Cross My Heart by Sasha Gould Page A

marriage than I was about mine.
    “Well,” I continue. “Are you going to tell me who he is?”
    She twirls her parasol as we pass into another lane, where a cheering crowd is gathered around street performers. “Oh, Laura, it’s a love match! It’s what we all deserve. I pray that you will find the same happiness. I’m sure you will.”
    We move to the front of the crowd and see a street dancer with bells on his costume, twisting himself in knots. The rhythm of the bells is enchanting, and we join theothers in clapping our hands in time. Through the laughing faces I see a tall man at the edge of the crowd, with a wide black hat that casts a shadow on his face. The angle of that face is different from the throngs around him. He seems to be looking at us rather than the dancer.
    I nudge Paulina and point at him. “Is that someone you know?” But he pushes his way from the crowd and disappears.
    “Where?” she asks.
    “A man in a black hat,” I say. “He was watching us.”
    Paulina smiles. “You should get used to that,” she said. “When you look as fine as you, men are bound to stare.”
    The acrobatic display comes to an end, and people toss coins into the gaudy colored hat proffered by the performer. When a red-dressed young woman in front of me has made her donation, I take a coin from my velvet purse and follow suit.
    “Thank you, ladies,” the performer says.
    The young woman in red turns and stares, her eyes moving up and down Paulina. She raises her eyebrows at her companion and they snigger behind their open fans.
    Paulina sighs crossly, then takes my arm and leads me away. “Ignore them,” she says.
    “Do you know that girl?” I ask, when we’ve rounded the next corner.
    “My uncle used to work for her father,” she says. “She looks down on my family. Though she won’t be so insolent when I’m married. Then no woman will be able to look down on me. Even the Segreta’s power won’t reach high enough to bring me down.”
    My body tenses. I can feel the color drain from my face and I pretend to look at a passing carriage, hoping Paulina won’t notice.
    “The Segreta?” I speak as calmly as I am able, then move my hand surreptitiously behind my back to hide the small bandage from my initiation ceremony. It’s silly, of course. She couldn’t know.
    “That’s one name they use,” says Paulina. “Some call them the Society of Secrets, or the Hidden Women. Part of the appeal is the silly names, I expect.”
    “Appeal of what?” I ask carefully.
    She tightens her arm around mine, drawing me close and lowering her voice conspiratorially. “It’s a group of Venetian women. My sister told me about them when I was small. No one knows who belongs to the Segreta, or what they really do. My sister says they get rid of people.”
    I feel a bead of sweat trickle along my spine.
    Paulina laughs. “Don’t look so serious! Probably they just gossip about men and money and gowns, like all the other women of Venice.” She takes out her fan and beats the air, making her dark curls flutter. “It’s too hot; let’s go into the cathedral.”
    I’ve lost my bearings, but she leads me across a few lanes and canals, and we emerge into the glinting St. Mark’s Square. The piazza is dominated by the silvery domes and intricate spires of the cathedral. Before it stands the bell tower, a square red-orange brick column, casting a shadow eastward over the Doge’s palazzo. The salty smell of the sea wafts up from St. Mark’s Canal, and gulls wheel overhead. As we walk towards the cathedral entrance, I glance around. Despite the heat, there’s a chill at my back, an eeriebreeze that doesn’t belong to a day like this. The man in the black hat is there again. He halts and I lose sight of him among the crowd.
    Paulina and I step from the furnace of the Venetian day into the cool blackness of St. Mark’s interior. We genuflect. We dip our fingers in holy water and bless ourselves. These old rituals