The Visitant: A Venetian Ghost Story

by Megan Chance

  “Did he know any of it? What did you tell him about them?”

  “I don’t talk about them as a rule.”

  I gripped his arm hard. The wine splashed in his glass with the force of my movement. “Try to remember. Did you tell him any of it?”

  He pulled away. “He knew they were dead, but I never told him the details. I never tell anyone. It tends to cast a pall, and what does any of it matter?”

  “You’re certain?”

  “I don’t know how he would know.” He gulped the wine.

  “He says he sees Laura. He sees them dragging her from the canal—”

  “Please.” A wince, a lifted hand to quiet me. “I understand.”

  “The handkerchiefs, things moving . . . He tried to hurt me because she told him to. Because she’s jealous.”

  “Jealous?” he asked sharply.

  “I don’t know what else it could be. I don’t know what any of this could be.”

  He paused as if he didn’t want to speak the next words. “Madness, perhaps?”

  “Before you didn’t think it was.”

  He met my gaze. “I know. I didn’t want to believe it. But a ghost? Tell me the truth now, Elena: That medicine you give Samuel, what is it really for? There’s no remedy for debauchery that I know, and I’ve never heard of cold baths being a cure for it either. You said such treatments helped him before, but if you mean he became sober and changed his habits, I assure you that has never been the case in the years I have known him. And that rich man with the weakness for opium, the one you stole for . . . What kind of doctor is your father?”

  There was no way around it. I needed him to understand completely. I needed his help. “He’s an asylum superintendent.”

  Nero nodded as if he’d suspected it. “So Samuel has a history of madness. He was in that asylum.”

  “Yes, but not for madness.”

  “Why else would he be there?”

  “I couldn’t tell you this before. No one’s meant to know.”

  “Know what?” Nero asked warily.

  “Samuel is an epileptic.”

  Nero went still. I felt things dropping into place for him, questions he’d perhaps had about his friend, things that had not made sense before.

  “I see.”

  “His parents have kept it a secret his entire life. They’re desperate that no one know. Samuel can’t tell people. The things they would think . . .”

  “Of course. Of course.”

  He was so quiet. I wondered if he thought it a betrayal. I might think it so, had I a friend I’d known most of my life, whose greatest secret had never been told to me.

  “I’m to stabilize his seizures,” I explained. “That’s what the medicine is for. And the baths. His fiancée isn’t to know until after the wedding. They’re afraid she would refuse to marry him.”

  Nero made a sound, a small laugh, a rush of breath. He stared into his wine. His voice was low when he said, “Too many secrets.”

  “I don’t disagree.”

  “I wonder if everyone has something too terrible to admit to the world,” he mused, running his finger around the rim of his glass. He spoke as if to himself. “I loved Laura. I thought she felt the same. And I was so certain of her.”

  I tried to ignore the tightness in my chest. You have no business feeling this.

  He went on, “We ran around like wild things when we were young. She was my first kiss. We were ten and playing at being husband and wife. It was only a quick buss. Even though we were betrothed, anything more was discouraged. Rather fiercely”—a half smile—“in fact, my father beat me once when he caught me trying to kiss her in the portego. She was not for trifling with. His words exactly. ‘A wife is a sacred duty, son, and that she is family makes her doubly so.’ And so I was good. Very much the courteous cavalier. No more kisses except on the hand. When I went away to school, I sent her letters full of admiration and regard. I did not let myself speak of passion or desire. I sent her gifts, all carefully chosen so as not to offend. Perhaps I took my father’s words too seriously.”

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “I spoke of our future life together, but not of love. I didn’t try to woo her—she was already won, wasn’t she, and I thought she felt as safe and happy in that as did I. But I should have known. I did know. It wasn’t as if I were chaste in those years. Santa Maria, I’m no monk. I have spent a hundred thousand pretty words and gestures on women I wanted for nothing more than a moment’s pleasure, but Laura, who was meant to share all my pleasures . . . I did not think that she might want the same.”

