WOOL STRONG AS STEEL

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It was so easy to get lost in the rhythm of spinning. The sharp smell was always the same. The smooth feel of the age-worn dress the same. The throb of her palm and the whir of the wheel the same. Normally they put her under a spell, and her body fell into the cadence of drafting and pinching with her fingers, feeding the thread onto the flyer, working the treadle with her feet.

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But today wasn’t normal. Tears mixed with droplets of blood spattering her lap. The voices of the servants in the hall murmured, hushed and reverent. The air in the home hung heavy with the memory of Pàre’s death two days before. Her eyes drooped and her hands shook from two days at the spinning wheel. Before she spun wool, she’d spun linen corincanto. Linen, so when they buried Pàre in the sea, when his body sank to the bottom of the ocean, he would be able to breathe until the goddess Rea found him and carried him to Cielo.

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His body lay next to her, wrapped in mourning midnight blue. Most funeral shrouds—even those of the nobility—had only a few lines of thread. Imelda had spun so much, crimson striped his entire length. Arturo, her twin, had spent the day before sewing the corincanto until his hands cramped. Even then, he’d pushed on.

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Arturo walked in, still in his sleep clothes. Her twin’s dark eyes were dry, though she’d heard him weeping during the night through the wall separating their rooms.

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“Imelda.” He rushed over to her, putting his hands on hers to stop her from spinning. “What are you doing? You could hurt yourself from using so much blood.”

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“We have to finish the wings.” She tried to pull herself free, but she was too weak. “He’s going to be in charge of our lives now.”

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Imelda looked through the windows of her room to the view of the palàso across the grand canal. Palàso Dogal, where their cousin Primo lived. Where he ruled the republic, and now, with Pàre gone, where he would rule their family.

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“How long until he marries us off?” She could barely voice the words.

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“It won’t be today, so you might as well take a break.” Arturo fished a knife out of her spinning basket and cut the thread. The end of the string spiraled out of control. “You’ve done enough for now. We can resume working on the wings tomorrow.”

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“How long, Arturo?”

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He walked to the washbasin and soaked her towel in it. He returned and wiped the blood off her hands and arm, though the cut on her palm continued to bleed. Dark circles sat under his eyes. “No more than a year, I’d guess. We’re too valuable to him to wait very long.”

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“Giore cancaro.” Her voice was half cry, half whisper.

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Arturo hesitated, his mouth opening then closing, as he pressed the cloth against the cut on her hand. “The military is returning,” he finally said.

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Imelda’s breath hitched in her chest, and her pulse sped up. The throbbing in her hand was strong, but not as strong as the bittersweet hope that suddenly held her heart. The bittersweet hope of a new future. The last two days of spinning were the culmination of years of caring for her ailing father. She’d watched his eyes dim, his skin dull, his body wither. She’d watched him die.

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Now the burden of carrying her father’s failing health had disappeared, and she could think about herself again.

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And Anselmo was returning from four long years at war.

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“Why did he write you and not me all this time?” Fresh, hot tears pricked her eyes, and she rubbed at them, smearing blood on her face. She groaned in exasperation, and Arturo gave her the wet towel.

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There was a knock on the door, followed by Imelda’s maid, Editta. She was even shorter than Imelda, and her hair, pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, was streaked with gray at her temples. She gasped when she saw Imelda’s face.

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“Mè siora!” Editta wiped Imelda’s face with her apron. “It’s time to get ready.”

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“I need to wash and set this batch.”

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“I will take care of that for you. Let’s get you dressed. Mè sior,” Editta said to Arturo, “your manservant is waiting for you in your room.”

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Imelda let her maid lead her from her father’s room into her own bedroom.

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Half an hour later, Imelda and Arturo boarded the grand ducal barge, dressed in mourning blue. Arturo’s doublet wasn’t wrinkled, for once, but his hair was as messy as always. Imelda’s hand was bandaged. They certainly looked the part of mourning offspring. They were the first ones to arrive and for that she was grateful. Servants carried Pàre’s body to a platform at the prow, and she and Arturo stood next to it.

