by Megan Chance
Madame Basilio stood there, and there was no smile on her face, and no kindness. Her hands curved like claws over the balustrade as she stared down at us, a dark and baleful shadow in the swirling slush of snow.
Chapter 11
When I at last came into Samuel’s room, it was to find him at the balcony door, staring out at the falling slush, one hand braced heavily on the chair. The stove was lit, and a layer of smoke hovered just below the ceiling, but there was little warmth to be felt. He had his overcoat on over his shirt and trousers, and wore house shoes lined with fleece.
“Do you see the water’s purple?” I asked him. “There’s a dyehouse down the way. Mr. Basilio says you can see it from your balcony.”
“It’s not dye. It’s blood.” His voice was quiet, eerily toneless.
I felt the prickling at the back of my neck, that creeping watchfulness. “Don’t be so morbid. Blood isn’t purple, the last time I looked. Here’s your bromide. And some polenta.”
“Have you brought restraints as well?”
“Of course not.”
“Thank God.” He breathed the words. “I can’t abide them. I . . . well.” He glanced at me, and I felt the presence of the kiss and his drunkenness and had a moment of panic that he would say something now.
Quickly, I said, “I don’t even have any, so you’ve no need to worry.”
He said, “I imagine you wish you did.”
“I don’t think I’ll have need of them, do you?”
“Elena, why not make it easier on both of us? Tell my parents whatever you like. That I’m stable, that I’m cured, whatever you need to say. Just give me the laudanum. Everything will be easier. My parents won’t even know I’m using it. I’ve fooled them before. Countless times.”
“I can’t do that. You know I can’t. What happens if I send you back and you have a seizure before your wedding?”
“I won’t.”
“How can you know that? Can you control them?” I already knew the answer, of course.
A sigh. “No.”
“You see? I can’t take the risk. And I don’t understand why you want to. Wouldn’t it be better to not have to worry about seizures?”
“I’ve spent my life worrying about them. I’m used to it.”
“It’s only been two weeks. You must have faith that the bromide and the cold baths will have their effect.”
“What happens in the meantime?” He turned back to the door. His voice was desolate when he said, “Perhaps I should just throw myself off. I wonder if it feels different to drown in purple water?”
The window. The latch. The beckoning snow. How well I understood. I pushed the memory away.
“You’ll never know,” I said. “Because I refuse to let you find out.”
“Perhaps I’ll do it when you’re not here to stop me. It would be easy enough. The railing here is much lower than the others.” He became thoughtful. “Nero’s cousin fell from this balcony. They say she leaned too far over and couldn’t catch her balance. She drowned.”
“His cousin?”
“Didn’t you know?”
“No. How would I?” I thought of this morning, and his wistfulness, my sense that he was remembering something sad. This had been his cousin’s room, he’d said. Madame Basilio had said her daughter had been gone for some time. Not gone. Dead.
Now that I’d smelled it, the perfume from the handkerchiefs seemed to follow me about. I caught a sudden, strong whiff of it, borne on a breeze, vanilla cloaked in seaweed, and along with it came a sudden rush of brutal cold that turned my breath to fog. Gooseflesh rose on my arms.
“They didn’t find her for two days,” Samuel said in a whisper. “Crabs nibbled at her eyes.”
A shiver raced down my spine. My sense of profound wrongness returned with force. “She had Titian hair like yours. When they found her it was tangled with algae.”
His whisper, the horror of his words, as well as the dazed way he spoke, as if he saw something distant . . . I’d seen this too often now. Uncertainly, I said, “Samuel?”
My voice came out too loud, and he started, looking back at me with fear in his eyes. Then he blinked as if I’d roused him from a trance. Another petit mal, or a vision, or something else? The cold and the perfume disappeared so quickly, I wondered if they’d been here at all.
Samuel said, “Nero’s always had a penchant for redheads.”
After the strangeness of the rest, this comment, coming from nowhere as it did, was even more strange.