  I heard his disappointment and regret.

  Nero let out his breath in a long hiss. “I was not ready to settle, and so I put off our marriage. One year, two . . . there was no money and I didn’t want to think of what I must do to support a wife. All this noble waiting, and for what? What did I intend? I thought I was looking for a way for us to live, but I was only playing. I thought she would wait, but in that I misjudged her. No, I did not speak to Laura of love, and so she looked for someone who would. She found it in the son of another Golden Book family, whose name is as old as our own. Impoverished, just as we are. Filippo Polani. No money and no skills beyond writing poetry, which apparently he did extraordinarily well.” A harsh laugh. “I’ve read some of his poems to my betrothed. They’re quite beautiful. And passionate. She must have blushed to the tips of her toes. Ah well, what can I say? She fell in love with him. It went on for months before Aunt Valeria discovered it and put an end to it. She forbade Laura to break our betrothal. It would have dishonored my aunt, you see, for the world to see her own daughter so disobedient. Had Polani been rich, it might have gone differently, but he was not.”

  His expression was miserable. “Laura wrote to tell me she no longer wished to marry me. She expected Polani to fight for her. That is one reason my aunt is angry with me. Perhaps the biggest one. Because I did not try to win Laura back after her betrayal.”

  “Why didn’t you?” I asked quietly.

  “Imagine, if you will, that you have spent a lifetime watching everything that belongs to you fall away. Bit by bit. Piece by piece. There is nothing you can do but cling to the one thing you do have. That one thing becomes your anchor. A tether from your heart to heaven. Then it is snatched away. And the truth was that I was angry with her too. I didn’t want to see her. I did not want to admit to myself that she had not felt our bond as I had. I loved her deeply, and I thought she felt the same. To give to him what was mine by rights . . . I was hurt, and jealous, and angry. I did not want to forgive her.”

  “So you lost her.”

  “More completely than I expected,” he acknowledged.

  “Do you forgive her now?”

  He shrugged, a gesture of helplessness, remorse, sorrow. “How can I not? The question, cara, is, does she forgive me?”

  “You said she wanted you not to mourn, but to move on,” I reminded him.

  “That’s just what I tell myself. Who knows if it’s true?”

  “I think we must all tell ourselves something, mustn’t we? Else how would we live with our regrets?”

  His gaze was puzzled, admiring, searching. I felt the deep, reaching tug of it. He said, “How is it that you have the power to draw my secrets from me?”

  “Perhaps it’s only that no one else listened.”

  He set the empty wineglass on the little table, along with the pitcher of wine. Such deliberate movements. “Do you listen to Samuel this way?”

  I didn’t allow myself to hope it was jealousy I heard. “I suppose. I think when burdens are shared they are easier to carry.”

  “Like a modern-day sin-eater,” he said thoughtfully. “I wonder if it could be enough.”

  I frowned. “Enough? For what?”

  He stepped closer, reaching out to to
uch the marks on my throat, the gentlest of touches, a flutter I barely felt, but my heart set up a frantic beat. I felt as if I surged to his touch, though I was frozen in place. “To save me,” he whispered, the words breathed more than spoken.

  I hardly knew how it happened. I was not aware of moving. We met each other openmouthed, hungry, overwhelmed. I threaded my fingers through his hair, keeping him there, tugging on his curls when I thought he would pull away, and he made a small cry of pain and then laughed into my mouth, his hands tightening, jerking me close, anchoring me against him. I felt his need; my own was like drowning, my bones liquid, everything in me urging him on. It was only a kiss, but it felt like more; it felt like I’d been ravaged, flayed alive, images from Samuel’s book playing through my head, and I wanted it all. I wanted Nero to do each of those things to me, but I had no words for it, none that I could say, and when he finally did break away, breathing as hard as I was, his dark eyes black, I felt I might become the ache that had lodged inside me, just one big bruise of longing. I could not bear to let him go.

