Immortal Muse (25 page)

As Bernini had, in his time.

She was happy with Lucio, though it was becoming more and more difficult to hide her lack of advancing age. Already, people were calling her “surprisingly well-preserved” despite her attempts via cosmetics to appear older.

Maybe it's time to think of leaving him. Maybe that's why I think I keep seeing Nicolas. After all, the last time was a century ago . . .

She patted Lucio's cheek as he gave her an exaggerated pout. She tried to remember the face she'd seen in the piazza; perhaps it
hadn't
been Nicolas with Goldoni. Perhaps she'd been mistaken. Yes, such a mistake would have been easily made through the rain and mist, and perhaps her mood had clouded the Tarot cards when she laid them out.

“Then we'll go,” she told him. “Let me go find Paolina, and have her help me get ready.”

But she would also prepare something else, just in case her fears and the Tarot were right, and Nicolas walked the bridges and courtyards of Venice.

 * * * 

Ap
plause filled the Teatro San Salvatore after the performance, arising mostly from relief rather than appreciation. Even the players seemed to sense it, giving perfunctory bows and not bothering to return for an encore. “Well, what did you think, my dear?” Lucio asked, leaning over toward her in their box.

She shook her head. “The intermezzo was entertaining.”

“But the rest?”

“The rest was utterly forgettable,” she answered succinctly. “Tedious and long.”

Lucio grunted at that, but she saw the amused glimmer in his eyes. “I thought the soprano was too shrill. You would have sung the part far better.”

She patted his hand, resting atop his cane. “You say that because you always hear me with your heart and not your head,” she told him.

“I do not,” he said, his chest puffing out as if he were offended, his lips pressed together.

“You do, and I love you for it,” she told him. She wanted to lean over and kiss away the scowl from that tight-pressed and familiar mouth, but she could not, here in public. She consoled herself by patting his hand again: a sisterly touch, the touch a housekeeper might give to her longtime master, or a singer to her patron. It wasn't fair: she told herself that she loved Lucio, perhaps more than she'd loved anyone before, yet she could never show that in public. Never, for a priest could not marry. They must always pretend chastity and innocence, even when the gossip and whispers about them were nearly ubiquitous. “Let's go home, Lucio. We have a long day of travel tomorrow.”

They made their slow way from the box through the throngs clogging the hallways and stairs, stopping occasionally to speak to those they knew: the musicians, the regulars, the patrons of the arts. “Signor Vivaldi, Signorina Giraud,” she heard someone call out, and she glanced over to see Carlo Goldoni waving at them from the head of the grand staircase to the ground floor.

“Ah, Signor Goldoni, a pleasure as always to see you,” Lucio called out as Anna sighed. Goldoni bowed to the two of them as they approached. He seemed to have lost his sycophants, or rather, those around him were a different set than those following him in the piazza. Anna recognized none of the faces from the afternoon's encounter, nor did any of them resemble Nicolas in the slightest.

“And you as well, my friends,” Goldoni responded. “I was just telling my companions that Pergolesi's work is that of an errant child compared to your own stellar compositions, Signor Vivaldi. It would be like comparing a single olive seed to an entire grove of fine, mature trees, a grove that has consistently produced the finest oil.”

Lucio beamed at the extravagant compliment. “Signorina Giraud might agree with you,” Vivaldi said, and Goldoni's bulbous eyes swung toward her. “She said she enjoyed the intermezzo, but found the
opera seria
tedious.”

“Ah, yes,” Goldoni purred. “The Signorina has a fine and cultured ear, as we know. Why, I was remembering the wondrous performance she gave in your
Griselda
. A pity the maestro didn't see fit to utilize her talents tonight.”

“You're so gracious, Signor Goldoni,” Anna told him, curtsying slightly. “But I fear I have only a
small
voice.” She placed thumb and forefinger close together, imitating Goldoni's earlier gesture. The man's eyes widened slightly, and she smiled at him. His gaze quickly left her to return to Vivaldi.

“I thought the first act was poorly paced, Signor,” he said, “and I must blame the libretto. Why, if I'd had the opportunity to tell the story myself, I would have severely trimmed the prisoner's lament . . .”