“You’re saying he was in love with his cousin?”
“He was betrothed to her from a young age.”
We had spoken of arranged marriages, his negotiated when he was only eight. “She and I often left the day’s fortunes to the whim of the dyer.”
Samuel eyed me thoughtfully. “You want to be careful of him, Elena.”
“Be careful of him? Mr. Basilio? Why? He’s been so kind—kinder to me than anyone else here, including yourself. What reason have you not to trust him?”
“I do trust him. We’ve been friends a long time. But that means I know him very well, and when it comes to women”—Samuel let out his breath—“I’m simply trying to save you from a broken heart.”
“How kind of you. But I can take care of myself.”
“Perhaps you think you can. But trust me when I say Nero is not what you’re used to. And now your hair has caught his attention. I’m not certain he even realizes he’s been looking for her in other women. It hasn’t mattered before now, because they’ve all been whores, and to them, he’s only another customer. But you . . .”
“Samuel, I’m here to see you healed, and that’s what I mean to do. I don’t have time for flirtation.”
“It won’t be flirtation, it will be seduction. He’s very good at it. And you, frankly, are a little too ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“To be”—clearly searching for the right word, not choosing the first that came to mind—“tumbled.”
I felt I might burst into flame. “That was quite inappropriate.”
“But true. Any man can see it, Elena. It’s like a . . . a perfume. I’m not immune. Nero won’t be either.”
“I am not looking to . . . to be . . . for that, whatever you think.”
“Really? You never imagine it? You never glance at the book I gave you and wonder what pleasures are to be found there?”
“No,” I lied, too loud again, too strident, as if my own voice meant to expose me. “And I think you’re the one to be careful of.”
He tilted his head in acknowledgment. “I haven’t denied it.”
“Of the two of you, it’s not him I’m afraid of.”
I hadn’t meant to admit it, and when I saw the way he flinched, I was sorry. It was only that I was embarrassed, and angry for being so, and angry at him for seeing that part of me I was afraid of, the dark little secret of my curiosity, that longing that had me twisting and turning in the night, yearning for something I did not want to put a name to.
It was not his fault. It was my own. But I couldn’t say that either, and when he turned away from me and stared out again, saying, “I think I might prefer the water red, wouldn’t you?” I said, “I’m partial to blue. Drink your bromide.”
Then I left. And I forgot what I should not have forgotten, what his provocative talk had distracted me from: his bleak despair, his fear, and the uncanny cold that had come when he’d spoken of drowning, when he’d stared at a canal he’d told me was the color of blood.
That night, I lay staring up at the smoky darkness above my head, jumping at every noise. A door closing, footsteps in the courtyard below, a woman teasing, and a man laughing in response who I was pained to realize I did not want to be Nero Basilio. The coals in the little brazier were banked, but every now and then one glowed for a m
oment before it died again, startling me each time with the notion that a red eye had flashed to life.
I waited for a crash or singing. I thought of Samuel’s searing, invasive kiss and the things he’d said about me today. I remembered how Nero Basilio had looked at me, the snow melting in his hair. I wondered what those silky curls would feel like to touch.
I was not what Samuel Farber said I was. I was not. I was not so innocent any longer. I only had to think of Joshua Lockwood silent and still to remind myself how hard the lesson had been learned.
“He’s so much better, Papa. I think he would improve if we took him out of restraints.”
The fervent way Joshua had looked at me, the plea in his eyes to believe him, “I’m not mad—not the least bit. My brother wants me out of the way. My father’s ill, and once he dies, I’ll inherit everything. But if I’m in here, Marcus will get it all. Come, my darling. You must help me. You know me better than anyone ever has. Do you see madness in these eyes? Help me and we’ll leave here together. I’ll take you away from all this . . .”
I squeezed my eyes shut, banishing the memories, the way he’d kissed me and touched me, the fever he’d raised that I would have done anything to ease. The hope he’d given me—I’d been able to breathe again once he was there to open the door.
