by Venom (mobi)
The air turned cool as the stars came out, but Luca's cloak kept Cass surprisingly warm. A blurry face appeared at one of the windows. Cass recognized Agnese's favorite white cap. Cass gave her aunt a hesitant wave and the face vanished. Cass wondered if everyone had been worrying about her. She remembered the cautious way Luca had approached her, as if she were a wild horse that might spook and run off.
She ripped a blank page from her journal and started a letter to Falco.
I was wrong about who you are; I cannot possibly love a man such as you, nor can I see you again. It is not fair to either of us. Please do not try to see me or communicate with me in any way.
Cass knew that if she had the letter delivered to Falco, he would honor her wishes. Sighing, she tucked the piece of parchment inside the back cover of her journal. She couldn't send it. Not yet, anyway.
Cass slipped inside the back door where the cook was busy assembling cream-filled pastries in an otherwise empty kitchen. He wiped his hands on his apron and bowed in Cass's direction. "Tell me the truth. It was my chicken broth that cured you, right?"
Cass laughed. "It must have been. Both Slipper and I enjoyed it."
The cook gave her a severe look. "That little beast should be eating scraps." But then he winked to show Cass he was joking.
When Cass entered the dining area, Agnese and Luca both beamed so brightly that for once the drafty, cavelike room seemed filled with heat and light. A pair of dinner servants stood at the far end of the table in their blue and silver uniforms.
"I'll be right back," Cass said. She hung Luca's cloak over the back of a chair in the portego and then went to her room to put her journal away.
When she returned to the dining room, one of the servants pulled out Cass's chair for her and the other placed an embroidered napkin in her lap. The boys stepped back from the table and stood against the wall, waiting to fetch empty plates or refill wineglasses as needed. Cass smiled hesitantly at her aunt, wondering if a lecture on manners would be forthcoming.
Agnese wore one of her finest gowns, a muted sea green satin with a strand of dyed pearls to match. Siena had even helped her apply color to her lips and cheeks. Cass hadn't seen her aunt look this vibrant in years. "I knew a visit from Madalena would raise your spirits," Agnese said. She made no comment about Cass's self-imposed seclusion.
In fact, no one commented on Cass's recent behavior. The servants brought each course to the table with their usual polite smiles. Cass's appetite had returned, and she enjoyed a bowl of vegetable stew and a plate of broiled rosemary chicken.
Siena entered the room once, her blue eyes barely lifting to meet Cass's gaze as she hurried past. Cass felt a flash of guilt, and resolved to apologize later for snapping at her. There was still no news of Feliciana, and Cass knew Siena was nearly crazed with worry. No wonder she had told Cass to count her blessings.
Agnese prompted Cass and Luca to talk to each other, but Cass had said almost everything she could think of to say to Luca in the garden earlier. There was not much she could tell him about recent days without incriminating herself or Falco. She cut her chicken into smaller and smaller bits, chewing slowly so that she didn't feel pressured to speak. Luca didn't seem to mind the occasional awkward silences, jumping to fill them with stories about his life abroad.
After the servants cleared the plates, they filled the wineglasses again and served Cass, Agnese, and Luca each a pastry for dessert.
Agnese swallowed half of her pastry in a single bite. "Have you heard anything about the murder?" she asked Luca. "Dreadful, that poor maid floating up in the canal."
Luca had the crumbling dessert halfway to his lips. He placed it neatly back on his plate and rubbed both hands on his napkin. His whole body seemed to tense up. Cass set her fork down. She stared at Luca as she waited for him to speak.
"I have actually heard rumors," he said slowly. "There was some gossip in the city about it. There is talk of a gang roving the cemeteries at night..."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Agnese finished the second half of her pastry and chased it with a big swallow of wine.
"Satanists, if you ask me," Luca added.
Agnese bobbed her head in agreement. "The girl was strangled and then cut up like a chicken, they say. I'm not even sure San Domenico is safe anymore."
