The scent of crushed rosemary and bitter almond hung heavy in the damp air of the apothecary, a familiar perfume that usually brought Isabella peace. Tonight, however, it was overpowered by the sharp, metallic tang of fresh blood. The year was 1492, and the Republic of Venice was drowning in the chaotic revelry of Carnivale. Outside the heavy oak doors of the shop, the streets were alive with the sounds of lutes, drunken laughter, and the splashing of gondolas against the stone steps of the Grand Canal. Inside, there was only the ragged, wet breathing of Master Giovanni.
Isabella Rossi, a young woman of two-and-twenty with ink-stained fingers and sharp, observant brown eyes, knelt on the cold stone floor. Her hands, usually steady as she measured out grains of belladonna or drops of foxglove, trembled violently as she pressed a linen cloth to the gaping wound in the old man’s chest. The crimson stain spread rapidly, soaking through the fabric and pooling on the uneven cobblestones.
“Master, please,” Isabella whispered, her voice cracking. “I have sent the boy for the physician. You must hold on.”
Giovanni’s rheumy eyes, usually filled with gentle wisdom, were wide with a terror she had never seen. He reached up, his bloodied fingers gripping the collar of her simple woolen dress with surprising strength. He coughed, a terrible, rattling sound, and spat a speck of blood onto her cheek.
“No physician,” he gasped, his voice barely more than a wet whisper. “They… they are already here. The shadows. The obsidian.”
Isabella’s brow furrowed in confusion and panic. She glanced toward the shadows of the shop, half-expecting to see demons born of the old man’s delirium. The flickering candlelight cast long, dancing silhouettes across the jars of preserved specimens and dried herbs.
“Who, Master? Who did this to you?”
Giovanni ignored her question. With a supreme effort, he reached into the inner pocket of his heavy velvet doublet and withdrew a small, intricately carved silver tube, barely thicker than a man’s thumb. He pressed it into Isabella’s palm, his fingers cold and clammy.
“The ledger,” he wheezed, his eyes losing their focus. “It is… it is a cipher. The Council. The Ten. They are corrupt. Tomorrow night… midnight mass. The Doge… the armada.”
“Master, I do not understand,” Isabella pleaded, clutching the silver cylinder tightly. It felt unnaturally heavy.
“Go to Murano,” he commanded, a final surge of adrenaline granting him clarity. “Find Marco. He will… he knows the glass. Do not trust the guard. Hide, Isabella. You are the keeper now.”
With a final, shuddering exhale, Master Giovanni’s grip went slack. His hand fell to the floor, splashing softly into the pool of his own blood. The light faded from his eyes, leaving him staring blindly at the wooden rafters above.
Isabella sat frozen, the reality of the moment crashing over her like the freezing waters of the lagoon. The man who had taken her in from the orphanages of San Marco, who had taught her the secrets of chemistry, botany, and healing, was dead. A sudden, heavy thump from the back alley entrance shattered her paralysis. The heavy wooden door shuddered under a violent blow. They had returned. The men who did this were still here.
Instinct, honed by years of surviving the unforgiving streets of Venice before Giovanni found her, took over. She shoved the silver cylinder deep into the bodice of her dress. She scrambled to her feet, her boots slipping slightly on the slick floor. She grabbed a small glass vial of powdered sulfur and a flint from the worktable.
The back door splintered, the heavy iron hinges groaning in protest. Through the fractured wood, Isabella saw the gleam of drawn steel and the horrifyingly blank, white visage of a bauta mask. The assassins were masked, moving under the cover of the festival.
With a swift, practiced motion, Isabella struck the flint against a steel mortar. Sparks rained down onto the pile of sulfur on the table. A blinding flash of yellow-white light erupted, accompanied by a deafening crack and a billowing cloud of thick, acrid smoke.
The man breaking through the door cried out in surprise, blinded. Isabella didn’t wait. She bolted for the front door, throwing back the heavy iron bolts and tearing it open. She plunged into the freezing, foggy night, instantly swallowed by a sea of masked revelers. Acrobats tumbled, fire-breathers spat plumes of flame into the dark sky, and couples in elaborate silks danced through the narrow calli.
Isabella kept her head down, weaving through the suffocating crowd, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She dared not look back. She could feel the weight of the silver cylinder against her chest, a cold reminder that her life, and perhaps the fate of the Serene Republic, now rested in her bloodstained hands.
