by Megan Chance
“Suicides. Slit wrists or poison. Some hanged themselves. I personally saw one pulled from a river with his pockets full of stones. At least two of her victims went mad—one says nothing, but only stares into space and drools onto a bib tied around his neck. The other raves in an asylum. Do you know what he talks of? Demons, my friend. He claims to see serpents in every shadow. That padded room has become his own Garden of Eden, where he faces Satan’s temptation every moment of every day. Do you know what he dreams of? Odilé. He wakes screaming.”
“That’s absurd,” Stafford said boldly, but I heard his uncertainty.
“Is it? Ah, well, I suppose you know best. But I’ll just say this: the last place I saw her was in Barcelona. She had seduced a violinist. He played like an angel, truly. I tried to warn him, just as I am warning you, and he reacted just as you are now. Do you know where I saw him next?”
Nelson Stafford shook his head.
“Dead on the pavement outside her door. He’d shot himself in the head. He was only eighteen.”
Stafford paled. “But . . . how . . . I wouldn’t know how to leave her.”
“Simply walk away. She won’t pursue you. I promise.”
“I can’t.”
“Then I’ll see you next at your funeral. For God’s sake, man, think about it, at least. You know in your heart that what I say is true. Listen to me. I’m trying to save you.”
“Save me?” He went to pour the wine; the bottle was empty. He dribbled the last few drops into his glass and grabbed it with trembling hands, draining it. “Why would you care? You don’t even know me.”
“No, I don’t. I could just leave you to drown. I have no idea how big your talent is, or if you matter in the least to this world, or if she will even consider truly choosing you. But I find I have no stomach for madness and despair, especially when I have the power to stop it.” I gripped his arm and said softly, “Please, I beg of you. At least consider my words. Think about it. Meet me here tomorrow afternoon. If you can’t tell me then that you believe me, at least give me another chance to convince you.”
He looked fearful, but he nodded. “Very well. I’ll . . . think about what you’ve said. And I’ll meet you here tomorrow.”
I was relieved. He’d been easier than I’d expected; perhaps the timing had been what I’d hoped. But then again, the real task lay before him still. It was premature to think I’d made any difference at all. “That’s all I ask. You’ll meet me here at three?”
“I will,” he assured me.
“Good,” I said, smiling. “I want to show you just how good a friend I can be.”
ODILÉ
I heard him behind me, his sigh and the faint creak of the mattress, the soft ssshhh of the fine mosquito netting as he pushed it aside. I drew my dressing gown closer and looked down at the Grand Canal outside my window, the early morning sun pearlescent, soft where it caressed the barges loaded with brightly colored fruits and vegetables making their way toward the Rialto market, fish shining like fine metals in their baskets, glittering tunny and sardine, the amethyst of octopi, Venetian chains of dark eels.
The Canal was crowded now, the early mornings and twilight the busiest times. I closed my eyes, breathing deeply of the morning: bitter coffee and toasty polenta; the greasy, smoky oil from a fritterer’s; the garlic of sausage and the pungent, salty broth of the sguassetto the gondoliers ate by the bowlful; along with the familiar reek of algae and seaweed in a low tide, the river smell of the Canal, wet stone.
And of course, his cologne. Too heavy again.
I opened my eyes and glanced down at the windowsill, at the little Murano glass dish the color of blood, the mound of white ash from a burned pastille within it. I stirred it with my finger, raising the noxious stink of camphor meant to keep off mosquitos, burned off now but still lingering. I was glad the summer was nearly over; there would be no need for pastilles for a time, or the nasty, heavy smoke that was nearly worse than the bites, nor for mosquito netting. I would soon be able to leave the lamps on with windows open to smell the city without being bedeviled.
A sharp stab of pain made my fingers spasm in the little bowl, spilling ash.
I heard him slap and curse. “Damn these cursed bugs. How do you bear it?”
