Immortal Muse (26 page)

“It was not long after you and the Signor went to the opera,” Calorgero told her. “We noticed a choking, dark vapor filling the house, as if there were fires in all the hearths and every flue in every chimney had been closed. I could barely see through the clouds filling every room. It sent all of us coughing and gasping for breath.” He glanced at the bed, then looked away again quickly. Anna saw the muscles of his jaw bunch and relax, and his throat pulse as he swallowed. He looked at the stained walls, at the ceiling, at the floor between them. “I tried to find your sister,” he continued. “I called for her and I thought I could hear her screaming, but then the vapors overcame me and I fell. I don't know how long I remained asleep, but when I woke up, I saw the rest of the staff just beginning to wake also. I called for your sister again, but she didn't answer. We began searching for her, and I . . .” He gulped once more. “I found her here, as you see her. I sent one of the kitchen staff to get help, but then you and the Signor arrived, and . . .” He waved a hand at the room. “. . . you see what has happened. I am so sorry, Signorina, but there was nothing we could have done. This was sorcery. A terrible black sorcery. It must have been.”

The door opened and Vivaldi stepped into the room. He stopped a bare stride from the door. Anna heard the wheeze of his breath. “
Porca l'oca
!” he spat, then made the sign of the cross. “May God have mercy on her poor soul. Anna, who has done this horror?”

“I don't know,” she told him. Her voice shook against the lie, her gorge rising in her throat so that she had to swallow the bitterness. She forced herself to go toward the bed, pulling a sheet over Paolina's body to the neck to cover her, then reaching down with trembling fingers to close her eyes. Somewhere outside, on the canal, a couple laughed incongruously. Near the door, Lucio huffed and gasped, his breath fast and labored.

“See that Signor Vivaldi is given cognac and something to eat,” she told Calorgero. “There was some excitement at the theater also, then this. Tell him what you've told me, but Signor Vivaldi should rest before the authorities arrive.”

“I'm perfectly . . .” Lucio started to protest, then broke into a fit of coughing. “. . . fine,” he finished, dragging his sleeve over his mouth.

“Hush,” Anna told him. “You
will
be fine, once you've rested. But for right now, recover your strength; you'll need it.”

“Then come with me, Anna,” Lucio said. “You shouldn't stay here, in this—” He stopped; she wondered what word he intended to use.

Anna shook her head. “Let me stay here for a bit. I wish to pray for my sister, and clean her face before people see her. She'd want that. Please . . .”

“As you wish, Anna. Should I send up one of the maids to help you?” She shook her head in mute answer. “I'll have them wait just outside if you need them,” he continued. “Anna, I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say.”

She managed to favor him with a wan, uncertain smile, and Lucio and Calorgero left her. When the door shut behind them, Anna finally let herself give in to the grief and terror, to the great racking sobs that welled from deep inside her. “I'm sorry,” she told Paolina. “This is my fault. My fault. I never thought he would do this . . .” She let the sorrow take her again.

Nicolas
. Everything said it was him: the magic, the spell that put everyone to sleep. Her command of magic had always been mere conjurer's tricks compared to his. She'd
seen
him kill with a spell, and had watched the pleasure he took in his power.

Nicolas
.

She glanced around the room. On her dresser, in a space that seemed to have been deliberately cleared, sat an envelope of stiff, ivory paper with Anna's name scrawled across the face in an ornate hand. She went to the dresser, picked up the envelope, and turned it in her hands. The flap had been sealed with red wax, but there was no insignia pressed into surface. She felt her heart flutter once against her ribs. She broke open the seal and pulled out the single folded sheet inside; the words there had been penned in a thick red-brown ink; Anna was terribly afraid that she knew exactly what that “ink” had been.

P—

If you're reading this, then you've survived the little message that I sent you earlier this evening, as I'm entirely confident you will. Don't worry, that was only a simple, friendly reminder of my feelings toward you—we both know now that we don't die easily and heal altogether too quickly and well. I'd really hoped to scar you for the rest of eternity. I might have been satisfied with that. Now I understand that the best way to hurt you is to hurt those nearest you.