"I don't see why everyone is suddenly so concerned," Cass said. Even to her own ears her voice sounded strained. "Venice has always had more than her share of murders."
"Drunken brawls and knife fights," Luca said. He stared back at her. Was it her imagination, or did she see a challenge in his eyes? "But not murders of this kind. And of innocent women."
Cass's throat felt as though she had swallowed a chicken bone. "Why so interested, Luca? Don't you have other more important duties to which you should attend?" She downed half a glass of wine in one swallow. Her mind flooded with terrible thoughts. Did Luca somehow know about Falco? Had he been spying on her?
"I consider it both my civic and domestic duty," Luca said, smiling tightly. "I want to make sure that my wife-to-be isn't troubled by any . . . undesirable company. The women of Venice are one of our most precious resources, after all. I want to be sure they are protected."
Anger flared inside Cass. She couldn't believe she had softened to him earlier—that she had, for a second, even thought she could be happy with him. "The women of Venice are far more capable than most men realize," she snapped. If the room got any colder, Cass would have to ask one of the servants to bring her a cloak.
Agnese cleared her throat to speak, but to Cass's amazement Luca cut her off. It was like he'd completely forgotten her aunt was at the table with them. His voice rose and his face reddened again, but this time not from embarrassment. "I am well aware that many women believe themselves to be stronger than they are. They might believe, for example, that it is a fully rational thing to go gallivanting around the city alone at night. They believe that they are playing a game— they have no idea how high the stakes really are."
Cass had never seen Luca show this much emotion, and it was both fascinating and frightening. A chill zipped up her spine. Was he threatening her? She forced herself to maintain eye contact. "You are not my husband yet," she said softly, but with force. "And I do not have to listen to you."
Luca's fork fell to the table with a clatter. "Then you are a sillier girl than I thought," he burst out. "And I would urge you to be more careful. Where have you been spending your time, Cassandra?"
"One might ask the same question of you," she said. Both Siena and Madalena had claimed to have seen him on the Rialto. They couldn't both be mistaken. Her eyes narrowed. "How long have you really been in Venice, Luca? You told me you had just arrived, but you were seen in the city more than a week ago! How do you explain that?"
"All I have done since arriving in Venice is attend to your safety." Luca flung his balled-up napkin onto his untouched dessert plate. "What you don't know can hurt you, Cass." He pushed his chair back abruptly from the table.
For a second, no one said a word. The outburst had startled even Agnese into silence. Cass was sure that the servants were taking in every word.
Luca seemed suddenly to remember that there were others in the room. He passed a hand through his hair. "I apologize," he said stiffly. "I don't know why I got so upset." He brushed a few crumbs from his clothing as he stood. "If you will both excuse me, I have some reading I must complete."
Cass turned to her aunt the second Luca disappeared into the portego. "What on earth do you suppose that was about?" she asked.
"It appears that during his time in France, your fiancé developed a bit of a temper," Agnese said mildly, as though Luca's outburst were perfectly normal. She blotted her mouth with her napkin and signaled a servant to bring her a second pastry. "Let's just hope he saves some of that passion for your wedding night."
Cass folded her napkin and put it on the table. She felt nauseated. She replayed the conversation wit
h Luca again and again. He hadn't even denied returning to Venice early. It was true—he'd been in town for at least a week, maybe more. Why had he lied to her? She thought of how she had seen, for just one second, his face contorted with rage as he warned her to be more careful. It was a side of Luca she had never seen—almost as though for just one second, he had slipped on a mask.
Or perhaps he had slipped out of a mask. Maybe, in that moment, he had let drop the image of the ever-composed, always righteous Luca.
It was more than just jealousy or overprotectiveness. Luca was hiding something. Cass was certain of it.
27
Luca remained holed up in his quarters after supper. Cass retreated to her own room and readied herself for bed. After Narissa helped her from her dress, Cass slipped into a nightgown and stood in front of her mirror. She unpinned each of her braids, letting her thick auburn hair slowly untwist on its own. Cass shook her head and what remained of her braids came loose. She grabbed her hairbrush and brushed until her hair gleamed. The repetitive motion soothed her. Luca had always felt like a constant. Predictable. In the time Cass had known him, both in person and from his letters, he had never been volatile. He had also never lied to her.
