Venice in the Moonlight (14 page)

I ran. I ran from the room. I ran for my life. I feel no shame to admit it. I know not what these men were doing, but I know they pursued me. Up and down the streets I ran, always hearing them behind me. At last, I came upon a gondola and hid in its cabin. I stayed there until daybreak when the owner woke me with a slap to my head.

The last entry in her father’s journal simply said:

There are eyes watching me. Everywhere I go, I feel them. What are they waiting for? Why don’t they strike?

The book slipped out of Marietta’s trembling fingers and into her lap. It was too much to hope that it was all a drunken dream. Her father saw evil that night. Evil that led to his death. She skimmed the last pages again but only found the initial “F.” It could be Foscari or Fenzi since they hadn’t paid for their commissioned works. She held the book up to the light and squinted at the writing again. The “F” could be a “P,” which would mean Palladino.

Would any of these men commit murder over what her father saw? Knowing the cold eyes of the elder Foscari, she had no doubt that he would, but she couldn’t believe the same about the overly passionate Palladino. She didn’t know Signor Fenzi and that would have to be rectified.

She held the journal to her aching heart and begged her father for forgiveness. Somehow she would discover whose villa he was at and bring these men to justice. She was about to call for Zeta and Rosina but then thought better of it. Until she knew more, there was no use worrying them. With the hem of her skirt, she dried the tears from the journal’s cover and slid the book under her mattress. Though painting was the last thing on her mind now, she left for her appointment with Nico.

arietta had just started up the staircase to Nico’s apartment when she heard a woman crying in the hallway above. Not hysterical like a lover in a quarrel, but more anguished like she was in pain.

“Where will I go, Signore? What will I do? I have lived here my whole life.” The woman’s voice cracked as another sob took over.

“I will take care of everything,” Nico said in a deep, soothing voice. “You will not be evicted.”

“But I have no money. I can’t even repay you.”

“Signora, think nothing of it. Your happiness is repayment enough.”

At the top of the stairs, an elderly woman clutched the front of Nico’s suit coat. She pulled him down to her level so she could kiss his cheeks over and over again. Marietta’s fingers curled tighter around the parcel she carried. She wished she’d stayed downstairs instead of interrupting such a private conversation.

“You are too kind. If only my son was like you, I would not have such heartache.”

Nico’s nose lifted as he caught Marietta’s scent. He kissed the old woman on the forehead before he gently removed her hands from his coat. Raul stepped forward and took the woman by the elbow. “Raul will help you back to your room, and then he will talk to the landlord immediately. Consider the matter settled.”

Nico turned to Marietta and gave her a crooked smile. “Kitty, I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

She frowned in return. It was none of her business, but she had hoped he would offer an explanation for the heartrending scene she had witnessed.

She held up her parcel. “I’m sorry I’m late. I had to stop for more charcoal.”

“Raul would have gone for you.”

“I didn’t want to be a bother.”

He clicked his tongue and with a shake of his head, ushered her into the apartment. Behind his dark glasses, he probably rolled his eyes at her as well.

Once settled in their respective chairs, she sketched for a few minutes before Nico broke the silence.

“Raul says you haven’t left your bed these past three days,” he said matter-of-factly.

A line from her father’s journal popped into her head:
There are eyes watching me.
Maybe Nico was having her watched as well. He was a Foscari after all. A tremble ran through her body, and the charcoal shook in her fingers. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves.

“What is it? Are you still not well?”

“No, my hand is a bit shaky. I’m trying not to give you two noses.” She forced a laugh to conceal her unease.

“Let’s take a break. My appearance is already different enough.” He moved to a small table against the wall and poured them both a glass of wine. “How far along are you?”

“I’m almost done with the sketch. I should be able to start painting tomorrow.”

The corners of his mouth tightened as she spoke. “You really don’t sound well. I’ll have Raul escort you home.”

“No, please, I’m fine. I don’t want to delay the portrait any longer.”

“Oh? You tire of me so soon? Kitty, you break my heart.” He placed a hand across his forehead in mock anguish. “Only a kiss will mend it. Please, I beg of you, so that I may live another day!”

His flirting chased away her fears for the moment, and this time her laugh was genuine. “I’m sure you will survive without my kiss, and I’m sure you have better things to do than sit for a portrait.”

It was the wrong thing to say. His face darkened. He pivoted on his heel and stalked away from her. After he arranged himself again in the wingback chair, he asked in a dull voice, “Am I in the correct position?”

Flustered by his sudden change in demeanor, she didn’t answer, but a glance at her sketch showed he wasn’t. After she repositioned his arm, she stepped back with a frown. Something was still wrong. She had felt it from the moment she had started the portrait and now realized what it was. She needed to see his eyes to paint his soul. She slowly reached for his dark glasses.

His hands shot up and stopped her in mid-air. “No.”

“But it will make the painting that much better.”

“No,” he repeated in a low voice that demanded obedience.

She fisted her hands on her hips. “Why do you hide?”

His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“You hide behind your glasses, your women, and your wine, never showing who you truly are.”

“I am no mystery,” he said with a shake of his head. “I am a nobleman with too much time and money at his disposal.”

“Who chooses to share it with others less fortunate.”