But he hadn’t. In the end, there had been nothing, nothing, nothing but the lie between us. Only the perfect evidence of his madness. Only a terrible mistake, and my father’s long-suffering sigh. “Oh, Elena, do you not see what you’ve done? They lie—have I not told you that a dozen times?”
“And you, frankly, are a little too ready.”
I shifted uncomfortably, restlessly, turning onto my side, my hand slipping down, toying with the edge of the mattress, thinking of what was beneath, that yellow-backed novel. I pulled it out—not all the way, still deciding, my fingers teasing the ragged edges of the page—the paperknife had not been sharp enough, and in places had torn scallops. But it had been well read, and I knew from before—only skimming, hardly seeing, horrified and fascinated at how vulgar and coarse the words were, the kind the stableboys used when they spoke to each other about their exploits, when they thought no one was listening and did not imagine a young girl eavesdropping at the door, words with hard consonant sounds, c’s and k’s and t’s, words that exploded off the tongue, inflammatory and exciting and provocative, that made my own blood leap and churn—that many pages were stained . . . I did not want to think with what.
I played the game with myself. Take it out. Don’t. Like pulling petals off a daisy, He loves me, he loves me not . . . a back-and-forth that tormented and shamed. I would not read it. I was not that kind of woman. I’d already had it a week, but I could not bring myself to meet Samuel’s challenge, no matter that I knew my life with him would be easier if I did. Here, in the darkness and my loneliness, I could admit that I was afraid to read it. I was afraid of what I might discover. I was afraid of what Samuel would see with that epileptic vision that revealed what was hidden to everyone else. A knowledge I both wanted and didn’t want. Or . . . wanted and didn’t wish anyone to know I had.
“It’s like a perfume. I’m not immune. Nero won’t be either.”
I pulled away, my fingers flailing for nothing in the darkness, another game—don’t touch it. Forget it’s there. Don’t think of it. But I found the way back to it again, the rough cover a temptation, the worn edges of those pages almost silky, my fingers aching to rub, to fondle. I told myself: If that man who is not Mr. Basilio laughs again, I’ll take it out. I’ll read five pages. I waited, breath held, my heart beating in my ear, not knowing whether I wanted to hear that laughter or was afraid to. Waiting. Waiting.
He did not laugh, and the night grew quiet, my own breathing the only sound, and gradually the temptation fell away, banished by weariness, and I brought my hand up to rest beneath my cheek and surrendered to dreams. The Nunnery Tales stayed beneath my mattress.
Chapter 12
I did as Samuel asked and kept my distance from Nero Basilio. When he came to visit Samuel, I stayed in my room, pretending to be busy, reading the travel guides I was growing increasingly convinced I would never use, imagining views I would never see. I listened to the rumble of their voices down the hall, nervously waiting for anything that signaled a seizure, so tense my muscles were sore whenever he left.
Giulia did not stop trying to sneak in, but I managed to stop her before she could get to him, and was more satisfied than I should have been at her obvious frustration. Though even without her interference, I was making little progress. Often I came into Samuel’s room to see him staring sightlessly in the distance, while that tickling, eerie watchfulness was so present and strong that I wanted to cover the eyes of every painted creature on the ceiling. I’d scoured my father’s notes for any mention that might help me, something I may have overlooked, but I saw nothing to suggest that Samuel’s case was odd or unusual, nothing to show he was more prone to hallucinations than any other epileptic. Perhaps his concussion had been more severe than I had thought.
I considered writing Papa for advice, but I couldn’t bring myself to admit the task was too hard for me. Papa had believed I could do this. I must believe it too.
Three days after Mr. Basilio had shown me the dyer’s canal, there was a knock on the outside door just as Samuel was emerging from his cold bath, and a call from the hall, “Samuel? Miss Spira?”
