The Visitant: A Venetian Ghost Story

by Megan Chance

  “Perhaps you don’t understand what I’m offering. I could introduce you to my friends. With that hair of yours, and those eyes . . . They’d fall over themselves to fete you. I’m guessing you’re not augmenting your shape, though one never knows these days—ah, so I’m right? I thought so. Think of it: you’d eat at the best restaurants. Drink and play until dawn. Wouldn’t you like to see the lights of Paris? And Rome at sunrise—there’s nowhere more beautiful. No more having to give cold baths or force medicine down some poor hysteric’s throat. No more worrying about some epileptic’s diet or his sexual habits.”

  “Drink the bromide, please.”

  “Don’t be a fool. Take what I’m offering.”

  I shook my head.

  “Why? Why not? My parents can’t offer better.”

  “Not everyone wants such things.”

  “But you do,” he said, more perceptively than I liked.

  I reached to take the bowl of stew away.

  He grabbed my wrist, so hard and so unexpectedly that I dropped the bowl. It cracked on the floor, shattering, stew spreading everywhere.

  “What are they holding over you?” he asked. “What are you afraid of?”

  I pulled away hard. Blindly, I said, “I need a rag to clean this up.”

  He sagged into the chair, surrendering. “There are handkerchiefs in the top drawer of the dresser.”

  I hurried to the top drawer, banishing my discomfort and his wretched temptation, shuffling blindly through the dozens of handkerchiefs as if I meant to find exactly the right one until I realized what I was doing and stopped. These were not his handkerchiefs. They were of all different colors and fabrics, designed to match different gowns. Each had a delicate lace hem, and was embroidered in the corner with a rising, rayed sun in silver and the letters LB.

  I pulled one out, staring at it, fascinated for no reason I could say. A faint scent clung to it. Cedar and iris and something sweet—vanilla. Very feminine. I was immediately suspicious. Perhaps there had been a woman here, someone other than Giulia. A mistress, perhaps? “Who do these belong to?”

  “They were here when I arrived,” he said. “Along with the furniture.”

  I felt a shift in the air with his words, a deep, sinking sadness fell over me that I didn’t understand. I didn’t know where it came from; perhaps it was simply the knowledge that whoever had left these handkerchiefs was gone, and had not returned. Her presence seemed to linger in that bit of cloth, in that subtle perfume, so present, I felt oddly as if I might turn around to see her standing there.

  I pushed the feeling away. “It’s a shame to use these. They’re beautiful.”

  “They’re handkerchiefs,” Samuel said dismissively. “It’s what they’re meant for.”

  There didn’t seem to be anything else, and so, resignedly, I took several of the older ones and went to the spill. Samuel scooted back, hard enough that the chair scraped over the floor, but not quite giving me enough space, instead simply spreading his legs so that I had to kneel between them to clean the floor. I tried to ignore him, but my shoulder kept brushing his thigh, my arm bumping his calf.

  “The stain will never come out.”

  Suddenly, I felt a rush of cold air. The temperature in the room dropped precipitously. I shivered and glanced up, looking for the source of the draft, and saw Samuel staring at the riffling reflections from the stinking canal below spilling from the ceiling to dance across the walls.

  “My angel,” he whispered. His voice was strange, disembodied, distant. His hands flexed on the armrest. It was unnerving. I would have called him catatonic except for his expression, because it wasn’t blank. He was watching intently, engrossed, and I had the sense it wasn’t just the movement of the light he watched, but something within it, beyond it.

  The cold seemed to pierce my bones, making me want to hug myself against it. “Samuel?” I whispered.

  Not a motion. No sign that he heard. The draft felt almost . . . preternatural. Again I felt the weight of sadness, caught in time, suspended. The press of the Basilio thickened the air; suddenly I could not take a breath, everything constricting, underwater, submerged.

  “What is it?” I forced the words. “What do you see?”