“You refer to the woman in the hall? What difference does it make what I spend my father’s money on? So I have a few less ducats to lose at the gaming tables tonight. It is of little importance.”

“After my mother’s death, my father stopped painting. We lived on savings for a year before being evicted. I remember the shame well. What you did was very important. I see before me a man who shows kindness when others would turn away.”

“Well, being blind—I don’t.”

“We all have to live with our limitations.” She waved her hands at her easel. “I’m a woman in a man’s world, but that doesn’t stop me from pursuing my dreams.”

“And what dream should I pursue? A tutor? A physician? The Pope?”

“Definitely not the Pope. Even a leopard can’t change its spots.”

He laughed at this, though the laugh held little humor.

“I don’t know what your dream is, Nico, but you must find it before bitterness overtakes you.”

He offered her no witty retort but instead took up his previous position. When it seemed safe, she placed a hand on his chin and nudged it a bit to the left. At her touch, something like a sigh escaped his lips and his shoulders relaxed.

“That’s better,” she said softly and then returned to her chair.

They finished the session in silence, but before she could slip out the door, he caught her elbow. “You’ve already refused my request for a kiss today, so I will not ask again. Instead, I will beg you to accompany me to Bertoni’s
Ginevra.
It’s the opening night and supposed to be superb.”

Perhaps the sadness that emanated from him made her relent, or maybe a night at the opera after so many days in bed sounded too good to refuse. Either way, her mouth said yes without consulting her brain for permission.

From his startled expression, he’d expected a different answer. “Yes? You accept my invitation?”

For a moment she was confused and wondered if he had been only playing with her. Maybe she was supposed to know it was not a sincere offer, but then he pressed his lips lightly to her hand.

“I will call for you at eight o’clock.”

Her eyes narrowed at his solemn face. No wolfish grin. No suggestive comment. Perhaps he had caught her illness. She nodded goodbye. “Until then.”

arietta returned to her lodging by way of La Mascareta. She hoped to find her father’s drinking partner more coherent than the other night. The old man with skunk hair stood in the same spot at the bar with an empty glass in his hand. She held up a coin to signal for a drink and then placed the wine in front of him.

“Do you remember me?” she asked.

He stared at the drink greedily. “Sure, fancy lady, I remember everyone.”

She couldn’t tell if he was lying, but he slurred less than their previous meeting, so she continued. “We met the other night and talked about our friend, The Painter. Do you recall our conversation?”

The old man shuffled his feet and then shrugged. His eyes moved back to the drink in front of him.

“You said a demon killed him,” Marietta said to prod his memory.

“Shhh!” He looked over his shoulder at the other patrons. Satisfied that no one had heard, he pointed with his chin toward an empty table in the far corner. He took a seat across from her and then tasted the wine she had bought. “We need to take care. There are spies everywhere.”

Marietta’s gaze swept the foul-smelling room, but she only saw patrons in various stages of drunkenness. Still, she lowered her voice to match his. “Do you know who the spies are? Can you tell me their names?”

He rolled his eyes at her ignorance. “Demons can take any form they want.”

She bit back her exasperation and tried again. “You said my father was looking for proof to make things right. What does that mean? What wrongs did he see?”

He ignored her questions and poured the rest of the wine into his open mouth. “Bernardo said the devil worshipers were an abomination and needed to be punished by God and the authorities.”

“Did he say who they were? Maybe where he saw them worshipping?”

The old man tapped the empty glass on the table. A spot in the middle of her forehead began to throb, but she took his hint and signaled for another drink.

“Nah,” the old man answered. “Only that they knew he saw something he shouldn’t have.”

“But he couldn’t go to the authorities without proof because these men are powerful, right?”

He scratched at a spot on his scrawny frame below his ribs. “Makes you wonder how they got their power.”

Confused, Marietta didn’t reply.

“From the devil himself, of course,” he whispered.

“So what proof did my father think he could get?”

“Poor, poor, Bernardo.” Tears pooled in the drunkard’s eyes as he looked off into the distance.

She was losing him. She grabbed his hand and squeezed until he yelped. “Did he tell you what he saw?”

“Men in robes . . . candles . . . a book to summon the evil devil.”

This was new information, and she grabbed onto it eagerly. “A book? Did he describe it? Was it big or small? Thick or thin?”

The old man’s lips curled in disgust. “How would I know? I never held a book. Never had no use for one.”

“And you think my father was killed so that he couldn’t tell anyone about the heresy?”

“I don’t think, fancy lady, I know.” A tear escaped one of his yellowed eyes and rolled down his weathered cheek. “I saw it.”

Marietta shut her eyes against the spinning room. The blood pounded in her ears, but she refused to faint onto La Mascareta’s soiled floor. When she could focus again, she asked, “What did you see?”

“A dark shadow. It swarmed over The Painter like a specter and then disappeared into the night.”

He was back to the demons again. “So you didn’t see what this ‘shadow’ looked like?”

“Wouldn’t make no difference if I had. No one cares about the likes of us.”

He ran a dirty sleeve across the mucus dripping from his nose. When the serving girl put another glass of wine between them, he promptly drank it, worried Marietta might beat him to it.