. "One of the four had failed. Dittany of Crete - Signora Morelli could, of course, tell you the detailed purposes of each of these. I have my beliefs as to the motivations, but you must decide for yourself. It was used, though, to draw nightmares - the spirits of the dead, to plague your dreams and turn even the little rest you gained against you. It is my belief that she did this to persuade you that it was my doing, and so bring you to foreswear me."
     And our children, but I will not say that aloud. I will not use you as cruelly as has she, using even our children against you as weapons. You must draw your own conclusions, Paolo; I will speak, but the decisions, like any man's, must be yours. Even if it is to my detriment...
     "Of the remaining three, the least spell was to blind you, that you would not know what it was that she did. Signora Morelli spoke of it. Wolf's bane, mingled with ash, to turn your thoughts to something slow and heavy, lethargy to drown you - or sometimes too light, blurred by their own speed, so that you would be unable to focus." The Fate witch tips her chin downwards, regarding herself and not you as she speaks, voice as quietly implacable as the tide you battle. "So that you would think her daughter to be yours, and any suspicion and anger would fall upon somewhere, someone else. Signora Morelli recognized Rosalie's work in the spellcraft; this was found as the least of the three."

     He takes it in without speaking. He listens, as he turns his attention to some neutral space ahead. And then Paolo frowns. "It is just so unbelievable. Incredible, in the old sense. I must have been blind, indeed, for all that I did not see, or understand. To have... seen one thing and thought it another for so long." He shakes his head.
     I am fortune's fool...
     "It ... is a crime against her husband," Paolo notes, impassively, as if he were speaking of another man and his cheating spouse, "...she will have to answer for it. In my mind, she should be banished from the city, along with her lover, whose hand in this we yet do not know?" He looks to you again with an upraised eyebrow.
     "Is he complicit in this? It is her handicraft, but perhaps his as well...he should be examined...his motives, the ...threads that bind us. Apart from my loose wife and her bastard child..."

     "He may be. I believe that the two of them have led each other astray. However, I do not know." Cosimina answers as unemotionally as before, looking down still. "However, there is more, Paolo. Two more spells, and then I will tell you what I have done."
     What she has done? Already, she has taken some action...
     "According to Signora Morelli, both the workings were also Rosalie's. The first was worked into your shirt, Paolo. It sapped your energy - so that what you ate and drank was drained from you, leaving you only the energy to continue. It is her belief that had you not received sustenance elsewhere, you in time would have withered away, in spirit first and then in the flesh, so that the power was drawn not into Venice but into Rosalie as the worker of the charm."
     There is a pause. She wishes you to hear it, to absorb it; but to forestall reactions before they may become violent, she continues. "The other spell was worked into your shoes, gondolier. Where you went, you would be led astray, so that gold would flee from you, and - these are Signora Morelli's words - the dearest hopes of your heart would remain forever frustrated. There was a very strong tie to gold..."

     Oh, there is more...
     More... and still more...
     Visibly upset, he rises. What more? Energy, money, blindness. All of the work to put food on the table, all of the effort to get ahead and it vaporized, always. Always like water past my fingers, like sand, like the shifting foundations of this city.
     He has to take a few steps away. He has to look at the moon, at the sky, at the garden and the house. Anything but a mirror. "I want the mages of the city called," he murmurs. "I ... can't believe it... but... I do not refute it." Paolo looks to you. "I do not disbelieve you or your words, Cosimina. I am... just..." Pale. Stunned. Broadsided. "... in shock," he murmurs. "I am in shock, and I am angry," his face darkens and his eyes water again. "How could she do this?"
     The control dissolves and his emotions flood like the acqua alta. "How could she do this? You can tell me? How could I be so... so blind, spell or not," his voice is rising, "...that I could not see it, that she and he could do this... I did not know much," his cheeks are red, his eyes flared, tears coming in his anger and his indignation. And his anger.
     "I could ... I could handle being unloved. Even...cuckolded on my own kitchen table... I could forgive that. Eventually." He knows himself. "But... the betrayal...of not just me, but of the city, of all we are trying to do. Why would she do this?"

     "The mages have been sent to bind her and her lover, Paolo." Cosimina remains seated, almost an effigy, almost as much of marble as the bench, the walls, the floors of the palazzo. "I gave the order for them to be bound and silenced. The clothing, the charms - the evidence - have been sent to be held by Albizzina for the trial. The infant has been sent to her mother's family; they have been informed of what their daughter has done. It is upon them to defend her or to repudiate her in the name of their own honour; I do not know which they shall choose."
     She folds her hands upon her stomach as she watches you; there is the tug within her, the strong draw of your current which she must resist. "She was greedy, Paolo. And greed made them careless. And so they were caught. I have my beliefs... but they are my beliefs, and anyone who finds virtue in Rosalie will dispute what I say."
     Carefully, slowly she rises from the bench, a hand going to the small of her back again. "You asked me to find, and so I have found, gondolier," Cosimina murmurs. "I, with my dark shadows and my questing tendrils. If you were blind, now you are not - unless you blind yourself. You have a son and a daughter, and they adore their papa. All is not base. All is not faithless. And now the spells are no longer upon you. Perhaps now you will succeed in your aims, hm? I do not permit you to despair," she adds suddenly, austerely. "Weep if you will, if you must. But realize that the bitterness of the wound is a sign of its ability to heal. If you have been poisoned, why do you not rejoice at the lifting of the poison? Unless," she turns away, "you believe that you yet are."

     His finger and thumb pinch the bridge of his nose, rub across his eyes, and his hand lowers with another exhale. Darkness of blood flushes his face. It is not the face of despair. "I do not believe I am poisoned now. No. And I am thankful that my eyes may now see. That ... perhaps now ... my son and my daughter and my wife," a look to you, "...and our babies on the way may benefit from my efforts instead of ... being caught in a whirlpool..."
     A whirlpool by the name of Rosalie...
     "I cannot rejoice just yet," Paolo's voice stills after its sudden storm, like the eerie calming of waves in the pausing of a storm. "When she is out of this city, I will feel better." Rolling his shoulders back, he straightens, his emotions drawn back in around him, like a cloak that is gathered against the cold.
     But then he comes for you. "For now... we should get to our children," he offers his hand to you. "I am most thankful for their closeness. It is..." his face softens so when he speaks of them, they mean so much, "...a balm to the spirit. They are my joy." And you. "And we will be staying... where else should we be but with our family, together?"

     "It will be for the council to say," Cosimina murmurs, "but I do not believe her acts should go unpunished. Already, we unhook her from pillar and post. If she is to remain, she may cast her threads anew."
     It is a serious thing to do, this maneuvering of threads, this manipulation. It is not done lightly. No matter what any council may decide for the city, the Fate witches have their own counsel, their own decisions, their own judgments...
     You return to her, you offer your hand; the dark eyes flicker down, then back to your face. "They are your children, Paolo. And they do love their papa. As I am sure these two troublesome ones shall too." She sighs, and her hand comes slowly away from the small of her back to accept your offered hand. A little gesture; she is permitting herself a moment of weakness, and she tells herself it is not for you and not for herself, but for the children within her.
     "Let us go home, Paolo. Aside from poisons and whirlpools, there is still much to be done, much to do. The children will be busy, as shall I, and as shall you. And I am sure that you would not say no to their helping Signora Montelli with dinner. Let us go home, Paolo..."

Posted by rowan at March 01, 2005 09:32 PM