by Megan Chance
“It’s too early for wine,” I said.
He laughed shortly. “It is never too early for wine, cara. I can see there is a serious dearth in your education if you believe that.”
“I—”
“Call it one more lesson in your quest for knowledge,” he said, grabbing my hand this time, taking me with him again, down the open hallway lined with storage rooms and servants’ quarters, to the kitchen.
We stepped into warm air and the yeasty scent of bread, the ripe, pungent aroma of the cheese on the table. There was no one else there.
I felt a twinge of nervousness, which I tried to dispel. I’d been more alone with Samuel, and I was in more danger from him too. Which reminded me of why I’d sought Nero out.
I’d never had wine so early in the day, and I could almost hear my father’s voice in my head, warning of the dangers of excess—but I said nothing as Nero grabbed a pitcher and two glasses and sat beside me on the bench, not across, as I’d anticipated he would. I felt a little jab of pleasure, and fear too.
Nero poured the wine and took a deep gulp, sighing when he brought the cup away again, saying, “My aunt would drive a saint to drink.” He tapped my cup with the back of his finger. “El vin fa gambe. Ah, forgive me, how to say it? Wine gives you legs. Go on, drink it.”
Obediently, I took a sip. It was young and a bit sour, but not unpleasantly so.
Nero gave me an amused look. “You’ll have to do better than that. How are you ever going to gain the ruin you wish for without indulging now and then in decadence?”
“It wasn’t ruin I was wishing for.”
“What happened? What has Samuel done so early in the day to send you running to me?”
He was as perceptive in his way as Samuel. It surprised me, but unlike with Samuel, it didn’t make me feel uncomfortable. Instead, I felt a relief that startled me, and before I knew it, everything Samuel and I had spoken of this morning spilled out, tumbling over my lips so quickly I was unaware of forming words or thoughts.
Nero listened silently, and when I stumbled to a halt, he said, “But you said it was caused by the medicine and his injuries. So . . . it’s all temporary, yes?”
My own words, thrown back at me. Then I realized how impossible this was. What had I thought to tell him? How could he possibly help? I couldn’t explain anything, not without revealing too much. How to say that Samuel believed these visions different from those he’d had before without telling Nero about the epilepsy?
I couldn’t. I had been a fool to search him out. I took a gulp of wine, too much, too fast, burning down my throat and into my stomach. I would have to work this out on my own, and I was so ill suited to the task. I could not even tell when a man was lying, much less when he was mad. I said, “I’m sure you’re right.”
“I’ve disappointed you,” he said. “That wasn’t the answer you wanted.”
“No, it’s fine. It’s . . . you’re exactly right. I shouldn’t be worried.”
“It didn’t look like it was caused by medicine to me,” he said. “But you could stop giving it to him and see if he gets better. Isn’t that the way to tell?”
“You’re right.” I tried to smile. “Yes, of course.”
“Elena.” Nero twisted on the bench to face me. “What is it you want me to say?”
“I . . .” I could not tell him the truth, and so why was I disappointed when he told me the only solution he could know?
He went on, “I’ve told you I’ll stay with you upstairs. You won’t let me. Samuel tells you to leave. You won’t. You won’t stop the medicine, for whatever reason. What can I say that hasn’t already been said? I don’t know why you’re so insistent about the laudanum and the wine, frankly. Take him to his parents and let him fool them the way he always has. He’s happy, you get whatever it is they’ve promised you, and”—a snap of his fingers—“all is right with the world.”
I raised my gaze to his. “Before the beating . . . did he . . . did you ever . . . had you any reason to think he might be . . .”
“Insane?” He drank the rest of his wine, poured more; the glug splash glug filled my ears. “Perhaps now and then. But then, when we were together, well . . . let’s just say there were usually other things involved as well.”
“Laudanum, you mean. Or drink.”