  He was smiling; he brushed my lips again with his own. I grabbed at him, but he did not let me keep him. His fingers were at my jaw, a gentle stroke. “We could do this right here,” he whispered to me. “But it’s all windows.”

  “I don’t care,” I said.

  “I think you would, when the priests at the dell’ Orto began giving you lecherous looks.”

  “How would I know it? I don’t go to church.” I put my hand on his chest, wishing to touch his skin, wishing I could bring myself just to unbutton his shirt, taking control like the women in that wretched novel, but I was too aware of myself, of everything I didn’t know. As much as I wanted it, I was afraid.

  “Heathen,” he whispered, kissing the forming bruises on my throat, and the image came into my head of Samuel doing the same thing, that same kiss. “Your heart is racing. Corexin de conejo.”

  I stiffened. Those words. Just what Samuel had said. But then, they were friends. They spent so much time together. They’d shared women—not a comfortable thought—and it made sense that they might say the same things. “What does that mean?”

  “Little rabbit heart,” he whispered against my skin.

  I was disconcerted, though I shook it away. I did not want to be disconcerted. I wanted to keep feeling that urgency in my blood, that singing yearning.

  He must have felt my hesitation, because he raised his head, a light frown in his eyes. Before he could ask, I forced myself to be bold; I attacked the buttons of his shirt—how clumsy I was; I could not make them work. He glanced at my hands, covered them with one of his own, stopping me. When I looked at him in question, he said, “Elena, I know you’ve never done this before. I want to be gentle with you. And I don’t want to bed you here, where all of Venice could see.”

  The words sank into all my darkest, deepest places. “Then where?”

  He laughed. “Santa Maria. So impatient.”

  My face went hot. He laughed again, but more tenderly now, brushing my cheek with his fingers.

  “I’m moving to your floor, as you insist upon staying. I’m not leaving you unprotected, whatever is going on with Samuel—no, I don’t want to hear your protests. It’s either that or I put you on the next train, regardless of how much I want you. Now: Shall I have Zuan bring up a bed, or will yours suffice?”

  Now I was burning. I could barely manage to say, “Mine.”

  He backed away; I thought he meant to say something to delay, that he would see me tonight, or that he must go pack his things, and I wondered how I would bear the hours until then, but then I saw how he looked at me, as if the sight of me was painful, and he said hoarsely, “How long will Samuel sleep?”

  “Hours yet.” My own voice sounded ragged. “Hours.”

  He grabbed my hand and yanked open the door, pulling me with him out onto the roof, the slippery tiles, but he was sure-footed, his coat flapping back against my skirt as he nearly dragged me with him down the stairs. Neither of us had any care for noise as we went to my bedroom—he nearly threw me into it. He closed the door and locked it, and the look in his eyes made me dizzy. He came to me, and although I felt his impatience with every moment, where I expected ravishment, there was tenderness. He didn’t give me a chance to change my mind. Perhaps he was afraid I would. He need not have been, no matter that my own fears nagged. I had wanted this too long—without even knowing what I wanted—to turn back now. I tried not to think of what it would mean for my future, or how it would be another secret I must keep. I tried not to think of anything at all as he took the pins from my hair so it fell loose over my shoulders. He unbuttoned my bodice with care, peeling me out of it, my skirt and my petticoats following, sure fingered as he took off my corset.

  He did not even kiss me, but undressed me with something almost akin to reverence. I was trembling as he urged me to the bed, as he lifted my shift to undo my garters and roll down my stockings. It wasn’t until I wore only my chemise and my drawers that he leaned to kiss me again, and I clutched him like a wild thing. He didn’t break the kiss as he shrugged off his coat, then only long enough to take off his shirt and throw it to the floor, and my hands touched taut, warm skin. I heard the thud of his boots, I felt him struggle with his trousers, and then I felt the lean heat of him against me, the solidity of his weight, his desire.

