Venom

by Fiona Paul

  Cass imagined the whole story spilling out of her while Mada’s eyes grew wider and wider, her mouth dropping open in surprise. Because you both always do the right thing.

  But no. She couldn’t say a word. Madalena would panic. She’d think Cass was ill or insane or possessed by demons. Even if Cass swore her to secrecy, Mada would end up telling her father. And Madalena’s father would tell Agnese. Cass struggled to come up with an answer. “I’m not sure what’s wrong with me,” she said. “I guess I am feeling a little…sad.”

  Madalena patted her hand. “I know what you need. And he’s blond and sort of bookish, with kissable lips. How long until Luca is back in town?”

  Cass thought again of her fiancé’s letter, sealed up tight. “Not sure,” she said, returning to the table. Once again, Mada followed. Cass traced the fleur-de-lis pattern in the tablecloth to avoid having to look at her friend. She had never vocalized to anyone her doubts about the planned marriage, and she certainly had never confessed to wanting out. “It’s different with us than it is with you and Marco.”

  “Why do you say that?” Madalena tilted her head to the side and stared at Cass with her wide-set eyes.

  Cass thought again of Falco. “It just is. We don’t know each other very well.” She again looked down at the tablecloth. The repeating pattern soothed her for some reason. “How did you know that Marco loved you?” She bit her lip as soon as the words left her mouth, afraid that Madalena would tease her for being hopelessly immature.

  “I could tell by the way he looked at me, by the way he found little reasons to touch me.” Mada blushed a little. “You know what Mother used to tell me? She used to tell me that if you want to know how a boy feels, you should drop your handkerchief in front of him. If he gives it back to you right away, he’s just being polite, but if he keeps it for a little while, then he’s yours.”

  “Drop it on purpose?” Cass watched a pair of songbirds chase each other around the naked rosebushes. They sparred with sharp beaks, releasing a trail of brown feathers into the wind. One of the birds escaped, fluttered off a few feet, and then landed again, almost as if it wanted to be chased.

  “What’s this about, Cass?” Madalena watched her narrowly. “Are you having doubts about Luca?”

  Yes. Cass’s eyes followed the antics of the birds.

  “Quit worrying,” Mada said. “He’s as steady as a rock, your Luca.”

  Thoughts, as heavy and turbulent as ocean waves, coursed through Cass’s head. Madalena was right. Luca was a rock. And he wasn’t the only one. Aunt Agnese was a rock. Life on San Domenico Island was a rock. Sometimes Cass wished she could throw herself into the lagoon, feel the cool water on her skin as she swam away to freedom. But she couldn’t swim. She was weighted down, drowning; her whole life was pulling her under.

  “Fire is a Janus, both harmful

  and healing. It obliterates buildings and incinerates flesh but also cleanses

  implements and cauterizes wounds.”

  —THE BOOK OF THE ETERNAL ROSE

  five

  When Cass was ready to leave, she fetched Siena from the kitchen, where the girl was chatting with Mada’s lady’s maid, Eva, and some of her other friends who worked for the Rambaldo estate. Laden down with paper-wrapped packages, Siena headed out to the canal to find passage back to San Domenico. Getting from the little island to the city was never a problem; the boats there were happy for the fare, but sometimes a way back was more difficult to negotiate. Thankfully, Siena located a young gondolier who was willing to make the journey. His rough hand squeezed Cass’s tightly as he helped her into the boat. Siena stacked her purchases carefully in the front of the gondola and then settled into the felze with Cass.

  “Did you buy the whole market?” Cass teased her.

  Siena smiled brightly. “Just some herbs and potions for your aunt, a bolt of cloth to make new aprons, and some spices for Cook.” She lowered her voice. “Oh, and a sample of that drink the Spanish are so fond of. Coffee.” Siena sniffed one of the wrapped parcels. “Cook thought maybe now that the Pope has decreed it an acceptable beverage, your aunt might like to try it.”