“Yes. And opium. Absinthe, which would turn the sanest man into a lunatic. Cocaine. Hashish. Wine, women, and song.” He lifted his glass in tribute and drank again. “Shall I go on?”
“I believe I have the general idea,” I said.
Again that amused glance. “You sound disapproving. Tell me, cara, have you ever done what you knew you should not just for the sheer joy of it?”
“I sneaked into the kitchen once to eat cake when I shouldn’t. Does that count?”
“Not good enough,” he said. “Have you ever been drunk?”
I shook my head.
“Have you ever taken laudanum until you were stupefied?”
“My father is a doctor. He would never allow it.”
“And you never sneaked any on your own?”
The hallway, quiet but for my shuffling. No lamplight to give myself away. The creak of the door, swiftly silenced. The quick look around to be certain I hadn’t been discovered, my heart pounding in my ears, my breath too fast. The bottle in my hands, shoved into my pocket. “I would not,” I said quietly.
“No cocaine, then,” he said.
“I wouldn’t even know what to do with it,” I told him.
“Tobacco?”
“It’s vile.”
“What about lovemaking?” he asked.
I went hot, again, with a longing that frightened me. I saw the way he noted it, the small smile on his lips, the way his eyes did not leave my face though I willed him to look away.
“Well?” he went on. “Have you ever kissed someone just because you wanted to? Only because you were hungry for it, and you didn’t care what else might happen? You weren’t thinking of love, or marriage. You just wanted to appease a desire.”
“Once,” I said. His hand cupping my chin. Leaning in. Feeling his breath against my lips.
“Not that kiss I walked in on?”
“That wasn’t my doing.”
His gaze was probing. “I think you’re lying. I think you’ve always expected something from a kiss. A future. Perhaps love. I think the kiss you speak of had all those things wrapped up in it. It wasn’t only about desire.”
“We’ll leave together, you and me. We’ll make a future together. I’ll show you the world.
We’ll be married at that little church down the road.”
“Ah,” Nero said. “I’m right. I can see you haven’t risked everything for a momentary pleasure.”
“I’m not . . . I’m not that kind of woman.”
“What kind of woman is that?”
“A . . . a woman who is not respectable.”
“A whore, you mean? But I’m not talking about whores. Desire has nothing to do with them, only money. I’m talking about decadence, which I’m trying very hard to lead you into. But you won’t even drink your wine, so it’s much more difficult than it should be.”
“I’ve told you ruin is not what I’m looking for.”
“I don’t want to ruin you, Elena,” he said with a smile. “I’m trying to get you drunk enough that you forget this mess of a world. I’m trying to get you to relax, because after last night, you look as if you need it. I’m trying to get you to forget your patient, who has an intimate enough knowledge of decadence and ruin that it’s no doubt rotted his brain, though it may look like madness to you.”
My hand tightened on my glass. “I’ll lower his dosage. You’re right; it needs a change.”
He looked at me as if he were trying to decide whether or not to believe me. I glanced away, tak
ing refuge in wine. One sip, another. That burning I was starting to enjoy, the growing warmth in my stomach. The wine tasted better with every mouthful.
He said, “Let me stay up there with you.”
I shook my head.
“Then I want you to take this.” He reached into the pocket of his coat, pulling out something dark, laying it on the table. It was a moment before I recognized it: his knife, sheathed, the Basilio rising sun on its handle.
I stared at him stupidly.
He slid the blade out, turning it so it caught the light. He touched the edge with his thumb, barely pressing. It raised a thin line of blood. “It’s very sharp, so you should be careful. Keep it sheathed, but within reach. It will dissuade him, I promise you.”
The thought of taking the knife, of using it, was unfathomable. “I can’t. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t even know how.”
“I’ll show you, though it won’t take much finesse to put him off. Slice. Or stab. One or the other will do.”
“I couldn’t hurt him.”
“You’d let him hurt you instead?” He slid the knife back into the sheath and held it out to me. “Take it. Please.”