“Autumn’s nearly here,” I said, knowing I must tell him to go. The hunger never left me now. It was gnawing and relentless. One every three years, she’d said, the words both a promise and a curse, and now I felt the curse, the dark terror that waited restlessly for me to fail. Less than a month left to choose, and I was no closer to finding the one I searched for. I had been so certain Venice was the place. Paris had not held him. Nor Florence, though perhaps there had been one or two there who might have done, had they not been taken from me too early.
It was desperation that had driven me here, to the city that had always served me well, that had nurtured Byron and Titian, Veronese and Tintoretto and Canaletto. But the days passed so quickly. The darkness within me was growing. It was harder now to command. My appetite devoured everything, just as it was devouring this one. He’d been complaining of headaches; often he struggled for breath. He was not the one; I knew it already. Two hundred and fifty years of immortality had taught me what I needed, and he was not it. I knew he must go before I lost control and drained him completely, which I didn’t want to do. I must find the right one before it was too late.
Too late. I felt a cold little clutch of fear. No, it wasn’t too late. I would not fail again. Each time I had, the terror had stayed longer; it took more victims and more time to remake myself. How long would it take to survive it the next time? Or would I?
I still had time. The three years mandated were not yet over. I had until the fifteenth of October to find him.
But first I must release this one. I turned from the window. He looked up from pulling on his boots. He was shirtless still; when he straightened, the morning light brought out the red in the curls on his chest. “Tell me you want me to stay and I will,” he said urgently. “God knows I don’t want to leave.”
“I thought you had an appointment.”
“I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going.” He strode over to me with an odd clopping gait, one boot on, the other foot bare. He pulled apart my dressing gown and buried his face in my breasts. I felt the rough stubble on his cheeks against my skin. “The only appointment I want to keep is with these,” he murmured, and suddenly I was overcome with weariness. I was so tired of this. A thousand times I’d taken men to bed. A thousand thousands. All to feed my hunger, all in search of that singular, momentary rapture that came when I made the choice, when the bargain was agreed to and sealed. I lived for that moment. But there was no reason to take this one to bed or let him touch me again. I raised my hands to push him away.
But just then, he lifted his face. He looked ravaged, gaunt and restless, his blue eyes reddened, his pale skin ruddy. My hunger was tearing at him, and it raised a sadness and pity in me I could not suppress. I did not want to hurt him. I did not want to hurt any of them. But I always did.
Let him go, Odilé. It’s better done now. He is not the one.
“I’ll write odes to your breasts,” he said hoarsely. “Sonnets. Rondelets. I promise it.”
“Or perhaps an elegy,” I suggested.
“An elegy? God no! How could such exquisiteness inspire sorrow?”
As gently as I could, I pushed him away. “Write whatever poems you wish. But you have an appointment, and you should not let me keep you from it.”
“How can you stand to be away from me, when I cannot bear a moment apart from you?”
I felt what was left of his talent feeding the harsh, hungry maw of my craving.
“Why do you tremble?” he demanded. “Please, God, let it be from fear of losing me.”
He had fallen to his knees. His arms encircled my hips. He pressed his face to me, kissing the curls between my legs. I must end it now. Swiftly, ruthlessly. I must be out hunting again before I lost
control.
But pity was my downfall, as always. A few more minutes before I set him loose—what harm could it do? I gripped his hair, tangling the soft honey of it in my fingers, pulling until he gasped—something he liked. He looked up, hopeful as a puppy pleading for scraps, eyes big and blue and heavily lashed. I liked his eyes best of all, I thought. Those, and his poetry. He had written so prettily.
I let him crawl up me, a monkey on a tree. I let him press me to the wall. He lifted me, fumbling with his trousers even as I wrapped my legs around him. I let him pound me into the crumbling plaster wall as I grabbed for purchase, and as he moaned and panted into my throat, I felt my dark and ceaseless appetite sink its teeth into him and the bliss of momentary relief. It could not last, but oh it was something; it was sweet. He groaned with agony, collapsing even as he came, releasing me hard, falling to his knees, shaking with combined ecstasy and terror. He looked up at me.
“God, I adore you,” he gasped. “What’s happening to me?”