  Cass didn’t understand how Siena could get so excited about doing Agnese’s shopping. She reclined on a plush velvet-covered pillow and listened to the gentle lapping of the canal water as it rolled up against the walls of some of Venice’s biggest palazzos. Tiny waves sloshed back and forth, exposing semicircle patterns of mold on sand-colored stones. Through the haze, Cass could see the sun hanging low in the sky, staining the horizon a bronze color.

  The gondola floated toward the Rialto Bridge. A group of peasant children with dirty faces and ragged clothing hung over the side, watching the boats float by. Some of the older kids lay on their stomachs, dangling low over the edge of the bridge between the railing posts, stretching out their hands in attempts to shake hands with the fishermen and gondoliers. Most of the men ignored them. Cass’s gondolier reached up high to slap the hands of a few of the tallest kids. They grinned and shouted.

  As Cass watched the kids, a plump brown and white chicken scampered past the gondola, half flying, half skimming across the surface of the Grand Canal. The gondolier swore loudly. Cass poked her head completely out of the felze and let out a cry of surprise. About twenty yards past the Rialto Bridge, a giant flat-bottomed boat that had once held produce and live chickens was floating on its side. Behind it, a line of gondolas and fishing boats were trapped, with no way to navigate around the capsized craft.

  Peasants gathered at the bank of the canal to watch the show, a few of them venturing carefully down the access ramps into the water to steal a runaway chicken or a floating sack of cabbage and potatoes.

  Cass watched as a pair of lanky boys corralled a chicken and pinned it down in front of a round-faced woman holding an ax. Cass tensed as the ax whistled down in an arc and landed on the bird’s neck. A fine river of blood flowed down onto the stone.

  The evening air was now a crescendo of shouting and swearing. Cass turned around. The Grand Canal was jammed up with boats all the way back to Madalena’s palazzo. Cass saw a messenger boy with a canvas sack of letters making his way down the canal, hopping from gondola to gondola. Passengers cursed at him and gondoliers threatened him with their oars, but he was undeterred. Cass was shocked when he stopped at their gondola, balancing on its prow, dodging the gondolier nimbly.

  “What are you—?” Cass cried out, but he interrupted her.

  “For you,” he said, pressing a folded piece of parchment into her hand. Then he darted off, leaving Cass openmouthed with surprise.

  She peeked into the folded note and her hands began to shake. The short message was scrawled in crooked letters.

  Soon, bella, it will be your turn.

  Her breath caught in her throat. The Grand Canal blurred in front of her for a second, and she feared she might faint right into the water. She saw the messenger make his way across the stalled gondolas and over to the south bank of the canal. “Wait,” she called after him, but he melted into a throng of street vendors without looking back.

  “Is it news of Luca?” Siena asked.

  Blood pounded in Cass’s head. “No,” she said. She looked down at the parchment again. The note was signed with only a bloody X. Cass touched her finger to the X, half expecting the red lines to cut into her like a blade.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Siena was still looking at Cass searchingly.

  “I’m fine,” Cass insisted. She folded the note into smaller and smaller squares until it disappeared into her right palm. She clenched her hand tightly around the folded paper.

  Could the murderer have seen her last night? He must have. That was the only explanation. And if he had seen her, he had seen Falco too. They were both in danger.

  Unless Falco…But no. Impossible. If he was dangerous, if he was the murderer, he could have easily killed her last night.

  “Was—was the note from a man?” Siena asked. “Someone y
ou know well…?” She trailed off, her lily-white skin reddening at the unspoken implication.

  “No,” Cass said sharply. “Whatever would give you that idea?”

  “Well, you do go out late at night sometimes.” The maid fumbled over her words.

  Cass sighed. Everyone thought she was off trysting in the graveyard. “I go out to write in my journal, Siena.”

  “I’m sorry, Signorina. I meant no disrespect. I just know it must be hard to have Signor da Peraga so far away.”

  Cass didn’t answer. She scanned the crowded canal, looking for anyone or anything unusual. Next to her, three young women were dangling their bare feet over the side of their gondola. They wore their hair in braids twisted up on the top of their heads like horns, and their swanlike necks were ringed with pendants and chokers. Each of the girls held large fans made of peacock feathers and embellished with gilded edges. Courtesans, perhaps? The women laughed and waved to passersby. So vibrant, so alive. So different from the broken, lifeless body Cass had found the night before.