As Goldoni continued to expound on how he could have improved the libretto, they made their way down to the main hall. The bulk of the audience had already departed, as Lucio took the stairs exceedingly slowly to preserve his breath, and Goldoni had decided that he'd found a sympathetic ear. Anna followed alongside Vivaldi as he conversed with Goldoni, making their way outside to the series of arches that opened out onto a small courtyard in front of the hall. The rain from earlier in the day had ended. The cooler evening air was a relief after the stuffy atmosphere inside the theater, and Anna longed to return home and divest herself of hair extensions, dress, petticoats, and shoes. Lucio was already breathing heavily, just from the exertion of the stairs. The bulk of the crowd was moving toward the Grand Canal and their waiting private boats and
vaporetti
, or strolling along the Calle del Forno toward the Ponte di Rialto.

“Come, Signor,” she said to him, taking Lucio's arm and nodding to Goldoni, who was still prattling on about the libretto. “We should not bother Signor Goldoni any longer. Our boatman is waiting.”

They had just started walking in the direction of the canal when Anna saw movement in the courtyard: someone rushing from the shadows toward them, and in his hand, a glittering line of steel. She heard someone in the crowds shout in alarm as the man passed, the call echoing from the buildings around them. The attacker's gaze, she noticed, was fixed on her, not on Lucio or Goldoni.

Tall. Not Nicolas . . .

She had only a moment to respond, not enough time to reach for the vials in the pocket sewn into her dress. She flicked her hand toward the man, as if trying to ward him off and spoke a single word in Arabic. The flagstone immediately in front of the attacker tilted up a hand's breath, and the attacker's booted foot caught its edge. The man went down hard, arms splayed out to break his fall, and the thin saber he was carrying pinwheeled away from him, the steel ringing against stone. It landed near Anna's foot, and she snatched up the blade, placing it hard against the stunned man's neck. “Don't move,” she told him. “If you lift your head, we'll see how sharp this point is.”

Goldoni and Lucio were already calling out for help, and attendants from the theater came running out to the courtyard to take the man. As Anna pulled away the weapon, they lifted him up. No, he was definitely not Nicolas. The man's face was bloodied and scraped, as were his hands and arms, his breeches torn at the knees. He stared at them sullenly. Blood drooled from a cut lip and one nostril. She saw him glance back at the stone flag, still tilted strangely in the air.

“We should thank God, Signorina Giraud,” Goldoni said, “that the flag on the courtyard was loose, and that this assassin was clumsy. Venice might have lost the great Vivaldi otherwise.” Anna understood Goldoni's interpretation—to him, standing to one side, it might have appeared that the attacker was after Vivaldi, who was certainly the most well-known of the trio, but she had seen the man's eyes. He hadn't been intending to thrust at Lucio, but to his right, where Anna had been standing.

Lucio stood before the attacker, frowning at him. “I don't know you.” He glared at the man; his breath whistled in the night air, harsh and fast. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Why did you attack me?” The man spat at Vivaldi's feet, the bloody mess landing near his shoe. Lucio drew his hand back and slapped the man hard across the cheek. “You'll tell us soon enough,” he said. He took the saber from Anna's hand and gave it to one of the men holding the attacker. “Send for the authorities and have them hold this man. Tell the Council that I expect him to be charged and will send them my testimony against him.” He looked at the would-be assassin again. “You'll be punished severely for this outrage.”

The man only scowled. Anna thought that strangest of all—he didn't seem to fear the dungeons of Venice and his likely execution at all.

Lucio turned to Anna as the man was dragged away. She watched the attacker: she didn't know the face. He could have been a random thug, working on his own or perhaps someone had hired him. Had
Nicolas
hired him?—that was the question she desperately wanted answered.

“You were indeed brave, Signorina,” Lucio was saying. “You show us again your mettle and talents.” He bowed to Goldoni. “Signor Goldoni, it was good talking to you. Signorina, let us walk . . .” He extended his arm to Anna; with a final nod to Goldoni, she took it.