I knelt down, taking his cheek into my hand. He surged toward it, my very touch an addiction. I kissed his forehead softly. “You should have gone to your appointment.”
I left him gasping in a ball of weakness on the floor, and called for Antonio to throw him out into the street.
SOPHIE
When I woke the next morning, Joseph was already up, shaving at the washbasin. A pale, watery light filled the room; reflections danced over the ceiling, sun-cats shifting and playing.
I stretched and got out of bed. “Did you sleep?” I asked him.
He glanced at me and flicked shaving soap from the razor into the basin, where it skimmed like a tiny cloud. “A little.”
I went to his sketchbook where it rested on the gilded dresser, pushing away the little pile of broken charcoal sticks he’d left upon it, to see the sketch he’d done while I was sleeping. Though I was pretty enough, my brother made me beautiful. In the drawing, I looked voluptuous and sensual, my hair alive and shining where it curled over my shoulder, my pouting mouth not caused by a faint overbite, as I knew it to be, but because he’d made my lips full and plump and . . . alluring. Which I knew wasn’t true. Pretty enough, but not alluring.
“It hardly looks like me.”
“You say that every time. It looks exactly like you.” He drew the razor over his jaw with experienced precision. “At least how I see you.”
“Perhaps you need spectacles.”
He made a face and rinsed off the razor. “You should get dressed. We’ve a full day ahead of us.”
I felt again that rush of nerves, which I worked to hide as I pulled on my chemise and corset, going to him to tighten the laces. He helped me slip on my gown, and as he was buttoning it, I said to him in the mirror, “There’s no time for the Piazza today, Joseph. Not St. Mark’s nor anything else. Not yet. You do understand me?”
He slanted me a glance as he slipped the last button through its loop. “You don’t think it will be full of artists?”
“Tourists, yes. Not that they might not be helpful, but you won’t know, will you? Especially if you get lost studying a Titian for two hours. The Accademia first. There will be a dozen copyists there. One of them must know someone who could get us in. Promise me.”
He reached for his shirt. “I promise. I won’t linger in the Piazza.”
“I don’t care how beautiful the light is.”
“It will still be beautiful tomorrow,” he agreed. He pulled on his shirt, buttoning it before he ran a hand through his dark brown hair—his idea of brushing it. I was envious again of how perfectly it fell in artful disarray, waving and curling at the ends, brushing his collar.
Suddenly I was afraid to have him out of my sight. We didn’t know the city; so much could happen. He was all I had. “Your hair’s too long,” I said, my fears erupting in quick criticism.
He only smiled and knotted a crumpled tie about his throat.
“And there’s still dust on your trousers.”
“I won’t be talking to rich tourists, remember?” he teased, taking up his coat. “D’you really think anyone would trust an artist who was well put together?” He was so good at carelessness that even I forgot sometimes that it was a lie, something he cultivated. It helped allay my fears; it was a reminder of whom we meant to be here. He would do what he had to, what he’d promised me he would do. For today, he would ignore the beauties of Venice, and look for the man—or woman—who could get us into Katharine Bronson’s inner circle. We had a plan, and he intended to follow it, and I must do the same, no matter how fragile I felt away from him.
Joseph went for his sketchbook, tucking it beneath his arm, shoving the charcoal sticks into his pocket. Then he came to me, chucking my chin before he leaned to kiss me. “Just find us a place to live, and leave this to me. And Soph, I don’t want you thinking I need a studio the size of a stable. I expect to do most of my work out of doors anyway. This is Venice, remember. If I don’t paint the view, we might as well have stayed in New York.”
“We didn’t come here for the view,” I reminded him.
“Oh yes we did.” Though he smiled, ambition glittered in his eyes. “Don’t forget it.” He went to the door and opened it. “I’ll arrange for a gondolier to take you around—”
“No, please. The expense—”
“I insist on this, Sophie. For now I want to know you’re safe without me. And anyway, we want to set the right impression, don’t we? People sense desperation. We won’t get what we want if we appear to want it too badly.”