  The spell—or whatever it was—broke, a clap in the air, and the sorrow was gone, the press, the terrible cold. I could breathe again. Samuel blinked, confusion in his eyes as if he didn’t know who I was or how I’d appeared. He jerked away from me, lurching to his feet, too quickly, all his weight on a knee that could not hold him. It failed; he fell. He made a sound of panic and tried to scramble away. He was like a wild animal, frantic with fear.

  He climbed to his feet, and I grabbed his shoulder, gripping hard, and he stopped struggling, but his eyes were still unfocused. I realized what this was. He’d had a petit mal seizure. That’s what the trance had been, nothing so strange or unusual after all. And now he was confused in its aftermath.

  “Samuel, it’s me. It’s Elena.”

  “Elena,” he repeated, but not as if he recognized the name, or me.

  I heard a “Pardon,” from the doorway, and spun to see Madame Basilio standing there. I immediately panicked. I tried to think of what to do, how to hide his confusion. But she glanced past me, to Samuel, and said in French, “M’sieur, I had a letter from Nerone this morning. He says to tell you he will be arriving in a few days.”

  I opened my mouth to answer, but just then Samuel came to himself, his confusion clearing. “Thank you, Madame.”

  I was relieved, but Madame Basilio’s dark gaze sharpened. “You do not look well, m’sieur.”

  Samuel sighed and swiped his hand through his hair. “Thank you for your concern. I’m fine.”

  “He is not,” I said, finding my voice. “He’s recovering, and he needs his rest, and your housekeeper is bringing him food he should not be eating.”

  “The sguassetto is very nutritious.”

  “Not for him. He shouldn’t have such highly flavored foods. It excites his blood. It will only inflame his . . . head injuries.”

  Something flashed through her eyes—understanding, yes, but something else that confused me. Her voice, already cold, went almost brittle as she said, “You must forgive me, mademoiselle. I sent Giulia with the stew. It is well known in Venice to cure every ill.”

  “Not this kind,” I said firmly.

  “I see.”

  She backed into the hall, and I followed her, closing the door behind me. “Madame, I thought we had reached an understanding that everything concerning Mr. Farber was to go through me. Giulia has been impossible, and now this stew—”

  “Is he still dreaming?”

  “Dreaming?”

  She regarded me with something that looked like pity. “You mean you do not know?”

  It rankled that she knew something about my patient that I did not, and that she’d said nothing of it before, when I’d first asked. But what rankled even more was the realization of how she must know it. Giulia. Who had quite obviously been in his room at night, despite what he’d told me.

  “Everyone dreams,” I said.

  “Of course you are right,” she said. “He has a fine voice, and it seems to bring him such comfort, which is a blessing for one so afflicted. So sad, is it not? Such a handsome, rich man.”

  I had no idea what she spoke of, and my suspicion that she’d seen a seizure grew. “What do you mean, afflicted?”

  “How brave you are, to stay with him alone. I admire such dedication, but you should not take such risks, mademoiselle. I would never forgive myself if something terrible were to happen under my roof. Let me send Zuan or Giulia to stay here with you, for your own protection.”

  “Why do you say this? Why did you say nothing of it before? Has he hurt someone?”

  “I am only suggesting that if you hear him singing to
an angel, to her, I would not wake him. Nor would I discourage something that gives him peace.”

  Then, before I could ask another question, before I could even formulate one to ask, she turned on her heel and left.

  Chapter 5

  That night, I went through Samuel’s file again. I knew he’d had petit mal seizures in the past, but I wanted the reassurance of my father’s familiar words. He too had found such seizures disconcerting. It was some comfort to know it, even if I could not stop thinking of the sudden cold and the strangeness that had accompanied Samuel’s trance. The cold was no doubt only a draft, but the rest . . . I put it off to my imagination, which had always been a bit too vibrant. The seizure had taken me by surprise. Next time, I would be more prepared.