I shook my head. “I don’t need it.”
He made a sound of frustration. “Elena. Please. There’s too much unhappiness is this house already. It’s burden enough. I would not be able to bear it if he hurt you or . . . or worse. I’d feel responsible.”
“You shouldn’t. You’ve been so kind. No one would blame you.”
“I would blame myself. Take the knife. I’ll sleep better knowing you have it.”
I didn’t want it. I didn’t want the responsibility of it. I didn’t want to admit what taking the knife forced me to admit—that Samuel was dangerous, that he might be mad, that he had hurt me and frightened me and would do so again. I didn’t want to acknowledge the danger I’d felt in the air. The way his eyes had darkened. How fast your little heart is beating.
I took the knife reluctantly, turning it over in my hand.
“Like this,” Nero said, leaning close. His hands were much warmer than mine, which lately felt perpetually cold. His fingers were as gentle as I’d remembered them last night, when he checked the wound on my foot. Again, so intimate.
He guided my hand to slide the knife out. “Hold it like this.” Turning my hand to press the knife handle against my palm. Heavy and lethal. “Like this”—a quick stabbing motion, a slice. “Or this”—he brought it to his throat—“see here? A flick of the wrist, and it’s all over. But I would prefer you not take it so far. Probably just the sight of it will put him off.” He released me, sitting back, smiling grimly. “Keep it with you at all times. Don’t hesitate to draw it on him if you need to.”
“But what will you do without it? And it’s obviously a family heirloom. I can’t just take it.”
“You’re only borrowing it. I’ll expect its return when the medicine starts to work and he’s no longer a threat. As you keep telling me, it won’t be long.”
Carefully, I slid the knife back into its sheath. I was not as optimistic as he thought.
“Just try not to stain the carpets, will you? They may be the only things in this house actually worth selling.” His grin was quick, as sharp as the blade in my hand, slicing through my tension.
“Thank you. I’m . . . very grateful. For everything.”
The grin slipped away. His eyes, so intense, caught mine. I did not know how to look away. The moment stretched, and then he shook his head lightly, as if recalling himself. Another quick smile—not so easy this time, pensive instead. He reached for his wine, downing the rest of it. “What do you say, cara, shall we finish the wine? Will you get stinking drunk with me?”
I rose. “I should be getting back. But I appreciate what you’ve done. You’ve comforted me immeasurably.”
He cocked his head, glancing up at me, again that melancholy smile. “What I meant to do was make you forget. The wine will do that, you know. Make it all go away. At least for a few hours. The world will seem very different then. Better.”
“I don’t want to forget,” I said, and it was true. It was only remembering my own mistake and how I must atone for it that gave me the courage to go back to that room, to try to think of a way to save Samuel.
“Ah, well then. Perhaps another time.” Nero looked away, splashing more wine into his cup, and yet there was a studiousness in it that told me he was measuring his every move, his every word. “I’ll come up to see him later this afternoon, if you like.”
“That would be good for him.”
“And you, cara? Would it be good for you?”
Before I could stop or think I said, “Yes.”
He turned a teasing smile on me, and it was all I could do to mumble a good-bye and open the door, and when I stepped outside, I leaned back against the wall, needing to gather myself, feeling stunned and undone by his attention, by the things I wanted. To stay, to get drunk, to forget. To let him lead me where he would. To learn whatever it was he had to show me.
I took a deep breath and started back to the third floor, and Samuel, and it wasn’t until then that I realized that I’d never discovered what it was Nero and his aunt had argued about, or why he had wanted to get lost in a pitcher of wine.
Chapter 18
Samuel was asleep when I returned, which was a welcome reprieve. If my years at Glen Echo had taught me anything at all, it was that madness couldn’t be cured. It could be lulled into obeisance, babied with laudanum and cold baths and calming words, enough so that patients could return to their families—at least for a time, with everyone pretending that all could be normal again, that all that was needed was a nice rest in the country, and oh, how pink your cheeks are now! How rustication becomes you!