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Behind them, the upper level of the barge filled. No one approached them, not yet. They stayed at the back, under the black wool pavilion, helping themselves to the exorbitant spread of food and wine.

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The barge left the dock with a surge. Laughter spilled out from under the canopy behind Imelda. She glanced over her shoulder, at the people mingling around the one person who would dare take away Imelda’s new freedom—Primo. He didn’t need the laurel leaf crown or silver sash to remind everyone of his power, but he wore them anyway. Even at his uncle’s funeral.

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Someone told a joke, and Primo threw his head back in laughter. Disgusting.

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Imelda squeezed her fists, then winced as the cut on her palm opened and hot blood seeped out. So help him, by Rea’s holy name, if he tried anything today. It had better be a year, like Arturo had said.

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“Sorry, Pàre,” she said.

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“He’s probably laughing, too,” Arturo said. He watched an albatross glide across the sky. His head tilted, a sign he was deep in thought.

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Snowflakes landed on the dark blue velvet of Imelda’s dress, appearing like stars then vanishing. Snow falling on her father’s shroud didn’t melt. She rested her head on Arturo’s shoulder. He stiffened, but wrapped his arm around her back. She poked his side.

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“Don’t get used to it,” he said, though a dimple appeared in his cheek. His teasing dimple, she’d always called it, a sure sign he was holding in a smirk.

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“You need food.”

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“I’m fine.”

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“No, you need some meat. You just spent two days spinning. I’ll be right back.”

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He walked off. Imelda leaned on the silver-painted railing of the grand ducal barge, rocking with every tug of the oarsmen taking the boat out to sea, out to her father’s final resting place. The water on the smooth floorboards soaked into the hem of her dress. Cold wind pricked at her face. She breathed in the damp, salty air and fought back tears. The rowing chant from the first deck mixed with the cries of gulls overhead, the sounds of a true Rialto requiem.

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Imelda reached her arms over the railing, stretched her tired back and arm muscles. Cold water slapped at the hull, sending a spray across her bandaged hand. A pelican bobbed in the waves, snow collecting on its brown feathers. How she longed to stroke the pelican’s wings, to hold them out for inspection. What was her design missing? What was she getting wrong with the wings she and her brother were creating—real wings that could make a human fly? Someday, someday they would finish them.

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Primo stepped up beside her. His large, straight nose, wide shoulders, and thick mustache—without a beard, going against current fashion—made him identifiable to even the poorest beggars in Rialto.

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He pushed a glass of wine into her hands.

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She shoved it at him. “I don’t want any.”

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“It’ll soften the pain.”

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He put his hands on the railing and watched the horizon. Imelda tried to fold her arms while still holding the glass.

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The barge passed the last of the barrier islands, leaving the peaceful lagoon for the rough waters of the gulf. A lighthouse stood beside the mouth of the lagoon, dim in the murky daylight. The boat rocked as it cut through the waves, and Imelda’s feet shifted to keep her balance.

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Primo gave a pointed look at Pàre’s body. “You shouldn’t have made so much corincanto.”

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“Is it indecent for someone to have so much?” She bobbed her head. “Your Serenity.”

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Primo’s lips pursed at the sarcasm in her voice. “You could’ve injured yourself spinning that much in two days. You’ve made yourself weak.”

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The boat crested a large swell and slid into the trough. Primo managed to keep his footing, but Imelda slipped on the wet floorboards and stumbled into him. She dropped her glass, and he caught her by her shoulders. His hands were gentle, his eyes concerned. His tenderness disrupted her quiet mourning, and a sob caught in her throat. He hugged her. She tensed, the discomfort at such an intimate gesture—especially from him—almost painful.

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“He lived a good life, and soon he’ll be with your mother.” He stroked her hair. “It’s up to us now. We have to protect the family legacy.”

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Imelda pushed herself free. “You mean protect your legacy.”

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A servant rushed over to mop up Imelda’s spill. The wine turned the towel red, like a bandage soaked with blood.

