The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(135)

Sandy twisted the thin cradle-blanket into a sling with practised ease, then took the child back.

"Brother–" Mal reached out a hand.

Sandy's eyes narrowed in contempt. "If you wish to save us all, and spare this family further grief, you will finish what we came here to do."

Mal nodded numbly and picked up the dead chicken. He slit it open with his knife, pulled out the still-warm entrails and smeared some of the blood on the cradle. For further verisimilitude he took out his dagger and scraped parallel marks on the edge of the cradle, as of huge claws. He considered opening the shutters and repeating the process on the windowsill, but someone might see him and in any case it would add to the mystery if there was no sign of how the "devourer" got in or out. Instead he found a large rag and wiped his hands on it, then used it to bundle up the remains of the chicken, including all the stray feathers.

"Enough," Sandy said. "Let us away from here."

Mal threw the cloak about his brother's shoulders so that it all but concealed the sling, then followed him out of the house and into the deserted street. They walked back to the gondola in silence, Mal starting at every sound. What if someone saw them and sent for the sbirri? This time there would be no Olivia to save them.

They reached the gondola unchallenged, however, and Sandy ducked into the concealment of the cabin. The gondolier's thick eyebrows drew together. Mal took out his purse and gave the man several lira.

"For your silence."

"Of course, signore." He saluted Mal with a sly smile.
Mal scrambled aboard and crouched in the bow, watching nervously for any sign of the alarm being raised. The gondolier hauled on his oar, and they slid away towards the Grand Canal. Not a moment too soon. Shutters were opening here and there, neighbours calling out to one another as the city roused from its midday slumber. Very soon their ill deed would be discovered.

Somewhere on the journey back to Berowne's, Mal tossed his own bloody bundle into the water. It bobbed in their wake for a moment, then sank in a swirl of feathers and was gone.

"Signora Catalin?"

Coby looked up from her sewing to see the new nursemaid standing in the doorway.

"Yes, Susanna?"

The girl stammered something in her thick Venetian dialect. At Coby's frown of incomprehension she repeated it more slowly, then mimed sleeping.

"Yes," Coby replied in formal Italian. "The baby is sleeping."

The girl bobbed a curtsey, said something about laundry, and left. Coby sighed. She was going to have to teach the girl English on the way home, or it would be a very tiresome voyage. Still, Susanna was willing enough, and a hard worker. Mal said she was one of Cinquedea's girls who had recently lost her own babe to a fever, so no doubt anything was better than whoring, even sailing to a foreign land where she knew no one and could not speak the language. Coby smiled to herself. At least Susanna would not have to disguise herself as a boy to earn an honest living.

She finished off the hem of the baby gown and set it aside. Little children needed so much linen to keep them clean, it was no wonder that poor women let them run around naked. Unfortunately the son of a gentleman would not be allowed such liberties, which meant that Coby would be sewing napkins and smocks from dawn until dusk. Truly, a mother needed six pairs of hands and twice as many hours of daylight as everyone else.

She placed her hands on her own belly, wondering what it felt like to quicken with child. Thankfully nothing of that sort had happened yet. She did not relish the prospect of a sea voyage in such a state. There would be plenty of time later, when she had settled into her new role as mistress of her own household. And she could practise on her adopted son, with a little help from Susanna.

Her son. The thought thrilled and terrified her. She got to her feet and went over to the borrowed cradle. He was a handsome child, of that there was no doubt, with curly black hair and dark eyes. Perhaps he would grow up looking enough like his supposed father to fool people, but at such a young age, it was hard to tell.

"I thought we'd call him Christopher," Mal said. "Kit for short."

Coby turned to see him leaning in the doorway. He looked tired, as if the events of the past few weeks were a weight he could not put down.

"That's a good name," she said. "But is it not the English custom to name the eldest son after his father?"

Mal laughed. "I would not saddle him with a name like mine. You don't know how much I was mocked at school."

"For having a foreign name?"

He came over to the cradle and put an arm around her.

"For having a girl's name. 'Mall' is short for Mary."

"I suppose it is. I'd never thought of it like that before."

"Anyway, I thought it would make slips of the tongue less obvious if we named him something similar to… his old self. And Christopher is the patron saint of travellers. It seemed appropriate, given how far he has to go."

"Christopher it is, then." She gazed down at the child. "Kit Catlyn. It has a pretty ring to it."

"We should leave soon, just in case someone recognises him. I know 'tis said that all babes look alike, but if by some ill chance his own mother or grandmother were to set eyes on him…"

"Very true. And we cannot be sure that his nurse will not gossip, either."

"Then it is settled. We will find passage on the next ship for France."