by Megan Chance
“Wouldn’t you?” I asked. “For your parents?”
“No,” he said bluntly. “Why should I? They’ve been ashamed of me since my affliction first showed its ugly head. My whole life has been one of secrets and lies. I wonder if you can imagine the burden of it?”
“I have some idea,” I said. “These last two weeks, keeping it from everyone . . .”
“Imagine a lifetime of it. It would have been easier if I’d had a brother or sister, I think. Someone else to inherit, to give them grandchildren and ensure the Farber name is on Mrs. Astor’s invitation list.” He snorted. “They would rather that, you know. It frightens the hell out of them that I might pass this flaw to another generation, but they can’t bear the thought of everything ending with me.”
“Perhaps you won’t,” I said. “It might not be hereditary in your case. It can also be caused by—”
“Licentiousness. Yes, I know. Do you know how old I was when I had my first seizure?”
I shook my head.
“Ten. I hardly knew what my cock was for.” He laughed at my shock over his vulgarity. “Please God, you are something. Nero was right about your blushing. Very pretty. Like a tea rose.”
“Don’t try to flatter me. It won’t change my mind.”
“A pity.” He sighed and rubbed his brow. “God, I’m tired. I’m so tired. What I would give to sleep without nightmares . . .”
“The laudanum would only make your nightmares worse.”
He looked at me hopefully. “I can think of something else that might help.”
“What would that be?”
“Come to bed with me. Let me fuck you until we’re both exhausted.”
I backed up so violently I hit the wall.
He laughed wryly. “Well. It was only a suggestion.”
“I am not . . . I would not . . . to say such things—” I broke off when I saw his gaze jerk past me, to the doorway. I looked over my shoulder. There was nothing there. When I looked at him again, his expression had changed. His eyes were almost black with fear, and something else too. As if he couldn’t look away, as much as he might want to. As if he were compelled to stare.
It was a look that frightened me, because I did not see him in it. Which sounds absurd, I know, but that was what I felt. And then . . . cold. Icy cold surged into the room with such intensity my skin felt rimed with frost.
“Samuel,” I whispered urgently. “Samuel.”
He didn’t move. Only stared. It was as if he were listening to something beyond us both. An indicator of another seizure, or another petit mal.
Or something else completely. Dear God, what? What was this? It was all I could do to touch his shoulder.
He jerked, and I started, yanking my hand back, hastening away, adrenalin rushing hot. He blinked, and then . . . then he was there again. The cold eased as suddenly as it had come. I could no longer see my breath. No more reflections, or tingling unease.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
He looked at me as if he didn’t understand who I was or what I was doing there. Then, his vision cleared. He buried his face in his hands, a quiet moan of distress.
“What is it?” I asked. “What were you looking at? What did you see?”
“She was only in my dreams at first.” His voice was so low and muffled I had to strain to hear it. “But now . . . now I see her everywhere.”
“Who? Who do you see?”
“I think it’s Laura Basilio.”
Madame Basilio had said her daughter’s ghost roamed the halls. What had she told Samuel in the days before I arrived? A man who had visions before his seizures, a man whose mind was so sensitive to other stimuli that it often turned on him, should never have been brought here.
But where else was I to take him? Back to New York? In this state? He was not close to stable. Everything would be over then, any hope of reward or redemption. Perhaps there was another place to go here in the city. Another palazzo, one not so dank and sinking, one where we could actually be comfortable. A healing place.
Yet that was impossible too. To be alone with him with no chaperone. I could hire no one to help without risking his secret. His epilepsy made him unpredictable. He was dangerous not only because he could be violent but because of how intimately he challenged me. Here, at least, there were people who could help if I needed it. Madame Basilio’s presence made it all very respectable.
No, we couldn’t leave. What then was I to do with this?
My father used to say that science could explain everything. I believed it was true. There must be a reasonable cause for what was happening to Samuel. All I must do was find it.
I went to the bed, pushing aside the medicine chest and the medicines, sitting beside him, a bottle between us, digging into my thigh. I put my hand on his arm, and when he looked at me, I said, “None of this is real, Samuel. I know it feels that way, but it isn’t. It’s only that you’re so impressionable. It’s not your fault. The disease makes you that way. As you know, the bromide can make you see things too. You must remind yourself that it’s not real. None of it.”
“You don’t understand—”
“You’ve hallucinated before,” I pointed out. “Your file says it. This isn’t different, is it?”
The bleakness returned to his face. “It is different. These visions are more real than anything I’ve seen before.” He twisted, grabbing my hand, his fingers digging into mine. “I’m afraid I’m going mad.”
I struggled to hide my apprehension and fear. “No. It isn’t that. You must have faith that it isn’t.”
“Elena—”
“There must be something I can try. Galvanism or . . . Papa spoke of magnetism. Perhaps a mesmerist.”
He was silent, searching my face, his hand still holding mine so tightly it hurt.
“I’ll find a way,” I said. “I promise it.”
He released my hand, looking at me now as if I were something foreign and surprising. “I wonder if I would have been a different man if I’d had someone like you.”