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Primo waited until the servant left, then turned to her. “My legacy? Everything I do is for the Albizzi name.”

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“Oh, so you don’t enjoy ruling the republic?”

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“Is it so wrong if I do?”

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Donatella, Primo’s wife, walked up and smiled as sweet as a biscotto. “We’re here.” Her voice was bright and her inflection high, though the sharpness in her eyes showed she knew she’d broken up an argument. Donatella was large, exquisitely dressed, and far too good for Primo.

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The boat slowed to a stop, and the rest of the mourners joined them. The high priest took his place at Pàre’s head. The two intertwined circles of the gods and the winged lion of Rialto were embroidered on the priest’s chest in spirit rose corincanto. Even with the weak light, his silver robes gleamed.

The high priest, the ducal barge, the expensive wine. Primo had used every piece of his power to make everything perfect for Pàre’s funeral. Not out of concern for Imelda or Arturo or their father. It was all to highlight Primo’s prestige, wealth, and influence.

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The high priest raised his thurible. “Father Giore, bless this gathering. Mother Rea, comfort these mourners. Amen.”

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“Amen,” the crowd echoed. The high priest started the funereal prayer, but his voice grew quiet in Imelda’s mind, as if it were floating through murky water. She reached out to Pàre’s body, running a finger along the corincanto. Would it be enough? Would Rea come for him soon? Would Mare greet him when he entered Cielo?

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The high priest lowered a wide-mouth amphora to the sea, then grunted as he pulled it up, relying on Primo’s help to get it over the railing. The priest approached Arturo. He dipped a hand inside the amphora, then sprinkled the water on Arturo’s head. “The water of your father’s grave, to bind you to him for eternity.”

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“A-amen.” Arturo’s voice was thick with sorrow. A drop slid down his shaved cheek.

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The high priest moved to Imelda. Her thick hair caught the droplets, protecting her skin from the frigid water.

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“The water of your father’s grave, to bind you to him for eternity.”

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“Amen,” she whispered.

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The high priest repeated the ritual with Primo and his family. Primo had to crouch for the old man to reach over his head.

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“Lorenzo’s two other sons are abroad, yes? And his niece, Fleet Admiral Dandolo, of course,” the high priest said.

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Primo nodded. “His eldest sons, Renzo and Donte, have been in the south for a year now. My sister Venezia is leading the military back to Rialto at this moment.”

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The high priest lifted the amphora. “Keep this water until they return, so they may be bound to the deceased.”

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Primo motioned, and a servant ran up to take the amphora.

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Primo walked to the front of the crowd, and the priest had to edge sideways to give him room. “I have a few words to say. As long as no one minds.”

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Imelda’s suspicions were correct. Primo was about to make the day about him. How could he not? He was the Doxe after all, leader of the republic. Now he would deliver a grand speech, sure to solidify his reputation even further. He was already a perfect father in the city’s eyes. Now he’d show everyone what a good family leader he was as well.

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Worst of all, he was delivering his speech before burying Pàre. Anger and fear circled inside Imelda like a pair of sharks, devouring her sorrow. She needed to go home and disappear under a pile of blankets, let herself mourn her father. Instead she had to watch her cousin assert his dominance.

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Primo widened his stance and clasped his hands behind his straight back. He was turning on his politician’s shine. “The one word to best describe my uncle Lorenzo was kind. Once, my cousins and I set fire to the dining room curtains, and rather than rage, he laughed.”

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His voice wavered, and he paused, running a hand down his sash. The curtain incident happened with Imelda’s older brothers in the months leading to her mother’s death. Of course Primo would get emotional—or rather, pretend to get emotional.

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Donatella laid her hand on Primo’s arm, and he curled his fingers around hers. The crowd believed his act, the sycophantic saps. They touched their hearts and dabbed their eyes. Husbands wrapped arms around their mourning wives. Primo was stealing the attention from Imelda’s deceased father, same as he’d stolen Imelda’s chance to know her mother. All Imelda had of her mother, she’d inherited—her slight build, her wavy, black hair, her rare blood with the ability to spin regular thread into corincanto.