I gave him a pert smile. “Of course. Why, I wouldn’t think of going about Venice without an escort—how scandalous! I am the very respectable sister of Joseph Hannigan, after all.”
He laughed and gave me an admiring look that warmed me. “Why, you make me half believe it.” Then, before he ducked out the door, “Not on your own, Soph, not to save a few francs. Take the gondolier. I mean it. Or I’ll spend the whole afternoon at the Doge’s Palace just to spite you.”
“Very well,” I promised.
Once he was gone, I forced my uneasiness away and made myself think of what I must do. We had enough money for only a few days at the Danieli, which meant I had to find us something else quickly. I finished with the rest of my toilette, and then I pulled on my hat and my gloves, leaving my coat behind. The day was beautiful, the damp chill of last night already a distant memory.
As I went downstairs and stepped again into the opulent lobby of the Danieli, I was struck once more with that sense of imposture. Two well-dressed women, one wearing a frighteningly expensive-looking fringed silk shawl, talked near the desk. I remembered what Joseph had said about impressions, and summoned my confidence. Pretending that the elegance of the Danieli was not just something I expected, but my due, I gave them my best smile. Their glances turned curious and measuring, and I felt a frisson of fear that I’d made a mistake, that they somehow knew of me. But then they looked away. There were several other people about, a gentleman sitting negligently in a silk-upholstered chair, smoking a cigar that filled the whole lobby with its stink, an older couple, another man with a woman who looked to be his sister, but I avoided meeting any other eyes and went to the desk. “I’m Sophie Hannigan,” I told the man there. “My brother was to make arrangements—”
“Your gondolier awaits, Miss Hannigan,” said the man with a smile. He rang a little bell, and when a porter came hurrying over, he directed, “Please show Miss Hannigan to Marco.”
I was led out to the water steps, to the gondolier Marco. He was as tall as my brother, though Marco’s shoulders were broader, his forearms corded with muscle beneath the rolled sleeves of his shirt. He was bronzed and smiling, with such an air of good health and amiability that I trusted him immediately.
He held out his hand for me, flashing adorably crooked teeth, and introduced himself as “Marco, who will soon be your favorite gondolier in all of Venice.”
“Sophie Hannigan,” I answered with a smile as he helped me in
to the boat. Like last night’s gondola, the cabin on this one had been removed, but in its place there was an awning striped white and blue. Beneath that was a seat of black leather cushions, with two other smaller seats on either side, and a gray carpet below. Marco moved to his spot at the stern while a boy pushed the neck of the prow from the mooring post.
“Where will you go, padrona?” Marco asked. “I am yours all day.”
He made it sound almost indecent; I had to resist the urge to look at him again, and I was glad he couldn’t see my face. I remembered what my research had told me, that the gondoliers were the best source for information in the city. “I’m looking for a more permanent lodging, a place to rent for my brother and myself for a few months. Nothing too expensive.”
“Ah, you must leave it to me.” He immediately swung the huge oar in its lock so we turned about, and we moved away from the sparkling Bacino, slinking into a narrow canal. It seemed to lead us into a strange and mysterious land, where the gilded, rococo beauty of Venice faded away to reveal charmingly quaint pale-pink walls stained so romantically with mildew it was as if an artist had put it there for the best effect. Reflections sank into the water and bloomed out again, wavering and dancing as we passed. Ripples cast by the gondola’s prow lapped against steps and narrow fondamentas. Crabs scuttled at the edges, a cat or two dodged into shadows.
I was struck by how rustically beautiful it was. Laundry strung from the balconies overhead fluttered in the slight breeze. A fig tree poked its head over a garden wall. The dichotomy of feeling lost in time while at the same time moving through it was hard to shake. Once or twice, I saw a woman leaning pensively over a balcony railing, or a group of girls laughing as they hurried down a calle. Although I saw few people, it wasn’t the least bit quiet. Sounds carried down the calli and over the canals, footsteps and the calls of gondoliers and from somewhere someone singing, someone else shouting. The singing of birds—canaries and parrots—hanging in cages from the balconies among the laundry was a perfect accompaniment.