His words surprised and saddened me, but I don’t know what I would have said to him in response, because just then the sound of the door opening and closing echoed, along with rapid boot steps striding down the hall. A shadow rushing past my bedroom door and then stopping, turning back, and there was Nero Basilio in the doorway, his gaze sweeping me, the scattered medicines, Samuel rising, anchoring himself on the bedpost to ease his knee.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Basilio said, looking distressed. “I meant to be here earlier, but I was delayed. I hope I’m not too late. I’ll apologize to my aunt on your behalf. Probably she’s still waiting for you—”
“Tea’s over,” I said, rising, the strain of the last moments turning to irritation. I began collecting the medicines. “I went without you.”
“You did?”
“No doubt it was better that way. I suppose you were planning on bringing Samuel some wine. Or perhaps something stronger? I’m so sorry to ruin your plans to ruin him.”
Mr. Basilio looked uncertain.
Samuel said, “I’ve disappointed her. She’s taking it out on you.”
“You should have been here,” I snapped, jabbing my finger at Nero Basilio, forgetting that I hadn’t wanted him alone with Samuel, more annoyed than I should have been over his unkept promise. “You told me you would be.”
“I’m sorry.” Then, to Samuel, “Santa Maria, what did you do?”
“He tried to steal the laudanum,” I said.
“That may have been the least of it.” Samuel let out his breath, wavering, clutching the bedpost more tightly. “I think I should lie down.”
“Yes, you should,” I said.
“I’ll help you,” Mr. Basilio said.
I said nothing more as the two of them left the room. I focused on setting t
he medicines back into their case, everything fit just so, no room for deviation, and with every bottle and package put into its place, my distress eased a bit more, order restored. If only life were so easily arranged.
I half hoped that Mr. Basilio would stay with Samuel, even as I feared the vision Samuel had seen might turn into a seizure. I wanted a few moments to restore myself. But he returned before I was ready, angling himself in the doorway, his arm bolstered on the frame above his head, hand dangling.
“You’re upset with me,” he said.
“I’m not,” I lied. “I understand you might have had other things to do than play nursemaid.”
“All I can say is that I tried.”
“Who delayed you?” I heard myself saying. “I suppose Giulia had some pressing need for happiness?”
He lowered his arm. “I should not have told you that.”
“You said you would be here. I had not expected you to take the promise so lightly.”
He closed the door.
At its soft click, I spun from the bed. “What are you doing? Leave that open.”
He held up his hands as if to ward me off. “I only meant to keep Samuel from hearing.”
“From hearing what?”
He leaned back against the door and ignored my question. “What else did he do, other than try to steal laudanum?”
“Isn’t that enough?” I put the last of the bottles in the case and closed the lid.
“There’s something you’re not saying. You’re fluttering like a bird. He disturbed you in some way. I can see it.”
“It’s only that I’d thought I could trust him.”
“He’s desperate.”
“As am I. Desperate to help him.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and watched me as I shoved the case beneath the bed. “A good hiding place,” he observed. “It might take him all of a minute to find it.”
“I don’t think he’ll be trying it again,” I said.
“Oh? Why not? What did you threaten him with?”
“My disappointment.”
“A potent threat.”
“I wish you would open the door. Anyone could note it.”
“Anyone?” He raised a brow. “Giulia? Zuan? My aunt? Does what they think matter?”
“Perhaps not, but I—”
“How was tea?”
I sighed, surrendering. “Short, as you said.”
“What stories of my bad behavior must I explain away?”
“None, as it happens. She wanted to know how Samuel was doing. I think. It was strange. She spoke of spirits. And your cousin. And then she asked me to leave.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. We were talking of your cousin’s death and she became upset.”
His frown grew. “What did she say exactly?”
I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to remember. It seemed so long ago already, though it could not have been more than an hour. “I said I was certain your cousin was with God, and she said Laura was an angel, and then she told me to leave.”
He pushed off from the door and came over, seating himself at the foot of the bed, a safe distance, clasping his hands between his knees. “She’s always been odd when it comes to Laura. I think you shouldn’t worry over it.”
“I can’t help it. She is hosting us.”
“She’s not. I am. And I say it doesn’t matter.”
“Well.” I took a deep breath. “Your aunt is quite unsettling. I don’t know if I like her. I know that’s not very Christian of me.”
“I don’t like her either,” he admitted with a smile. “So we can go to hell together. It’s probably more interesting, anyway.”
I couldn’t help a small smile in return. “How blasphemous.”
“I don’t want you to be distressed. Laura died two years ago, and still Aunt Valeria keeps her room a shrine. I was surprised she put Samuel there.”
“I suppose losing a child might do that to anyone.”
“She was impossible before that. Laura spent half her life trying to escape her mother.”
“It was Laura you were betrothed to.”
“Yes. Another of my aunt’s great disappointments, that I wasn’t the godly man she hoped for her daughter. I think Laura didn’t mind it. Which would you rather have, a tirelessly good and godly man? Or one with a touch of wickedness?”
“A godly man,” I teased, because it was not what I knew he wanted me to say. “One for whom I can be a helpmate.”