Nero Basilio. Samuel, who was cursing and shivering, tightened the belt of his dressing gown and glanced at me, a warning in his gaze. “In the sala!” he called.
When Mr. Basilio appeared in the doorway, tousled and good-natured, a breaking smile, I could not help smiling in return.
“Ciao,” he said, then glanced at Samuel’s state of relative undress, and his smile became teasing. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Only torture,” Samuel replied. “Do me a favor, will you, and tell my nurse that cold baths in a freezing palazzo in the middle of the winter are more likely to cause my death than speed my healing.”
Mr. Basilio made a face. “Santa Maria. Torture indeed.”
“It helps ease the pain of his ribs,” I said, saying only part of the truth. “And it takes down the swelling of his knee.”
“So I can greet my bride without looking like Frankenstein’s monster,” Samuel added.
I caught his glance, his tease. I said only, “Your wounds are healing as they should. You’re beginning to look like yourself again.”
“Since you’ve only ever seen me misshapen, I’ve no idea how you can know.”
“It’s done nothing to improve his personality, I can tell you that,” Mr. Basilio offered. Like the other day, he wore a coat. Apparently the second floor was no warmer than the third.
“Well,” I said. “I’ll leave the two of you alone.”
“Please don’t,” Mr. Basilio said. “I’ve come to see you particularly. Though you’ve been avoiding me, I think. Have I offended you?”
I couldn’t look at Samuel. “No, of course not.”
But Mr. Basilio didn’t believe me, I saw. His expression was faintly chiding as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, holding it out to me. “For you.”
I took it warily. “What is it?”
“My aunt invites you to tea this afternoon,” he said with a grimace. “Which should be delightful for you. Cafè too strong to drink and baicolo too dry to swallow. Add to that bitterly nasty conversation and gossip about people you either don’t know or don’t remember, and my aunt’s teas are truly a shining example of Venetian hospitality.”
“Oh,” I said, opening the letter to see the invitation—in French. “I suppose there’s no delicate way to refuse.”
“No,” he said with insouciant cheer. “I am afraid not. It’s rather a royal command. Now that I’m here, she wants to be certain to warn you of my black h
eart.”
Samuel said lightly, “Word of your debauches in Rome has undoubtedly arrived.”
“Rome has nothing to do with it.” Mr. Basilio leaned against the wall, casually brushing away the plaster dust that sifted to his shoulder. “She’s never lost an opportunity to disparage me to anyone who will listen, and now—voilà!—she has a new and impressionable ear. I am sorry, cara, but I tried to dissuade her. I know you’ve better things to do than spend an hour listening to a choleric old widow. I only ask you to remember that my shortcomings have long been a source of repellent fascination to her. I try not to deprive her of her only entertainment.”
“Will you be there?” I asked.
“I’ve been expressly forbidden,” he said with a thin smile. “All the better for her to impugn my character with ease. I can’t defend myself. But I promise you that I am really not so irredeemable that it requires daily prayers for my soul.”
“She still hasn’t forgiven you for the bacchanal you threw in her sala,” Samuel said, undoubtedly for my benefit.
Nero winced. “I was nineteen. And how was I to know she would arrive from Milan a day early, with my cousin in tow?”
“That perhaps had something to do with your betrothed’s irritation.” Samuel’s voice was wry. He made his limping way to the settee and sat down, easing his hurt knee. “She can’t have liked walking into the room to find two whores draped all over you.”
“Well, yes,” Mr. Basilio admitted. “It was a shock for her. What can I say? Amor sensa barufa fa a muffa.”
“I have no idea what you’re saying half the time,” Samuel complained.
“Love without a fight grows moldy. But I did what I could to make it up to her. A man can change.”
“Can he?” Samuel laughed. “Did you?”
Nero Basilio’s dark gaze slid to me. “You’ll frighten Miss Spira with your stories. Is this why you’ve been avoiding me, cara? Has he despoiled my character and made you think I haven’t properly atoned for my sins?”