The Visitant: A Venetian Ghost Story

by Megan Chance

  “Did she?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you were free to go anywhere?”

  “He asked me to tie him again,” I rushed in. “I tied him to the bedpost.”

  “He asked this why? Because he feared he might hurt you again? Did you fear that too?”

  “No, I didn’t.” It was a lie.

  I saw that da Cola noted it. “Do you think he was capable of hurting someone, mademoiselle?”

  “He was very weak.”

  “But still you tied him. So you believed there was a threat.”

  “He insisted on it.”

  Da Cola’s gaze slid to Samuel. “Did you ask to be tied because you believed the devil was still inside you? Did you believe you would hurt someone again?”

  Samuel bowed his head; I felt him sag. “Yes.” The word was a breath.

  Da Cola looked back at me. “Did he remain tied the entire night?”

  “He would not have followed Madame Basilio. He was far too weak.”

  “Was he tied, mademoiselle?” the officer persisted.

  “He was deeply asleep. You don’t understand. After such seizures, patients are exhausted. They can barely move. He slept for hours.”

  “Was he tied?”

  “No,” I admitted reluctantly. “But he had nothing to do with Madame Basilio’s death.”

  “And how do you know this, mamzelle, if you were safe in your own bed all night with M’sieur Basilio? Unless—” he gestured between Samuel and me and jiggled his brows insinuatingly. Pasqualigo laughed.

  Samuel started to rise. “If you’re finished here . . .”

  Pasqualigo’s laughter died abruptly. “Sit down. We are not finished with you, m’sieur. But Mademoiselle Spira can leave. We have no more questions for her.”

  I didn’t like what I was hearing. I hoped it was only that my French was inadequate. “I’d rather stay,” I said.

  “We are not offering a choice,” Pasqualigo said. “We know where to find you if we need to.”

  Samuel sighed heavily. “Go, Elena. It’s no good. Just go.”

  “I can’t just leave you to this,” I said quietly.

  “It’s all right.” He looked exhausted, and when he raised his eyes to mine I knew what he was thinking. I knew he was afraid and why. I hadn’t realized until that moment how much I feared Nero had somehow sneaked out in the night, that he was lying to me. But now . . . if Samuel had done this, it could not be Nero.

  I saw the pain in Samuel’s eyes, and I knew he’d seen what I felt. “Go on, Elena.”

  I whispered, “You didn’t do this.”

  He leaned close, his lips against my ear. “Can you say for certain that I didn’t? Because I cannot.” He drew away. “Please go. It only hurts me that you stay.”

  It was only the knowledge that I might hurt him more that allowed me to rise, to walk out of that room, past Giulia sitting blank-faced and silent in the receiving hall, to the third floor. But when I closed the door behind me, I knew the rooms were not empty; I did not feel alone. I hated the twinge of fear that came with the thought. I did not want to feel it.

  “Nero?” I called softly.

  “In here.” His voice came from my bedroom.

  The door was open. Nero sat on my bed, holding a black Carnivale mask in his hand. The trunk that had been beneath was pulled out, the lid open to reveal the black-and-white cloaks and tricornered hats of dominos. Two other masks—one checked red and white on half, black-and-white on the other half; another painted bronze, with sharply defined brows and a spadelike nose and a broad mustache—lay on top.

  Nero looked up as I came inside. His eyes were red from tears, his face sharp with grief. I found myself searching for cunning, for guile, for Samuel’s suspicions and my own, which I did not want to have. I saw none of it. I saw only sorrow and desolation. “This used to be my room in the summers. Did I ever tell you that?”

  I shook my head.

  He rolled the mask in hands. It had a large nose, pointed and sloping. “This was mine,” he said. “Pulcinello. I wore it every year for Carnivale. He’s a trickster, and he can be vicious. You can’t trust him at all. He’s very smart, though he pretends to be too stupid to know what’s going on.”

  I went cold. Softly, I asked, “Is that what you think of yourself?”