They would leave tomorrow and this would be over, she told herself as Lucio huffed and labored alongside her, his breath gone from the exertion of the moment.

At home, she would be safe.

 * * * 

Th
e house was in an uproar when they returned. The head servant of the first floor, a stick-thin and elderly man named Calorgero who had been in Vivaldi's employ for decades, met them at the door. He looked as if he'd been visited by ghosts. “Signor, Signorina, it's terrible . . . Awful . . .”

“What's terrible?” Vivaldi asked, and the servant shot a glance at Anna that made her shiver.

“The Signorina's sister,” Calorgero stuttered. “It's so horrible . . .” Anna was already pushing past the man, who tried to hold her back. “Signorina,” he cried. “No! You shouldn't—”

Anna rushed into the house; the ground floor was empty for the move, but she heard people talking above on the first floor, and she ran up the staircase, calling for Paolina. No one answered, but another of the servants appeared at the head of the stairs, his face pale and drawn. “Signorina,” he said as she reached the landing. The rest of the staff was huddled there, all of them looking terrified and lost. “It was witchcraft. The Devil's work.”

“Where is my sister?” she demanded. She could hear the head servant and Vivaldi entering the house on the floor below.

“In your bedroom, Signorina,” the man said, and she moved down the hall, pushing through the knot of servants as he called out after her. “Please, Signorina. There's nothing you can do, and this is nothing you should see.”

The door to her bedroom was open, and Anna hesitated for a moment before stepping in. The silence in the room was unnerving, and there was a strong smell that seemed strangely familiar. She stepped inside. Stopped.

Blood splattered the walls of the room. The curtain of her bed had been torn down and lay in red-streaked folds on the floor. On the bed Paolina was sprawled naked. Her eyes were open; her body had been gutted from throat to pubis like a market fish, the entrails spilling out on the sheets. Anna stopped a few steps from the bed. She sank to her knees, sobbing.

She knew. She knew who had done this.

“Signorina?” Calorgero's soft voice was reverential and hushed.

Anna sucked in a breath. “What happened here?” she asked the servant, her voice quavering. She tried not to look at the body on her bed, but couldn't help herself. She tried to look only at the face, the face that brought memories flooding back to her:

Holding and comforting Paolina the night her mother was murdered, letting the girl sob against her shoulder in the darkness, crooning soft words of meaningless comfort. “Shh, it will be all right, la mia piccola allòdola. You'll see. I'll take care of you and no one will ever hurt you. I promise . . .”

Paolina had laughed at Anna the first time they'd met Signor Vivaldi. “Look at you,” she'd said. “You're positively shivering. When he was playing the harpsichord, you sat there entranced, like you were seeing something that none of the rest of us could see. And that shameless flirting afterward . . .” She laughed again. “What is it about you and artists?” she asked. “You're like a moth circling a torch . . .”

They were with Lucio in Vienna, just two years ago, alone in their rooms in the hotel as Lucio attended some féte Anna had declined to attend with him. The two of them cuddled together as they had decades ago, and Paolina stroked Anna's red-tinged hair, comparing it with her own locks. “Look at the gray strands,” she said. “You haven't changed, Anna, not in the twenty years and more I've known you. You still look the same as you did when you and my mother were friends. Tell me—what magic keeps you this way? Is it some potion that you've concocted with those chemicals you keep in your room? If so, I want you to give it to me, also.”

Anna had laughed with Paolina, but the laughter had been tinged with sadness. I would give it to you, if I could, she wanted to tell her. But the secret she'd once had still eluded her; when she'd last tried to replicate the experiment with mice, it had been the same old tale: the elixir gave them a brief return to youth, but they still always died: quickly and suddenly.

Then there was the price.
Even if you had the elixir, would you give it to her, knowing that there is a payment she must make for immortality, as you have, as Nicolas has?

That was a question she could never answer. Now, for Paolina, she would never have to.

Anna's head was pounding and she felt as if she couldn't breathe. “Tell me,” she told Calorgero once more. She thought she heard Lucio struggling up the stairs, and she closed the door. She wasn't certain why, but she wanted to hear Calorgero's tale before Lucio was present. “What happened here?”