  It was dark outside my window, but I heard laughter in the courtyard below and saw flickering bits of light whenever the kitchen door opened. The entire Nardi clan must be down there now, judging by the noise. How did Madame Basilio sleep? How did anyone? I glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight.

  I thought about going down and throwing them out myself, or at least asking for quiet, but I had already dressed for bed, and the coal brazier had just now managed to take the chill edge off the air, and I knew I would get no cooperation from Giulia or Zuan, and would only end up retreating to the third floor with my tail between my legs.

  Then I heard the crash.

  It came from down the hall, reverberating and echoing.

  I grabbed the leather strap from the desk where I’d left it and rushed to the door, jerking it open. The hall was empty. Silent.

  And then, a male voice lifted in song. I didn’t recognize the words; it was a moment before I realized he was singing in another language. Italian? Venetian?

  No seizure, then. I put the strap in my dressing gown pocket. Cautiously, I went to his door and knocked. “Samuel?”

  He kept singing. The song didn’t sound like one angels might sing. It was boisterous and loud, probably ribald, or so it sounded. I opened the door.

  His bed was empty, the blankets thrown every which way. The washstand was on its side, shards of pottery from the shattered washbasin scattered everywhere in jagged little shadows polished by the glow of moonlight. Standing before the balcony doors, with his back to me, was Samuel, bare chested, clad only in his long underwear.

  “Samuel?”

  He stopped abruptly, pivoting. When he saw me, he backed up violently, putting up his hands as if to ward off evil. “What now? What angel is this?”

  I stepped closer. “No angel, Samuel. It’s me. It’s Elena.”

  “Elena?”

  “Your nurse.” I stepped closer still.

  “You’re floating.” His voice caught in the middle of the word.

  I glanced down at my feet, hidden by the flowing hem of my dressing gown, which was long and trailing. I lifted it to show my feet, the low-heeled slippers I wore. “I’m not. You see?” I held one out to show him. “I’m very corporeal.”

  He swallowed hard; I saw his uncertainty. He lowered his hands. “Is she still here?”

  “She?”

  “The angel.” More of a whisper now, but one that set me on edge.

  He collapsed to the floor in one fluid motion, pulling up his knees, burying his face in them. And then again, a rush of uncannily cold air laden with the stink of algae and fetid canal and . . . and vanilla. The perfume from the handkerchiefs. I glanced toward the dresser. The drawer was closed.

  He muttered something. His voice was almost demonic, and so quiet I had to strain to hear it. When he spoke again, it was in that other language, but even I understood the threat in it.

  I stepped back in sudden fear. The icy cold turned my breath to frosty clouds. I remembered Madame Basilio’s words about not waking him from his singing and his angel. I said softly, “You should be in bed.”

  Samuel looked up, his eyes in the darkness showing the moonlight the way a cat’s did—a full and empty reflection—and then they rolled back, only whites. He gasped, a choking gargle of sound, his back arching with deadly force, so that he looked to break in half. He began to convulse. Foam gathered at his lips; I heard the crack of his teeth against each other as his jaw tightened. I pulled the strap from my pocket and raced over to him, shoving it into his mouth to keep him from biting his tongue, throwing myself upon him, trying to hold him down, to keep him from hurting himself as he bucked and twisted beneath me.

  It felt as if it lasted forever, but finally the convulsions lessened, spasms instead, and then he went still; only the racing of his heart beneath my hand told me he was still alive. Dear God, how had Papa thought I could do this? I’d gone from finishing school to my father’s side when I was sixteen, but my duties had never been onerous. While the other attendants dealt with the rigors of violent patients, I had been relegated to reading soothing texts and doling out medicines.

  And I had not even done that well, had I?

  “You can do this, Elena,” Papa had said. “And you are our best hope.”

  I took courage from the memory. He had done all he could to prepare me, and there was no other choice.

  My patient stirred. His eyes opened, revealing a rapturous gaze like a saint’s must be in the midst of a miracle. “River,” he whispered.