  I struggled to be free of the chemise, but he stopped me with a whispered, “Let me.” His fingers at my shoulder, lowering the sleeves, his mouth following, his tongue. My throat and my collarbone, lower, baring my breasts. I gasped and arched against him, again tangling my hands in his hair, bucking against him, mindless and breathless, and then there was nothing between us and he was moving lower, parting my legs, an intimate kiss that shocked me into stillness. I had read about this, but I had not expected it, and I tried to close my legs in embarrassment. He would not let me, and then, suddenly, I didn’t care. I had been titillated by this without knowing why, without suspecting . . . oh dear God, I could not think. I could only gasp and moan, and then he was rising up, plunging, and the pain shattered me, along with the pleasure, so I cried out—half a scream, silenced by his kiss, and after that, I realized why Samuel had said he could not give this up. I understood at last why he would risk seizures to have it, because I would have risked anything.

  Chapter 24

  “I hate these,” he said afterward, kissing the bruises on my throat. “They’re turning black-and-blue now. I should kill him for hurting you.”

  I ran my hand down his back, muscled and smooth and warm. I never wanted to stop touching him. “He didn’t want to. It was as if”—my breath caught as his mouth found my breast—“Oh. Oh. Stop doing that. I can’t think.”

  “I don’t want you to think,” he murmured against my skin. He brought himself up to kiss me, deeply and erotically, and I lost all sense of where I was and what I’d meant to say. He seemed to fill every space in my head; I felt only him moving against me. I felt only pleasure. I heard only our moans, the faint slap of skin against skin, his broken cries, mine. I was nothing but sensation, feeling things I’d never thought to feel, doing things I did not even realize I’d known how to do, and then I was crying out, splitting apart, and yet miraculously still whole, spiraling down and down until I was only a gentle throbbing, every part of me thrumming like water lapping gently on a shore.

  His face was buried in my throat. I did not want to move, but only to luxuriate in the feel of him, and it seemed he felt the same, because we were quiet for some time. I tangled my fingers idly in his hair, so shiny and soft, feeling his warm breath on my skin. Then he kissed my throat gently and rolled off, putting his hand to his eyes as if the world were too bright for him. “Santa Maria. I thought you were a virgin. Where did you learn to move like that?”

  The Nunnery Tales flashed into my head. “I don’t know.”

  He laughed lightly. “It must
be that I inspire you.”

  “Yes.” I touched his chest, running my fingers down to the edge of the blanket where it wrapped about his hips.

  His breath skipped. “Cara, give me time to recover.”

  “How much do you need?”

  He laughed again, rolling over, pulling me to him, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek. “You have the most beautiful hair.”

  I felt a pang at that, a stinging vulnerability. “I think you would like any redhead.”

  “I do,” he said unapologetically. “Most are very passionate.”

  “Most? How many have you had?”

  “One or two,” he teased. “Fourteen or fifteen. Twenty perhaps. I’ve lost count.”

  I was not very good at teasing, and I couldn’t help my dismay. “Is that the only reason you’re here with me? Because of the color of my hair? Not all redheads are the same you know, so if you wish to relive the past, I’m afraid you’re doomed for disappointment.”

  “Or perhaps it’s only that I’m looking for a cure,” he said. “I’m beginning to think I might have found it.”

  “A cure?” I couldn’t modulate my voice. That self-doubt took up center stage. “Oh, but . . . I’ve never . . . I can learn to be better—”

  “Elena,” he said gently. “You’ve bewitched me. I’ve dreamed of you since the moment I saw you. Many sleepless nights. It’s been all I could do to keep my hands off you. I think the whole house knew it.”

  “The whole house?”

  He nodded, nuzzling my jaw.

  I thought of the angel that told Samuel to hurt me. Laura’s ghost.

  Nero sighed, rolling again onto his back. “I see what you’re thinking, cara, but Laura no longer loved me, if she ever did. There would be no reason for her to want you hurt, even if she did exist.”

  “I know. I know. But I wonder . . . your aunt said Laura’s spirit lingers because there’s something she wishes to say. Do you think that possible? What do you think it could be?”

  “Probably ‘leave me in peace, you evil shrew.’”