  On the bank, a tall man in a black cloak weaved in and out of the crowds that had gathered alongside the canal to watch the chaos. Cass tensed up. Was it the same man from San Domenico? She wasn’t sure. The sun had set and Cass couldn’t make out his face. He turned away as her gondola floated by, melting into the darkness like fading smoke. Cass felt her breathing accelerate. Usually, she found the frantic activity of Venice magical, but suddenly everything felt ominous and evil, as if God had abandoned the city to the forces of chaos. She snapped the blinds closed and sat back in the felze with her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

  But even hidden inside the little cabin, Cass suddenly felt dangerously exposed, as though strangers’ eyes were burning through the slats of the felze and into her skin. Hot breath swirled around her like mist off the canals. Oars hissed their way through the water. The greenish waves of the lagoon writhed as though filled with venomous snakes. Even the wood of the boat looked malevolent—warped and rickety, as if they might capsize before they made it home.

  Later on, in her room, Cass still found it impossible to relax. Her shutters rattled against her window, making her think strangers were knocking at the door. Each time the house creaked, she searched her room again, positive the murderer was under her bed or in her armoire or crouched below her washing table, waiting for her to go to sleep.

  Cass grabbed her journal and sprawled out across her bed. Writing usually calmed her. Not tonight. She stared at the blank page, her knuckles whitening as her hand gripped the quill tighter and tighter. She squeezed her eyes shut. She was frozen. Locked up. Imprisoned. When she opened her eyes, she saw that she had managed to scrawl something on the ivory parchment—a repeating series of Xs slashed across the page. She slammed the book closed in disgust.

  It was hopeless. She couldn’t stop thinking about the note, and Livi’s missing corpse. She couldn’t just sit there. She had to go back to the graveyard. Maybe she could find a clue, some hint of what had happened to Liviana’s body.

  Cass twisted her hair back and pinned it up with a tortoiseshell hair clip. She grabbed the note from the top drawer of her dressing table—where she had been keeping it locked up, as though it might fly out and bite her—and stole quietly down the stairs. She went to grab the lantern off the side table and then remembered she’d left it in Liviana’s tomb. She headed into the kitchen to get another lantern and saw Siena’s cloak hanging on a polished brass hook beside the pantry. She wrapped the rough woolen garment around her nightgown. She’d draw less attention in a servant’s cloak than her own. Now that there might be a murderer lurking, she would take no chances.

  As she passed back through the room, she noticed a small knife on the far counter. The cook must have forgotten to put it away. She tucked the knife into the pocket of Siena’s cloak.

  Moving quietly through the house, Cass stepped out into the night without even glancing at Luca’s still-sealed letter. Once outside, she lit the lantern and headed straight for the graveyard.

  The wind off the water was brisk, and the smell of salt stung the inside of Cass’s nose. Passing over the rough, uneven ground, Cass slipped through the creaky gate and gazed around, wondering where to start investigating. There had to be some clue about what had happened to Livi’s body, if she just knew where to look. She headed back toward the Greco family tomb, but stopped halfway there. She wasn’t moving toward Liviana anymore. No, that crypt now belonged to another, to a stranger. Cass felt herself pulled away, drawn toward the section of the graveyard closest to the old chapel, where there were more underground graves than tombs.

  She let her intuition guide her. The combination of the warm day and cool night wind had brought on a thick mist, and she couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of her. The gravestones disappeared and reappeared in her line of vision like faceless ghosts.

  Someone or something disturbed the haze close to her. Cass froze. She squinted through the swirling fog. “Who is it?” she cried out. No answer. “Is someone there?” Her voice sounded thin and terrified. “Show yourself!”

  A sleek black cat materialized from the mist. It glowered at Cass with yellow eyes, and then crossed in front of her before dissolving back into the fog. Cass took a couple of deep breaths. Her eyes began adjusting to the gloom as she crept past rows of headstones, pausing at one that lay flat on the ground, cracked in half. Cass felt a chill run through her. Anyone, or anything, could be hiding nearby.

  Anyone, or anything, could be hunting her.

