Venom (6 page)

“My aunt’s, yes,” Cass said.

Just then, two earth-rattling gongs split the sky. The noise came from nearby San Giorgio Maggiore, from the bell tower of the giant church. It was ringing to call the nuns and monks to matins, their early morning prayers. Cass put a hand to her chest again. Her heart felt ready to pound its way right through her ribs.

Falco turned in the direction of San Giorgio, even though the larger island was cloaked in fog and darkness. He rubbed at a spot beneath his right eye. “That late already? I’m sorry, Cass. I’ve got to go.”

“Where could you possibly have to go at two o’clock in the morning?” she asked.

“Business.” His tone was light.

“Urgent middle-of-the-night artist business?” She arched one of her eyebrows.

Falco grinned. “What can I say? My life is never dull.”

The breeze blew his dark hair back from his face, and Cass found herself once again staring into his brilliant blue eyes. She hadn’t realized they were almost the same height. “Will I see you again?”

Falco’s lopsided smile lit up the dark. “Perhaps,” he said. And then he was gone, loping off in the direction of the shoreline, and then fading into the stillness and darkness of the night.

Cass crept quietly back into the house, thankful that at least she hadn’t awakened any of the servants. There were some benefits, at least, to the fact that most of Aunt Agnese’s staff were ancient, blind, deaf, or some combination of the three.

She crawled beneath her covers, curling around Slipper, who was fast asleep in the exact center of the bed. The night seemed like a dream. Had she really found a mysterious dead body? And Falco: he could not be any more infuriating. And offensive.

And exciting.

Cass’s eyelids fluttered shut and she was with Falco again, walking across a field of flowers. The boy plucked one and tucked it behind her left ear. A white lily. Cass breathed in the aromatic scent. Almost overpowering. Intoxicating. His lips fell on hers, soft, then harder. So hard she was having trouble finding her breath. Falco laid her on the ground, and Cass realized that all the flowers were white lilies. White lilies piled on top of a coffin.

Drops of red splashed on the petals. Cass gasped, but then saw it was paint, not blood. Scarlet teardrops falling from a brush Falco held poised above her. Two quick brushstrokes left a red X, emblazoned across her chest. And then Cass couldn’t breathe at all.

She sat up so quickly that Slipper tumbled off the bed with a mew
of surprise. Cass was almost afraid to look down at her chest. She felt the fabric of her nightgown with her hands, relieved to find it clean, unviolated. Under her fingers, her heart pounded in double time. She lay back in her bed, listening to the frantic drumbeats coming from within. Beneath the slickness of her sheets, her body burned, almost feverish, filled with a longing that she didn’t understand.

S
ignorina Cassandra!
Sveglia!
Wake up!”

Cass opened her eyes and yawned. Siena was patting her on the shoulder. The maid looked frantic. “What is it, Siena?” Cass asked. “Why on earth are you hitting me?”

Siena’s normally perfect porcelain skin was blotchy. “You have to hurry.”

Cass noticed a spot of dirt on the sleeve of her nightgown, no doubt a souvenir from the previous night’s misadventures. She pulled her covers up to hide it. “Is it Aunt Agnese? Has she fallen ill?”

“No. It’s Madalena. You were supposed to be at her palazzo an hour ago.” Siena paced back and forth in front of Cass’s canopy bed. “I was sewing. I thought you were awake. I should have—”

Cass glanced at the red lacquer wall clock. The gold-leaf hands both pointed upward. “
Mannaggia
.” She slid out of bed, wincing at the coldness of the hardwood floor beneath her bare feet. She examined her reflection in the mirror. Tangled hair, bluish circles under her eyes. Her hand went to her chest as she remembered the weird dream.

“You look feverish,” Siena said. “Are you feeling well?”

“I feel fine,” Cass said, a little too loudly. She began struggling out of her nightgown. “Please get me a dress and shoes.”

“Which dress would you—”

“
Any
dress.” Cass regretted her tone immediately. Sometimes she couldn’t stand the way Siena stared at her, like a wounded dog. She missed Feliciana, who would have retorted back, at least.

Siena scampered off to the giant oaken armoire and returned with a burgundy dress, suede slippers, and a pair of wooden platform shoes embellished with red leather flowers. Cass hated her chopines—all five pairs. Platform shoes were useful when it came to protecting her slippers and hemlines, but she was already taller than many of the boys her age, and the extra height made her feel like a giraffe. Still, Agnese insisted she wear them.

“Does my aunt know I’m late?” Cass asked, sliding into the dress and hurriedly trying to work the laces despite Siena’s already flying fingers.

Siena shook her head, her tight blonde braid swinging from side to side. “No, Signorina. She’s in her room, resting.”

“Well then, let’s go before she finds out.” Cass grabbed her belt and a hat from the edge of her washing table. There was no time to put up her hair today, a process that sometimes took more than an hour. With her chopines dangling from one hand, she thundered down the spiral staircase, taking the last three steps in an unladylike jump.

