The Glimmering Sea

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

At the foot of the Rialto, Armida slackened her pace, dodging people scurrying like the rats she'd seen when she first arrived in Venice. She followed one calle until it intersected another and she turned right as the gondolier had told her. Or had he said left? The calli to choose from felt infinite. She continued for so long she assumed she'd lost her way among the crowded and cramped buildings. Women seemed disinclined to help and Armida avoided eye contact with any of the men.

She was dizzy with the dead ends and doubling back. Again, missteps hounded her. She might never find the printer, and Vittore had warned of those ready to take advantage.

Why did I not listen to Matteo? Why must I always resist?

She approached a church of magnificent marble where she believed she might find respite and guidance. A fog of apprehension dropped around her like a net as she entered. The merfolk carved everywhere alarmed her. She staggered toward a pew, her knees weak, took a seat, and cried.

"Are you a lost one, my child?" the priest asked.

"I am." Armida sobbed out her story of turning wrong and not finding the printer.

"Ah, I see. Lost but not gone astray like so many poor girls of the city." He helped her to her feet, escorted her outside, and set her on the right path. Sempre dritto.

Eventually, in no way dritto, she came to another campo. A young boy in a grubby tunic and ripped tights stood alone as he ate a bun. The idea of eating was nauseating, considering the vile stench of rotting fish hanging in the air.

"Can you tell me where the printer Petrucci is?"

He laughed at her question and pointed to the door she faced. Armida felt heat rise on her neck, but her anxiety eased when the door opened for an exiting client, and she hurried inside.

Waist-high stacks of books pressed against the walls. Two desks sat near front windows that allowed light to pour across the smooth-grained surface. Three laborers in leather aprons huddled around a large wood structure with untold complications—screws, pulleys, plates, trays of metal bits. A thick sheaf of paper bundled with twine rested on the floor. The odors were vaguely reminiscent of Torquato's books. There was a pungency with a hint of sweetness, not unpleasant, she couldn't identify.

The tallest of the three men narrowed his eyes when Armida hesitated at the door. He waved her over, and when he did, she noticed he was missing the ring finger on his right hand.

Ever unsteady, Armida felt each step was more precarious than the next. Uneven floors, slick with an oily substance, seemed determined to sink her as she placed one foot in front of the other. Her caution was not enough to prevent her leg skating forward without regard to its attachment to her body.

The man caught her arm. "Careful, girl. You do yourself no favors coming here such as you are, unprepared and all. What shoes have you? Nothing for wear here, I venture." The streaks of black smeared on her arm hinted at the tangy vapor that bathed the room.

The other two younger men laughed, and the heat recently receded from Armida's face surged again. The taller of the two said, "Grab some if you can, Ottaviano, before she escapes. Don't let that missing finger stop you."

Ottaviano's laughter had sharpness. "What does bring you here?"

Armida collected herself. "I am here for the music texts for Oriana."

"And which Oriana would she be?"

Armida did not like the sludgeshark quality of his smile. She sensed a trap. "The order is for Ca' d'Argento, the courtesan house."