  He exhaled heavily. “Every Carnivale, yes. It was a license for bad behavior, though Carnivale is not what it was. Those days were gone long before I was born. Still . . . there were parties enough, and I took advantage. Laura too. The Harlequin was hers.”

  “And the other?”

  “Brighella. The crafty old man. My father’s. My aunt declined to participate.” Again tears started. He blinked them away. “She thought Carnivale depraved. She didn’t want to see it brought back after the unification. Chi comincia mal, finisse pezo.”

  I had heard those words before. No, not the same ones. No. I could barely force myself to ask. “What does that mean?”

  He searched for words. “Ah . . . I guess you would say, a bad beginning makes a bad end. My aunt thought Carnivale belonged to another world and had no place in a civilized society. Mostly I think she worried for Laura and for me. Hard to believe, isn’t it? That she once worried for me? When she’s dedicated the last years to thwarting me at every damned turn? I should be glad she’s dead. I expected to be. I’ve been waiting for it long enough.”

  “I know you loved her.”

  “Did I?” He raised questioning eyes to me. “I don’t know what I felt for her.”

  “Nero—”

  “I want to feel relief, but I don’t.” He put the mask on his head, pulling it down over his face, that beaklike nose, only his mouth showing, eyes darkening, suddenly nothing but cunning and guile, the face I’d been looking for, the one I’d been afraid to find.

  “Take it off,” I breathed.

  “You don’t like it? You don’t think I look dashing?” He rose, coming toward me, black and devilish, smiling so his upper lip nearly disappeared.

  “I don’t like it. Take it off.”

  “Come, Elena. Let us be joyous. Let us be gay. Let us celebrate my aunt’s passing by doing everything she disdained.” His voice rose, an edge of hysteria that only frightened me more. He made a quick gesture, a flick of his fingers, come here.

  Instead, I found myself backing away, my breath coming fast and my heart pounding, all my suspicions gathering painfully in my chest, a knowing I did not want to have. No, no, no, this was not what I wanted. He was not Nero, he was not the man I loved, and I saw in him now what I didn’t want to see.

  “Elena?” He reached for me.

  My panic surged. I ran.

  “Elena?” He was right behind me. “Elena, stop!”

  I was in the receiving hall when he grabbed my arm.

  “Are you afraid of me, Elena? Afraid of me?”

  “Take it off.” I felt near tears.

  “It’s just a mask.” He tore the mask off, throwing it to the floor, where it skidded across the speckled stone. “There, it’s off. Better?” He looked stricken, forlorn, alone in a way that I couldn’t stand to see, as if he saw only futility where once before he’d seen hope, and I knew I’d done that. I was to blame.

  But without the mask, I saw no tricks in him, no secrets and no lies. Only concern and distress, as if he hoped to call back what had been lost and was afraid he could not. I felt that too, this desperate wish to unsee what I’d seen, to be innocent again, and when he leaned close—no force at all, ready to be stopped, allowing me to stop him if I would—my elbow bowed to let him in, my hand against him no barrier at all. I said, “I’m sorry. That was stupid. You frightened me.”

  “I’ve never known a woman to have that reaction before.” His eyes were sad; the tease had no weight. “Usually they’re intrigued.”r />
  “I know. I know. It’s just . . . the police . . . and Samuel . . .”

  “What happened? What did they say?”

  “They think Samuel murdered your aunt,” I said. “It doesn’t help that he doesn’t remember.”

  Nero stepped back, stunned. “But . . . you told them about his epilepsy?”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t make any difference. Giulia told them about how he tried to strangle me, and . . . well, you can see how it must be. I think he even believes it too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He knows Laura’s spirit can make him do whatever she wants—how can he not believe that perhaps he followed your aunt to the bridge? Did Laura hate her mother enough to want her dead?”

  “A ghost made Samuel push my aunt into the rio?” Nero took my arms, caressing, soothing, reassuring. “You’re trying to make sense of things that don’t make sense, Elena. This house could make you believe anything. When I have you far away from here, you’ll realize how absurd you were to think it.” He laughed lightly. “You almost had me believing it too, I’ll admit. But then I saw that seizure, and . . . it is the simplest explanation.”