By now you're aware of the gift I've left you. I can assure you that her death was slow and painful and agonizing, and that she was awake to experience most of it. An exquisite death; one that gave me great pleasure. It will sustain me for some time, so you needn't worry that you'll see me in the immediate future. But you
will see me.

The old priest-musician of yours is your lover. I know that. And so I'll make certain that both he and you suffer for that love—slowly, in small steps. I urge you to stay with him and try to protect him, because I'll make it my duty to see that he's brought down with you, down to the level you deserve. You can't imagine the pleasure that will bring me, or perhaps you can understand that better than anyone.

I am your eternal companion. No one else.

N

Anna crumpled the paper in her fist, as if she could obliterate the words with the pressure of her fingers. “I won't let you do this,” she told the air, told Nicolas. Her voice was a dead thing; it had no energy, no life. She looked again at Paolina's face, at peace now in a place where Nicolas could no longer hurt her. She felt the need to check on Lucio, but before she left the room, she went to the trunk at the foot of the bed and retrieved the traveling pistol in the bottom compartment. She placed it in her belt—she would make certain that it was cleaned and oiled, and that she kept it nearby. When she and Lucio eventually went to Ferrara, after they buried Paolina, she would be taking that with her also.

 * * * 

Ferrara was still a walled city, as it had been for over two centuries: massive fortifications surrounded the town on all sides. The Po di Volano, a branch of the greater Po River to the north, formed an additional defense: the stream had been diverted to become a moat between the outer walls and inner walls. During the reigns of Ercole d'Este and his son Alfonso (who had married Lucrezia Borgia, about whose predilections there were terrified whispers), those walls served the city defensively, as Ferrara warred with both Venice and the Papal armies. In recent decades, the city had begun to spill beyond the ancient fortifications, though they were still fitfully manned, and the gates of the city remained open.

Anne and Lucio's carriage jounced through the northern gates and into an opulent, vibrant city with wide boulevards and impressive
palazzi
for the rich. Ahead, they glimpsed the massive, high brick walls and bastions of the Castello Estense at the center of the town, and the squat towers of the Cathedral of St. George. Ferrara was still Venice's rival, but it was now in the arts and music that they warred with each other.

“We'll have a wonderful stay here,” Vivaldi said to Anna as the carriage lurched over the cobblestones of the street, the hooves of the horses punctuating his speech. “You deserve it, after what you've been through.” Since Paolina's death, Lucio had been especially solicitous toward Anna, which had only made her more alert to watch for Nicolas. She hoped that their leaving Venice so soon after Paolina's burial would keep Nicolas from them.

If not—she had her own preparations and her own small magical skills.

They heard the driver calling out warnings to pedestrians. The sights, sounds, and smells of the city swelled around them through the open windows of the carriage: the hammering (and inventive curses) of a smithy as they passed; the animated and varied conversations of the people on the street; the yeasty fullness of bread baking; the impudent, bright colors of flowers in the window boxes of the houses. “Cardinal Ruffo was most complimentary in his letters, Anna,” Lucio continued. “He said that an opera season under my direction will be a crowning achievement for Ferrara, and that my own opera will undoubtedly be the chief jewel in that crown. He was also most generous in the salary he offered. I'm very much looking forward to meeting him. We'll have much success here; I'm certain of it. We'll begin rehearsals within the week—it will be good for you to be singing again.”

The carriage swayed as they turned at an intersection, moving toward the cathedral and Ruffo's offices as both Cardinal and Archbishop of Ferrara. The driver finally reined the horses to a halt in front of a brick edifice. Valets hurried to the carriage to place a step at the door and open it for them, hands extended to help them down. Anna emerged first into the sunlight, taking the proffered hand and stepping onto the flags of the courtyard. The cathedral loomed just across the street, the towers throwing long shadows toward them. Anna dusted the worst of the road dirt from her clothing as Vivaldi was helped from the carriage, breathing heavily. He glanced around the entranceway of the building, looking visibly disappointed at their reception.

“I thought they knew to expect us this morning,” he said to Anna. A young priest was hurrying toward them from the entrance stairs, his robes billowing behind him. She nodded toward him.