  Cass swept a hand out in front of her, trying to clear the haze. She held her lantern high. A branch snapped. She spun around, her heart thudding in her ears. The path behind her seemed less foggy than what lay in front. She could almost make out the jagged tips of the iron fence that separated Agnese’s property from the land of the dead. Just as she decided to turn back and give up, the mist parted, and she saw him.

  Falco. He sat cross-legged on the damp ground, his hair blowing in the breeze. He was facing away from her, focused on the gravestone in front of him, a beautiful piece of gray marble carved into the shape of a cross with a pair of doves perched on the top. A dim lantern flickered next to him on the ground.

  Cass moved as close to him as she dared, stepping as quietly as she could. She couldn’t make out the picture taking shape on his parchment. Falco’s hand moved swiftly, laying down a series of sharp strokes on the paper. Fascinated, Cass took another step closer. Her left foot snapped a dry twig.

  Falco’s head whirled around so quickly that Cass stepped back, startled, as the boy sprang to his feet. His blue eyes looked almost black in the moonlight. Hot. Angry. Violent. The words flared up in Cass’s mind.

  “Oh, it’s you.” Immediately his eyes returned to normal. He smiled his lopsided grin. “I’m beginning to wonder if you’re following me.” The way he said it suggested it wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing.

  Cass pulled the crumpled note out of her pocket. Wordlessly, she handed it to Falco.

  She watched him read it over several times, his mouth settling into a fine white line.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked, rubbing at a spot beneath his right eye.

  “A messenger delivered it to me in the canals.”

  “He followed you into the city?” Falco studied the note again and then, without warning, he leaned down and thrust it into his lantern’s flame.

  “What are you doing?” Cass tried to pull the smoldering parchment from the flame, but her thumb landed on a hot ember and she jerked away. The paper fell to the ground, where it continued to burn until it was nothing but ashes. “That might have been a clue!”

  “For whom? We already determined there’s nobody to tell,” Falco said, his voice low and harsh.

  “But it’s obvious he’s coming for me.” Cass felt her lip trembling and bit back the tears. She refused to cry in front of this boy. “And I still don’t know what happened to Liviana’s body. Her family would be devastat
ed to know it’s disappeared.”

  “Forget the body,” Falco said. “She’s dead. You’re alive. If you want to stay that way, I suggest pretending none of this ever happened. Whatever the murderer’s motives, he’ll have no need to kill you unless you give him cause.” Falco’s voice was light, but it still sounded like a threat.

  Cass shivered as she looked around at the gravestones and the monuments. So many dark shadows a murderer could fit inside. “I will not just forget the body of a friend—a contessa, I might point out—that vanished into the night. And it’s easy for you to say he won’t hurt us. No one’s left you any deranged love notes.” She turned to head back to the villa.

  Falco grabbed her shoulder. “Hold on,” he said.

  His strength surprised Cass. She tucked her right hand inside her cloak pocket, and her fingers closed around the handle of the small knife. “Let me go,” she said, “or I’ll scream.”

  Falco released her. “Please, not that again. My head still hurts from last time.” He flashed a half smile. “Look, I understand why you’re scared. And I understand why you think you’ll feel better if you go to the guard, but they won’t help you.”

  “So your plan is just for me to stay here with my aunt and wait to be murdered? You do realize you’ll probably be next on the list, don’t you?”

  “Yes, yes,” Falco said wryly. “I’m not thrilled about the idea of being stalked by a killer, either.”

  “We could go to Piazza San Marco,” Cass said slowly, “and put a letter in the bocca di lione.” The lion sculpture stood just outside the Palazzo Ducale, its mouth open wide to accept anonymous tips and accusations.

  “We could.” Falco nodded. “But I’ve always thought that box was watched, if not by rettori, then by prying eyes.” Falco tucked the drawing he’d been working on into the pocket of his cloak and leaned back against a tall grave marker topped with a cross. His dark brown hair curled around his face, making him look like an angel in a painting. Cass stood directly in front of him, acutely aware of the fact that they were almost eye to eye. And lip to lip, she realized, tilting her body slightly backward at the thought.