  The ceiling did indeed look like a river, flowing across and downward, sparkling in the moonlight, reflections from the canal below playing across the painted blue medallions to create colors of sky blue and lapis and a deep, rich midnight.

  I said, “It’s beautiful.”

  He blinked as if he were trying to focus. “Where am . . . drowning.” He struggled to say even that, his confusion obvious, words eluding him, sense scrambling.

  “Come to bed.” I helped him to his feet. He staggered into me, disoriented, stumbling as if he could not completely command his limbs. It took a firm hand to guide him to the bed, and then he fell onto the mattress, flinging his arm over his eyes.

  He was unconscious in moments, but I didn’t leave, too alarmed by the seizure, afraid of another. I went to close the door, and heard a whish of movement out in the hallway, moving quickly. The white edge of a shroud flicked around the corner.

  A shroud?

  I stared in surprise. There was the perfume again, borne on a freezing breeze. Cedar and iris, a hint of sweet vanilla, familiar, and with it the rotten scent of the canal.

  I lurched back, and nearly slammed the door shut.

  Chapter 6

  The morning was so beautiful that the strangeness of the night before lost its power. When I brought Samuel breakfast, and his dosage of bromide, he was lucid, though there were circles beneath his eyes. “I feel as if someone’s beaten on me.”

  “Someone did beat on you,” I reminded him.

  “I mean besides that. And my head feels encased in cotton wool. I had a seizure, didn’t I?”

  I nodded. “Last night. Don’t you remember?”

  “No.” He drank the bromide, then let his hand and the glass flop to the blanket. The cup rolled from his fingers to settle against his hip.

  “What’s the last thing you do remember?”

  “Flashes of light.”

  “Angels?”

  “What?”

  “You spoke of an angel.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I had the feeling that wasn’t exactly true. “It’s all right, you know. You can tell me. Hallucinations are a perfectly normal symptom—”

  “You think I don’t know that?”

  “I just need to know how often you have them. And how intense they are. I can adjust your medication. The bromide can cause such things too, you know, if the dosage is too strong. Though I think it’s not strong enough, given what happened last night.”

  “What exactly did happen last night?”

 
“I heard a crash. Then I heard you singing.”

  “Singing?”

  “In Italian. Or perhaps it was Venetian.”

  He paled, making the wounds on his face look red against his white skin. “I barely know either. What else did I do?”

  “You said something about an angel. Something else too, but it was in that other language and I didn’t understand.” No point in mentioning how frightening it had been. “Then you had a seizure.”

  “Was it bad?”

  “I think so,” I told him quietly. “Though I don’t know how bad your seizures usually are. You had one the other day too, though only a petit mal.”

  He sighed, again sinking into the pillow. “It’s getting worse, not better.”

  “You’ve only been back on the bromide for a few days. It takes weeks to stabilize.”

  “What if it never does?”

  “It did before, didn’t it? It always has.”

  “They still happened when I was taking it. Just not as often.”

  “When did you stop taking it? How long before your seizure in Rome?”

  “I don’t remember. A few months, perhaps. I don’t like it. It dulls . . . everything.”

  “So you lied to me about how long it had been. It had nothing to do with your father’s letter about your betrothal.”

  “Did I say that?”

  I sighed at his obvious evasion. “You must be more honest with me. How can I help you if I don’t know the truth?”

  “Why not just admit that you can’t help me?” he asked.

  “Because I believe I can.” I felt more encouraged now that I knew he had been months without bromide. I had been afraid that it had still been in his blood, which meant it wasn’t helping at all. All I must do was build it back to its proper level.

  “I’d wish you luck, except that I don’t want to be a married man.”

  “It will be good for you. You need stability. You need a wife to look after you. It will be restful.”

  “Restful?” His smile was thin and small. “God, I’m tired.”

  “Would you like me to read to you?”