He grinned; it was infectious. “You break my heart. I’d wager I could change your mind on that score, but unfortunately, I promised my aunt I’d accompany her to mass. All those prayers for my soul, you know. But if you have need of me . . .”
“I’ll call if Samuel becomes troublesome,” I promised.
“Not really what I’d hoped for,” he said. “But I’m happy to oblige. For that or . . . anything else you might think of.”
His flirtation was a balm; I felt it soothe and caress. I lowered my eyes and said quietly, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” and when he left with a light chuckle, I felt much better.
Chapter 14
The next morning, once I’d measured the bromide, I pushed the medicine case under the bed until it couldn’t be seen. Mr. Basilio was right; it wouldn’t stop Samuel if he decided to come after the laudanum again, but at least it was out of sight, and therefore I hoped not a temptation.
When I went to his bedroom to give him the bromide, he was curled beneath the blankets, sound asleep, and I mixed the medicine quietly and left the cup on his bedside table. I didn’t want to disturb him, but I couldn’t resist going to the balcony—soft steps, holding my skirts to keep them from swishing—to peek at what color the canal was today. A rather sickly yellow. Nothing to impress. Still, it astonished me to see the water change so completely, and I stood there for a moment, watching the dye tangle in the gentle current, before I left to get breakfast.
The air was cool and wet, the courtyard stones dark with moisture from a morning shower. Gray-tinged clouds floated languidly against a pale blue sky, darker ones hovering in the distance. The little boy I hadn’t seen for several days now leaned against the wall outside the kitchen, looking bored. When he saw me, he tensed in alarm, but he didn’t run off or leave his post, though he looked as if he wanted to.
I said, “Bonjour.”
His eyes widened, fingers clenching. He ducked his head, muttering something.
I opened the kitchen door to warm air and the rich scent of roasting pork, something briny and fishy. Giulia and Zuan, along with the man I’d seen the other day—a Nardi brother, the boy’s father—sat around the table with bowls of polenta and shrimp in some reddish sauce. They had been talking and laughing, but they stopped short the moment I stepped inside.
The bounty on the table was astonishing. Not my concern, I reminded myself. Samuel didn’t care. But I couldn’t help my surge of annoyance, not just because of the food, but because of Zuan’s immediately lowered eyes and Giulia’s glare that made me feel my intrusion acutely, though the Nardi brother stared at me with unabashed, and rather too ardent, interest.
I glanced away, and it was only then that I noticed Nerone Basilio standing in the corner. My heart gave a little jump—how had I not seen him immediately?
He said, “Good morning, Miss Spira,” and I smiled a hello.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ve just come to get some breakfast for Samuel.”
Mr. Basilio motioned to the table. “Help yourself. In fact, I believe this is all for him.”
I felt the gazes of the others, and I tried not to meet them as I stepped forward to see what was on the table that would be appropriate for Samuel. The Nardi brother said something, and Giulia snapped something back—obviously not complimentary—and the
brother’s gaze swept me with impudence. He ran his fingers over his mouth suggestively before he muttered something that made Giulia laugh and Zuan smirk.
Mr. Basilio set the cup he held on the table with an audible thud, speaking with a clipped, hard tone. Whatever he said wiped the insolence from the Nardi brother’s face. Giulia’s mouth tightened, and Zuan’s chin dipped nearly into his chest.
Nero Basilio smiled grimly and said to me, “Would you like some coffee? I’ve made it, so at least it’s palatable.”
“You made it?”
“It was either learn how or be subjected to Giulia’s,” he said. “Which I believe you’ve tasted.”
Giulia’s dislike of me seemed to corrupt the very air. But with Mr. Basilio standing there, that slight smile on his lips—not grim now—I felt in no hurry to leave.
He said in a low voice, “Is he waiting for you?”
“He’s not awake yet,” I told him.
“So you’ve time to have a coffee with me?”
I hesitated. I remembered too well Samuel’s warning. He would not be pleased. But Mr. Basilio’s expression was so hopeful I could not disappoint him, and I found myself nodding and smiling. “Yes, but I don’t have long.”
That slight smile grew. He poured a cup of coffee and handed it to me, and then stole two sugar-dusted fritters from the table while the Nardis watched, and it was as if they’d disappeared, so well did he ignore them. He gestured me to the door, and we went out, but now the cool air felt good upon my skin. The little boy was still there, but his eyes lit when he saw Mr. Basilio, who gave him a small salute.
Nero Basilio’s coat flapped about his legs as he led me into the courtyard, the coffee steam curling in a thin wisp above his cup and my own. “Have you been to the cupola yet?”
“The cupola?”
He glanced upward, and then I remembered the cupola on the roof settled among missing tiles. I shook my head, and he motioned for me to follow him up the stairs. I paused at the third floor, feeling guilty at the thought of Samuel waking to find me gone, remembering yesterday. I should not be leaving him alone, but Mr. Basilio said, “No, no, no, cara. No changing your mind,” and I followed him up the last flight, very narrow and steep, the stones slick with moss as if it had been some time since they’d been used.