“Perhaps they've just realized that,” she said as the priest nearly skidded to a halt before them. The man did not look pleased. He glanced from Vivaldi to Anna, and his glance was sour and appraising.

“Signor Vivaldi, Signorina,” he said. “Cardinal Ruffo has asked me to escort you to his offices immediately.”

“Very good,” Lucio told the young man. “Perhaps we can have our driver take our trunks to the house that he has arranged for us in the meantime.”

“Actually,” the priest said with a twitch of his mouth; he was looking more at the ground than either of them, “Cardinal Ruffo would like your driver to remain here for the moment.” He didn't give them time to question the statement. He gestured toward the building. “If you'll follow me . . .” he said, and began walking quickly toward the stairs up to the entrance.

“I don't understand,” Lucio said, frowning and not moving.

The priest stopped, grimacing as he turned back to them. “The cardinal will explain, Signor. Please. . . .” He gestured again, and Lucio sniffed in irritation, but began following the man. Anna took his arm, so she could help support him on the marble steps. Lucio was huffing by the time they ascended the dozen or so steps, and the priest continued into a cool atrium, from which double staircases led up to the next floor. There were several people moving about the atrium, both priests and others, and Anna could feel their stares as they entered.

Their escort started up the left-hand stair and Vivaldi groaned.

“A moment, Monsignor,” Anna called out. Her voice echoed coldly on the polished marble walls. “Signor Vivaldi must rest before he can attempt those stairs.”

The priest paused, though without good grace. When Lucio finally began to move, he hurried up the staircase, the two of them following far more slowly. Lucio was out of breath when they arrived at the top, with the priest now waiting for them down a hall before a set of carved, oaken double doors. The room beyond was richly appointed, with heavy brocaded curtains, and large paintings set on all the walls. The faces in the portraits—most of them in ecclesiastical robes—seemed to regard them as the priest gestured toward chairs set around a heavy table. “The cardinal will be with you shortly,” he said, closing the doors to the hallway and then vanishing through another door on the far wall. He shut that one as well.

Lucio sat heavily in one of the chairs, scowling. “This is an outrage, to be treated this way,” he fumed. “Made to wait like beggars, with no refreshment after a long ride.” He wheezed and coughed into a perfumed handkerchief. “If this is the hospitality of Ferrara, we should have stayed in Venice.”

“I know, Lucio,” Anna told him in a whisper, patting his hand. “Perhaps there's been some mistake.” She didn't dare do or say more; she had a strong sense that they were being observed, though that may have derived from the dour, stern faces in the portraits staring at them. “Surely the cardinal will realize this and apologize.”

The inner door opened again perhaps a quarter of an hour later, with the same priest intoning, “His Eminence, the Cardinal and Archbishop Tommaso Ruffo.” Both Anna and Lucio rose to their feet, then each bent a knee as the cardinal swept into the room. He was white-haired and moved with the ponderous care of the elderly.

He moved first to Vivaldi, holding out his hand with the ring of his office. Lucio took the proffered hand and kissed the ring. “Your Eminence,” he said.

Cardinal Ruffo then offered his hand and ring to Anna. The man's skin was clammy and mottled with age, furrowed with ridges and wrinkles. His eyes were dark and rheumy, with white wings of eyebrows set on the bony ledge above them. She touched her lips to the ring; the gold strangely warm. “Your Eminence.”

“Please, both of you, sit,” Ruffo said, the first words he'd spoken. Anna noted that the cardinal himself did not sit with them, but remained standing. “Signor Vivaldi,” he began without niceties, “some troubling information has come to my attention which has caused me to reconsider my offer to you. I've been told that, as a priest, you refuse to celebrate the sacred Mass.”

“Your Eminence,” Lucio answered heatedly, “that is not true. I have not refused. I fear that I'm
unable
to lead the Mass. The fumes of the incense, the kneeling and rising, the walking . . .” Anna could hear the wheeze in his breath. He thumped his chest. “I have not the breath for it. I was forced to most reluctantly give up that service to the church. I regret that loss every day and pray to our God that He sees fit to restore my health so I can once again perform those duties.”