But most came back to Glen Echo, every year or so surrendering to voices or hysteria or melancholia, come to nurse invisible wounds out of sight of society, out of mind.
How often I’d heard bitterness in the voices of the women I’d tended at the asylum. How much they’d feared and hated having to hide the pieces that did not quite lock together. I’d heard it in Samuel’s voice too. Living a lie. The strain of a lifetime of keeping secrets. I had not understood before. Not really.
And perhaps I didn’t understand now, either, but I began to wonder if perhaps it was time to write to my father and tell him what I suspected. I suppose I even wanted him to tell me it was all right to give up, to leave Samuel to himself and the Farbers to their quaint little delusions that he could be the son they wanted. It will be all right, my dear, he would say. We will find another way to survive this.
I wondered what Littlehaven would be like, and whether my cousin would expect me to bake bread, or clean out stalls, or milk cows, and . . . and I felt only a swift and debilitating desperation. No. Not yet.
I racked my brain, trying to remember my every interaction with other epileptic patients. I studied my father’s notes with renewed vigor. There must be something I’d missed, something that could help me. I was not ready to admit defeat.
I heard a scraping sound, like something heavy being dragged over stone, and I looked up in alarm. Then I heard someone racing down the hallway. There was a frenzied rap on my door.
“Mamzelle! Mamzelle!”
My heart froze. I dropped the pen and jerked to my feet, unlocking the door and pulling it open to find Giulia standing there. Her hair was down, volumes of hair, thick tangles to her waist, and her eyes were wide and frightened.
“Please, mamzelle.” Her gaze darted toward Samuel’s door, which was wide open.
I pushed by her, running to his room, stumbling to a stop just inside. The first thing I noticed was the thick and spicy smell of the sguassetto. The second was the mess. The chair was on its side, halfway across the room—the scraping sound I’d heard—and handkerchiefs were strewn everywhere as if someone had grabb
ed them from the dresser and tossed them into the air. The drawers were wide open. Sguassetto spilled in an ugly brown pool on the carpet, next to an upturned bowl. The room was frigid, that uncanny cold again. I did not see Samuel anywhere.
But then I heard him. From the other side of the bed came gasping; when I rounded the bedstead, I saw him flat on the floor, and at first I thought he was having a grand mal seizure, but no. He was still but for his breathing, which was staggered and harsh, bursts of icy clouds, only half dissipating before he expelled another.
“Samuel?” I asked.
Nothing. No response. I stepped closer. His eyes were open, but he was staring into space, that distant, faraway look. Whatever he was seeing was not me.
Madness. I fought the urge to run. This was only a petit mal, wasn’t it? Nothing to be afraid of. I knelt beside him and forced myself to touch his shoulder.
“Samuel,” I said again.
He jerked away and flung out his hand at the same time, a backhanded blow that caught me so hard I fell back, tears stinging my eyes at the pain.
He sat up, enmity in his eyes, nostrils flaring. He began to speak. It sounded like Venetian. Like his singing the other night, it seemed fluent, and I found myself scrabbling away, trying to get beyond his reach, crashing into Giulia’s feet. I’d forgotten completely about her.
She stood watching, her face white, her eyes wide and dark, staring at him as if she could not believe what she saw.
No, no, no.
“Get out of here!” I shouted at her. “You shouldn’t be here.”
She backed away, but not because of my words. It was him she was frightened of, and whatever it was he was saying. It was him she fled, her hair flying out behind her as she turned and ran from the room. I was glad when she was gone. Or at least I was until I realized Samuel was getting to his feet, clutching the bedcovers to help him rise, bringing them and the pillows to the floor in a cascade of fabric. He hadn’t stopped speaking, and now there was an intensity that frightened me, spittle on his lips, his gaze not here but somewhere else. I didn’t understand the words, but I understood the venom in them.