  I felt confused, assaulted on all sides. I did not want to believe this of Samuel, just as I did not want to believe the suspicions of Nero that flitted like moths in my head, panicking against the light, drawing back into darkness where it was safe, where I did not have to ask, where I did not have to think. How was it that I was so caught between the two of them? How was it that I could not look at either and know the truth?

  You’ve never been good at that, have you? I thought of Joshua Lockwood’s intense blue eyes, the kisses that fooled me, the desire that said only what I wanted it to say.

  I took Nero’s face hard between my hands. “You were with me all night, weren’t you? You never left the bed.”

  His hands came to my wrists as if he meant to pull me away, but his fingers only wrapped around, holding me in place. He was frowning. “You think I killed her?”

  I swallowed hard. “Tell me where you were.”

  He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, I saw only a deep, endless well of grief and misery. “I was with you. I never left the bed.”

  My relief was dizzying, though how that could be, I didn’t know, because I had never really believed this of him. I had heard Madame Basilio in the courtyard as he came inside. She was still alive when he came to me, and then he had stayed. The other questions burned on my tongue, but I could not bring myself to ask them.

  I dropped my hands, and buried my face in his chest, wrapping my arms around him. I felt his hesitation, but then his arms came around me too. His voice was deep, rumbling against my ear as he said, “What is it you want me to say, Elena?”

  “I hardly know you and yet I feel I know you all too well. I couldn’t bear it if I was wrong.”

  “You’re not wrong,” he said. “I love you.”

  I made myself say, “There are things . . . questions I have—”

  “I would bare my soul to you if you asked it.”

  Wasn’t that proof enough that he could not be the man I was afraid he was? I tightened my hold on him. I pressed my mouth against his shirt.

  “Ask it,” he said—the barest whisper. I heard the suffering within it. His hand was in my hair, dislodging pins. I heard them fall to the floor, skittering like roaches. “I’ll tell you anything you want, so long as you promise to love me after.”

  What else mattered? He was here and he loved me, and I loved him. I didn’t want to ask. I didn’t want to know.

  He kissed me, and it was ravenous and hard, as if he could not take me deeply enough. I tasted the fear and misery within it. We were right next to the door, anyone could come in, but I stopped caring the moment Nero’s hands pulled up my skirts, sliding up my thighs. He lifted me, and I wrapped my legs around him and his hand was between us, undoing my drawers and his trousers, and then we were crashing against each other like waves upon the rocks, battering and tempestuous, and we were falling to the floor, rough and heedless of whether we hurt one another, even worse, as if that hurting was necessary, as if it could somehow make everything right. My head and my hips cracked against the floor as he ground himself into me; I dug my nails into his back, through his shirt, feeling a piercing satisfaction at his grunts of pain, and then we were both gasping, crying out, shudders of completion, spent and throbbing.

  It had taken two minutes, perhaps three, and it was the most devastating pleasure I had ever known, and the most wrenching. My heart ached, and I wanted to cry, but instead I ran my fingers through his hair and listened to his breathing fall into a steady rhythm again as his fingers clutched my thigh convulsively.

  I heard voices in the courtyard, some words muffled, others carrying in that strangely twisting way of Venice, and I realized they were taking Madame Basilio’s body away. Nero froze as if he realized it too, and then he was pulling himself from me, rising, buttoning his trousers with an expression of such tormented sorrow that I wanted to pull him down again, to make him forget whatever it was that caused that look with my mouth and my hands.

  And then I thought: What makes him look that way?

  Was his aunt’s body in the courtyard not enough cause? His whole family was gone now, only himself left, and every one of the others a victim of tragedy. I told myself it didn’t matter how much of that tragedy was his fault.

  He reached for me, pulling me to my feet, to him, burying his face in my throat, kissing the bruises there with what sounded like a sob, and when he drew away, sorrow had given way to bleakness, to a purpose I didn’t understand and felt in my bones was wrong and wrong and wrong.

