Hidden Voices Read Online Free Page B

few years there with her and of a shadowy nursemaid, the milky smell of her, the tuneful songs that she taught me to sing. The duke, my father, keeps my mother well — much better, she says, than his own wife and legitimate children.
    “A mistress is always loved best,” she said before pausing to study her long fingers. For this visit, even her stomachers were embroidered with gold and her frontage was pleated and high over honey-hued ringlets and rolls.
    “And the voice,” she said. “The voice will be trained as in no other place in the world. The Pietà is renowned throughout all of Europe.”
    As always, she spoke as if my voice is not part of myself but something I must cater to as to a perfect child who is demanding and spoiled. She never asks about my progress on the clavichord or violin. To her, they are only instruments of accompaniment.
    “It is opera that must be our goal, and now that Father Vivaldi is back at the Pietà, he can help us. Already his folios are being performed in cities like Vienna. You will be more than a courtesan, child, though that is hardly a life to be spurned. You will be a famous soprano. I will be your companion.” She tittered. “For no one would take us for mother and child.”
    She has everything planned. And she’s right to believe that my voice is exceptional and will someday be heard everywhere. But how does she know? How many times has she come to our concerts to hear me sing? I have caught sight of her only once, and then she left before my recitative. I was thrilled to see her arrive, even though very late, but her seat was empty the next time I looked, and I could hear the flutter of voices and laughter and the shutting of doors. I wanted to run after her then, but of course, there was no way that I could. I think my desperate feelings went into my song, for after the concert Father remarked how I really must have more control of my emotions.
    I am trying to sleep when Anetta comes into the room and flops down on her bed. There are six of us in this one space, and the beds are so close beneath the high windows that you can feel each girl turn in the night, especially she whose large feet and sharp elbows stick off at all angles.
    When I keep my eyes shut and roll to my side, my stomach feels surprisingly sore and full, and I notice a strange sticky wetness between my upper thighs. I reach down and bring my hand back. In the light from the hallway, my fingers look stained and dark, and they smell of blood.
(Madre di Dio!)
I had hoped this day would not come, even though all the girls near my age and even some younger ones have begun their monthlies and must deal with the mess and the bother! Only Lucretia, who is sixteen, is fortunate enough to have nosebleeds only and doesn’t bleed from her bottom. I had hoped to be such an exception, but now I will have to leave my warm bed and find those disgusting rags that the other girls wear. I will have to ask someone, Anetta, where they are kept and what exactly I must do with them. The others are sound asleep, or I’d never confide such a thing to her or ask for her help. When I’m forced to at last, she acts as if I’ve been given a prize.
    “Luisa, just think.” She claps her big hands. “You’re a woman today.”
    A woman has bosoms and a fat posterior. I am straight up and down and as spare as a bird, and intend to remain that way. The rough rags that Anetta gives me are stiff and cold. With a great wad of them fastened in place, I can barely sleep from discomfort.
    In the morning I’m roused by Silvia, who shrieks and points at two scarlet streaks on the coverlet.
    “It’s her first monthly,” Anetta declares in a whisper that’s as shrill as a shout. It causes Rosalba to fairly leap from sleep. Her feet slap the floor.
    “What’s the matter? What is it? Have I overslept? Not again.”
    “I thought,” says Silvia, her small, feeble eyes growing narrow and mean, “that Luisa was bleeding to death, that