Siena followed behind her at a more appropriate pace. “One second, Signorina.” Siena disappeared back into the butler’s pantry and returned with Cass’s
cadena,
a carved rosewood box embossed with gold corners. Inside was Cass’s personal silverware, though Cass suspected she might arrive too late to use it.

Cass saw Siena’s eyes linger on a long ivory envelope placed on a side table just inside the arched door. Cass recognized the slanted, impeccably neat handwriting. It was a letter from Luca. Cass hadn’t seen her fiancé since his father’s funeral three years ago, just before he left Venice to study law at the renowned Université Montpellier in the South of France, but it didn’t seem like the time away had done much to change him from the dull, conventional boy she remembered from her youth.

“Shall I bring it…?” Siena reached for the letter.

“It can wait,” Cass said. No doubt it was some boring missive about his latest lessons.

The two girls headed outside and down the crumbling villa steps. Cass slipped into her chopines before heading across the wet front lawn. The air was less hazy around San Domenico, and Siena handed Cass a white parasol to protect her from the sun. Several young boys dressed in gray chemises and wide-brimmed hats were kneeling on the front lawn, cutting back the grass with rusty shears. Cass looked around for the gardener. She had expected Giuseppe to be waiting in the gondola for them, but no boat bobbed at the edge of the moldy old dock. “Where’s the gondola?” she asked.

“Giuseppe must have taken it to the city for supplies,” Siena said, frowning as if
she
were the one late for an engagement. “He probably thought one of the other servants had taken you to the Rialto earlier. We’ll have to find a ride in town.”

They started along the narrow path that skirted the thin strip of sand and led to San Domenico village. Halfway there, a dead fish, its eyes swollen and milky, washed up in the surf at Cass’s feet. She yelped, immediately recalling the courtesan’s discolored body from
last night. She swallowed hard, willing the image away. But she could not stop herself from nervously scanning the road.

Behind them, a lone man in a black cloak was walking. He turned away when Cass looked at him, pulling his wide-brimmed hat low to hide his face.

“Signorina Cass?” Siena, a few steps ahead, turned back to look at her questioningly.

“A dead fish,” Cass croaked. She cleared her throat. “I almost stepped on it.”

Siena switched sides with Cass to put her farther away from the lapping waves. The maid nodded delicately. “So, how is Signor da Peraga?” she asked. “Will he be returning for a visit anytime soon?”

“I don’t think so,” Cass said, trying to ignore the feel of the strange man’s eyes on her back. “Luca’s very busy with his studies. That’s practically all he ever writes about.”

“It must be years since you’ve seen him,” Siena ventured timidly. She waved her hand in front of her face to dissipate a cloud of gnats that had appeared from nowhere. “How lonely you must get. That’s a very long time.”

“I haven’t been keeping track,” Cass said shortly. She wished that Siena would walk faster. She was certain the strange man would catch up to them any second. She swore she could hear his footsteps in the sand, two for every one of her own. She resisted the urge to turn around again. When she reached the edge of town and glanced casually over her shoulder, she was surprised to see that the path was deserted. The man in the cloak was gone.

In Cass’s opinion, the center of San Domenico didn’t even qualify as a village—just a small, sad collection of shops and the single taverna.
The servants went there occasionally to shop, though Agnese preferred that they cross the lagoon to Venice proper, where the selection and quality of everything was much greater. As Siena guided Cass past Il Mar e la Spada, Cass’s eyes were drawn to the wooden emblem of a sword slicing an ocean wave that hung crookedly over the door. A sour odor emanated from the place; she couldn’t imagine spending any time there.

The girls made their way around to the back of a bakery, to a small dock where one could usually find a boat or two for hire.

They were in luck. Though none of the usual fishermen’s sons were waiting for a fare, a gondolier sat idle in his long black boat. He must have just brought someone over from the city.

“
Bellas signorinas,
” he greeted them, reaching out a hand to help Cass and then Siena into the craft.

As she stepped carefully inside the gondola’s stamped leather interior, Cass felt a little guilty about leaving Luca’s letter behind. She could have at least taken it to read. Madalena was always telling Cass she should count herself lucky to have an intelligent and reliable fiancé like Luca. Cass’s dowry, consisting mainly of gold Agnese had squirreled away for the occasion, was acceptable, but it wasn’t exactly anything to brag about. Despite being of the artisan class, Mada’s father had been able to offer Marco much more. Maybe Madalena was right. Maybe Cass should be happy she wasn’t being married off to a toothless old shopkeeper.

The day was brilliant, with a blue sky—for the moment. Spring in Venice was volatile, unpredictable. Cass and Siena closed their parasols and tucked themselves inside the privacy of the felze, away from the bright sun. Cass leaned back in her seat and breathed deeply.
Siena handed her a fan made of ivory and ostrich feathers. Cass waved it in front of her face. Her stays felt extra tight as usual.

Siena looked concerned. “Are you sure you’re all right?”