  Nothing could be undone, I reminded myself. It was all past. It didn’t matter.

  But then a sudden frigid blast of preternatural cold made me shiver, and with it the wafting scent of vanilla and canal water, telling me that I was lying to myself. It did matter. I felt the peril of her, and her determination, and dread filled my lungs until I was drowning in it, and I knew: she was going to force me to understand, whether I wanted to or not.

  Chapter 33

  I heard the step on the stair just as Nero did, and Samuel came inside, looking inestimably weary. He shuddered, gaze dodging to the corners of the room, and I knew he felt her there, just as I did. Watching, waiting. Expectant. I thought of what had just happened between Nero and me, and I felt guilty and embarrassed, and then I noted the way Samuel glanced at us, and I wondered if he saw it too. But all he said was, “They’re taking your aunt’s body to the coroner.”

  Nero nodded and started for the door. “I should go—”

  Samuel stopped him. “There’s no need. Da Cola and Pasqualigo will be here any moment, and I need to speak with the both of you first.”

  “Why?” I asked in alarm. “What happened?”

  He said nothing, but went down the hall toward the sala. When he reached the mask, he bent to pick it up. “What’s this?”

  “Pulcinello,” Nero said shortly.

  Samuel fingered it wistfully. “Carnivale? I’ve read about it. I suppose I’ll never see it now.”

  “Why do you say that?” Nero sounded as wary as I felt. There was something in Samuel that discomfited, something else wrong.

  Samuel gestured for us to follow him. When we reached the sala, he went to the balcony doors, staring out at the lights glimmering in the snowy twilight. He was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “They’re arresting me. I’ll need to telegraph New York. Could you send someone to the office for me, Nero? It might be closed so late, but . . .”

  “Yes, of course.” Nero’s voice was a rough whisper.

  “Arresting you?” I repeated. “But . . . how can they do this? You didn’t kill her.”

  “She was strangled,” he said. “And as I have a reputation for such things, I seem the most ob
vious choice, don’t you think?”

  “Strangled? They said she slipped off the bridge, or was pushed . . .”

  “That isn’t how she died. They were saving that bit of news for after you left. They had me targeted from the start, once they spoke to Father Pietro, and he told them what happened at the exorcism. And then of course, they saw your bruises.”

  I collapsed onto the settee. “You would not have done this. Not of your own accord. Her ghost—”

  “Perhaps,” Samuel said. “It does seem that strangulation is the order of the day here, doesn’t it? Madame Basilio, you, me. Laura.”

  I looked up.

  Nero had gone still where he stood.

  Samuel turned to me. “It seems clear that one of us has done this. Either him or me. Which would you prefer it to be, Elena? Tell me so I can fall on my sword for you.”

  I was horrified. “Samuel, no.”

  “I don’t mind it so much. What have I to go home to? A fiancée who will likely hate me within the year? Seizures that won’t go away, whatever I do? I suppose I can look forward to imbecility by the time I’m fifty. Or complete madness. Having got a taste of it lately, I can say it’s . . . bearable. Especially if you don’t remember.”

  “What are you talking about?” Nero asked tightly.

  “I’m talking about murder,” Samuel said. “Your aunt’s, yes, but Laura’s too.”

  “Laura slipped and fell.”

  “No, that’s the story you tell everyone. Keep it straight, Nero, will you? It’s your aunt who slipped and fell. Supposedly. Laura jumped into a canal dyed red. Isn’t that it?”

  Her presence gathered strength; I thought I saw her at the corner of my vision, that floating shroud, a wisp of movement, but when I turned to look it was gone. The air grew icy. A cold shiver went down my spine.

  Nero had gone white. “Yes. She jumped.”

  “Samuel,” I said, wanting to stop him, afraid to stop him.

  He ignored me. “Did you know you meant to do it from the start? When you left for Milan, meaning to kill her lover, did you mean to come here after too? Or was it just a whim?”