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Primo bowed his head, took a deep breath, nodded as if composing himself. “I’m nothing like my uncle. I don’t have his gentleness, but I appreciate his influence. He taught me that family is more important than anything—than self or even our great city and republic, La Serenìsima Repùblica de Rialto. Uncle Lorenzo was the final member of his generation, so as the oldest member of the next generation I’m now the head of the Albizzi family.”

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Primo turned away from the gathering, pinning Imelda and Arturo with his most authoritative gaze. She felt like a mouse, and he was the hawk watching her. “Arturo, Imelda, before your father died, I promised him I would take care of you. Our family has been separated since I was elected eight years ago. I wish for you to live with my family in Palàso Dogal until you get married. Families should be together. Our celestial parents, Giore and Rea, have commanded us. We bind ourselves at death. We should also bind ourselves in life.”

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Imelda’s fingers went cold, and heat rushed to her cheeks. She grabbed Arturo’s hand. He gave a gentle squeeze. Move into the palàso. Leave their family home. He was going to marry them off soon. He didn’t say those exact words, not in front of this crowd of her father’s mourners. It didn’t fit his image to be that blunt. He was the polite but assertive Doxe. Even commanding them to move was bolder than she’d expected.

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But the others didn’t see it that way. The idiots nodded in approval. Some even smiled. Primo was nothing but humility, thanking them and stepping aside for the priest.

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The priest recited one last prayer. Imelda pressed on her hot, hot eyes. She had to focus. Focus on her father, focus on his funeral, focus on his burial.

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A sob clutched her throat, escaped a moment later.

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Someone touched her back.

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She opened her eyes to a blurry vision of everyone watching her, sympathy tightening their lips and brows. Donatella was the one touching her, with tears in her own eyes. No one realized Imelda was crying not only from grief, but from anger as well.

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“I’m okay.” Her voice was a rasp, her words a lie.

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Primo took her by the shoulders. “Imelda, I promise to help you achieve the best in life.” He kissed her cheeks five times, a binding promise. Then he turned to Arturo and repeated the same line, kissing his cheeks five times as well. The crowd murmured in approval.

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The high priest gestured toward Pàre’s body. “Arturo, Imelda, please take your father on each side. Your Serenity, if you would place yourself at his feet.”

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Imelda laid her hand on her father’s arm. Across from her, Arturo did the same. His fingers trembled, imperceptible to anyone but her. Imelda’s breath quivered in her lungs like the death rattle Pàre had sighed in his final moments.

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She could make out the shape of his face under the shroud. He was still her father, but he held no power in this life anymore. No power over the family. No power over Imelda’s future.

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That responsibility rested in Primo’s greedy hands.

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The high priest moved aside, and a servant removed a body-sized panel from the railing. The water frothed and churned, a hungry sea ready to devour Pàre. Imelda tugged on a stitch of corincanto. It held firm. It would hold him until Rea retrieved his soul from the gulf’s greatest depths.

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Primo pushed, and Imelda and Arturo joined. They slid Pàre’s body to the edge where it balanced for a moment. Imelda’s grip faltered. She couldn’t do this, couldn’t relinquish the only parent she’d known. Panic clawed inside her, and she looked at Arturo for help. He took her hand across their father’s body.

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Primo gave the final shove.

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Pàre plummeted to the water.

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The splash seemed too small, too insignificant. Midnight blue bobbed in the waves, then the sea swallowed her father down.

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Down where she would never see him again.

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Down where she would never hear his voice again.

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Down where she would never smell his pipe smoke or curl up next to him or feel his kiss on her head again.

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Primo placed his hand on his heart and bowed his head. “Rest now, Uncle Lorenzo. I will care for your children as you cared for me.”

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Imelda rushed to the boat’s edge and squeezed the railing until her fingers ached and the wound on her palm tore open and the bandage turned red with her blood.