The Visitant: A Venetian Ghost Story (29 page)

“Good-bye,” I whispered. “I’m sorry. I love you.”

He was not there. Not even a murmur in response, though I listened for that. I supposed it was best. I did not want his spirit lingering, unhappy, looking for vengeance or redemption, something undone. I wanted peace for him.

I paused in the hall, glancing toward Samuel’s room, and felt that urge to go inside again, gently pressing, but insistent, and I thought,
why not? One last time. Pay it the courtesy of a farewell.

I stepped inside, and the memories flooded back, my arrival and Giulia’s insolence. And then Samuel, huddled in the bed, racked and ruined, staring at me through a laudanum haze as if I were a ghost come to tend him.

Then I saw the envelope on the bed. His writing in broad, looping strokes on the outside.
Elena.

It was lucky I’d seen it. I could have left without even coming to this room. What had he been thinking to leave it here? I picked it up, curious, puzzled—what more was there to say that hadn’t already been said?

I tore it open. Something fluttered to the bed, and I ignored it for the moment to read the words he’d written, short and to the point:

Save yourself.

I glanced down at the paper that had fallen. It was a train ticket to Rome. Attached to it was another piece of paper, a scrap, Samuel’s writing again.
Albergo
Rosina
, and a reservation for rooms in my name, and below that:
3:30, Café Tacchi. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Wait for me.

My heart jumped. The ticket was for tonight—two hours from now. If I’d come here even an hour later, it would have been too late; I would miss it.

And perhaps I still should.

I took a deep breath, not knowing what to do. A life waited for me in New York. The life my parents wanted for me, the life I’d accepted. My penance and my atonement.

Save yourself.

“What should I do?” I whispered, feeling foolish as I said it, expecting to hear an answer, expecting to hear Nero’s voice, his soul clinging to mine still, profoundly set. I heard nothing, but . . . the urge to go to the balcony had me crossing the room almost before I knew it, his words ringing in my head,
“we often left the day’s fortunes to the dyer
. . .
is the rio green or blue?”
and I told myself that was what would decide me. I would go if it was Nero’s favorite color. I would go if it was blue.

I rushed to the door, opening it, stepping out. All of it settled on a color, the caprice of a dyer.
Please
, I prayed, still not certain what I prayed for.
Please.

I was almost afraid to look, but finally I did, and everything in me sagged in disappointment. The canal was no color at all. Not blue, not red, not yellow. No dye in it today, just its usual, dull olivey brown. Just a shallow canal stinking in the winter sun.

I’d left it to Fate, and Fate had answered. Tear up the ticket Samuel had bought. Forget the Café Tacchi and an appointment for three thirty every afternoon. Forget looking up from a table to see him cross the room, a smile on his face, relief in his eyes.

I started to turn away. But then . . . no, a faint touch, a gentle nudging, the same press that had set upon me every day as I looked toward Samuel’s room, as if someone brushed my shoulder, urging me to wait, to turn.
“Look.”
His voice in my ear, that same breathless whisper from the day he’d shown me the purple canal, that dreamcast voice, and I found myself obeying, twisting back to see.

Nothing at first, and then . . . yes, there it was, barely there, so slight as to be an illusion, a thread of color, a ribbon unfurling through the murk, dodging and spinning in the current, and then growing, a stream, and then a river, spreading and spreading beneath a misty Venetian sun.

Vibrant, stunning blue.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many, many thanks to my wonderful, sharp-eyed, and lovely editors Jodi Warshaw and Heather Lazare, whose insightful comments truly opened up some doors and made the novel better. Also thanks must go to my author team at Lake Union—Thom Kephart, Gabriella VandenHeuvel, Maggie Sivon, among others—for their wonderful support—you really make this all so much easier. Thank you once more to Kim Witherspoon, Allison Hunter, Nathaniel Jacks, and the staff at Inkwell Management, for their continued encouragement and attention, and to Kristin Hannah, who has not only been a creative and personal lifesaver, but an inspiration as well. Jan Berlin generously provided a crucial Venetian translation for me (not all of them—blame me for errors!), for which, among many of her other generosities, I am eternally grateful. Last, but never least of course, I could not do this without Kany, Maggie, and Cleo, who weather everything with equanimity (sometimes), patience (mostly), and love (always).

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo © 2012 CMC Levine

Megan Chance is a critically acclaimed, award-winning author of historical fiction. Her novels have been chosen for the Borders Original Voices and Book Sense programs. A former television news photographer and graduate of Western Washington University, Chance lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and two daughters.