But he didn't deny lying about his return to Venice. Had he been spying on her? Did he know about Mariabella? Did he know about Falco? Was that why he was interested in the group of boys roving the graveyards? Had he seen something? Was that why he had gotten so angry?
Cass thought again of all the times she had felt watched, both on San Domenico and deep within the city. Maybe it wasn't her imagination or Signor Dubois. Maybe it was Luca, tracking her movements? But why? Thwack.
A noise at the window made Cass start. Her heart fluttered in her chest. She moved slowly to the window, both hoping—and hating herself for hoping—that she might see Falco standing on the lawn below, beckoning to her. Maybe it was silly, but Cass still hoped for an explanation of what she had seen. One in which the boy she loved wasn't wicked or depraved. She pulled open the shutters.
A rock of disappointment settled in her stomach. It wasn't Falco waiting on the grass below. It was Paolo.
He was holding something beneath one arm; with the other arm, he beckoned for her to come down. Fear and curiosity tugged her in different directions. Meeting him, in the dark, alone, was probably a bad idea. But what if Falco had sent him with a message?
Curiosity won out. Cass pointed toward the back door. She slipped out of her bedroom, casting a wary glance in the direction of Luca's room. The door was closed. No light came from beneath it.
Downstairs, Cass wrapped herself in Siena's woolen cloak and unbolted the kitchen door. Paolo and Cass stood facing each other for a moment. The tall boy made an effort to smile, but couldn't manage it. Cass's heart still thrummed in her chest.
"He's not a bad person," Paolo said abruptly. "Sometimes I think that I am, but he isn't." He looked away into the darkness.
"What you do . . . ," Cass croaked out. "What I saw . . ." She focused on the outline of the closest rosebush, its naked branches crooked as a witch's fingers.
"Each man calls barbarism what is not his own practice—"
Cass finished his sentence. "For indeed, it seems we have no other test of truth and reason than the example and pattern of the opinions and customs of the country in which we live." It was another quote by Michel de Montaigne. "Do you really think that applies in this instance?"
Paolo looked up. His dark eyes looked a little sad. "We live in the same place—you, me, Falco. But we live in very different worlds. Surely you understand that?"
Cass didn't know what to say. Paolo went on, a little defensively, "We have reasons. It's not for you to judge us."
He thrust a square parcel, wrapped in rough muslin, into her arms.
"There's a note in there," Paolo said, gesturing at the bundle. "I'm sure he'd rather you hear from him, not me." He bowed slightly, his inky black hair falling forward to obscure part of his face. "Buona notte, Signorina Cassandra." With that, he turned away, disappearing into the darkness in just a few long strides.
Cass re-bolted the door. Her heart was still beating hard. She looked down at the wrapped square. It was about two feet by two feet and as thick as her wrist. Lighting a candle, she laid the bundle on the long wobbly table where the servants prepared food for the villa and took their own meals. She held her breath as she tugged at the coarse twine wrapped around the package.
The muslin unfolded in layers, revealing a canvas beneath. A folded scrap of parchment fluttered to the kitchen floor. Cass barely noticed it.
She was too busy staring at the painting.
There she was on the divan in Tommaso's studio. Just a couple of weeks had elapsed between now and then, but already it felt like years, like the dream of a different lifetime. Falco had captured her tiniest quirks on the canvas: the smattering of freckles across her cheeks, the unruly piece of hair behind her left ear that worked its way out of any arrangement. And her smile—Cass almost couldn't believe it was real. She looked radiant, like she was experiencing true happiness for the first time.
She remembered Falco's soft touches as he posed her, how delirious she'd been each time his fingers grazed her skin. She remembered how excited she was at being alone with him, the endless possibilities, the countless dangers. Cass wished she could dive into the painting and go back to that night where she had felt love for the first time.
But she couldn't go back.
She touched the canvas. Liviana's amethyst necklace hung around her neck. A deep sadness pierced her. The purple looked striking against her pale skin, but it was wrong that she had ended up with a necklace Liviana's family had wanted her to take to heaven. That was Cass and Falco: beautiful, yet wrong.
Cass bent down to receive the parchment. She moved closer to the candle and read.
To my lovely starling,
Maybe there are magical words that will make you understand, but if so, I do not know them. Words are your domain. I've always been better with pictures.
I fear you think I am a monster. It's true I've disrupted many graves. The way I see it, the dead are dead. If, after their death, we can learn things from them about the human form—things that will improve the lives of others, things that will increase the sum of human knowledge and the possibilities of art—what harm is that? After death, new life, new beauty. How can that be wrong? My friends and I have made use of some of the bodies as models. Some we sell to surgeons who study them with the hopes of learning something about the frail mechanism of the human body.
I don't know exactly what Dottore de Gradi does in his workshop on the Rialto, and I was as surprised as you were to stumble on it. He couldn't—or wouldn't—tell me if your friend's body ended up there. But he did assure me all of his work is focused solely on extending human life.
I won't lie. I did it for the money as well. Don Loredan is holding a private exhibition in his palazzo tomorrow.. The entry fee was quite steep but two of my paintings were accepted. This could be the beginning for me. I could find my own patrons. I could become a real artist, not merely Tommaso's assistant. I could be more than just a peasant.
So yes; a little for money. But mostly I did it for the art.
I don't expect these words to change how you feel. I simply want you not to see me as a monster. I don't want to be a monster. Not anymore. Not after meeting you. I know that we disrupted your dear friend's body, and for that I am deeply regretful. But if we had not done so, if I had not lingered in the San Domenico churchyard after standing guard for my friends, you and I might never have met. Meeting you is one thing I will never regret.
I hope you like the painting. Consider it a wedding present. How stupid of me to let my heart go. It was a lovely fantasy while it lasted though, wasn't it?
Yours, Falco
She looked again at Falco's painting of her—for her. Even though her expression was full of joy, he'd somehow managed to catch a hint of sadness in her form. Th
e hesitance in how she lay there, as though expecting that happiness to vanish at any moment. This must be what Falco meant when he said he had done it for the art. For the first time, Cass understood. This, this truth, was exactly what she wanted to capture in her writing.
She felt like weeping, but she wasn't sure why. She and Falco understood each other, finally. It was the best possible outcome—the only possible outcome. But as she refolded a single corner of muslin over the canvas, an overwhelming sense of loss gripped her. This painting, this letter, it was Falco's goodbye. Even if he remained in Venice, he would be gone to her. They would exist side by side, but in parallel worlds that never crossed over.
Cass couldn't believe she had ever thought Falco might be a murderer. What he had done went against the Church, but he did have reasons. Maybe de Montaigne was right. Perhaps Cass had no right to judge what Falco was doing—what he must do—to survive. She had never known, would never know, what it was like to want for money. For anything, really, except for love. Maybe love was to be the one thing that would remain forever out of reach.
The thought was unbearable. Cass sat down at the servants' table and laid her head down against the rough canvas. She tried to feel each individual brushstroke through her cheek. Each stroke was a part of Falco, a tiny piece of the man she loved. She waited for the tears to come. She willed them to come, needed them to carry away some of her pain.
But just like at her parents' funeral, when she needed tears the most, they stayed stubbornly, persistently out of reach. Cass sat there in the kitchen, dry eyed, until the candle burned down and darkness overtook her.
28
Cass woke with a stabbing pain in her neck. Narissa was standing over her. As Cass straightened up, realizing she'd fallen asleep at the kitchen table, Narissa's eyes went immediately to the painting. Too late, Cass tried to cover the canvas. Narissa raised an eyebrow but, thankfully, opted not to do any scolding.