Angelina's voice, sharp and shrill. "What are you doing with my—"
"Shut up, Angelina," he hissed, regaining Rosanna's wandering attention by shaking her again. "Get the doctor—"
She at least had enough sense not to argue with him. Running feet retreated, and the door slammed against the wall as witness to her hasty passage.
Rosanna beat at his face and chest with hard, bony fists; her blows were wild, but she got him a good one in the nose and just under the left eye. Marco tried not to wince; ghosts feel no pain.
"I don't believe it!" She was crying. "I don't believe you! Ernesto would never believe such—"
"Ernesto is in purgatory. Do you want to be responsible for dragging him down?" The religion lesson having given him the barb to use on her, and forced to be cruel by desperation, he dug it in. "Do you want to be the one who forces him to stay there longer? If you die, if you lose yourself in opium dreams, Rosanna, that's what will happen, and it will all be your fault."
"NO!" She shoved him away, hard enough that he lost his hold on her, and he lost his balance as well. He hit his head on the wall with a sickening crack, and saw stars.
He struggled against the darkness, still not able to see but fighting off the dazzle, and more footsteps pounded up the corridor. As his eyes cleared he was shoved summarily out of the way by Doctor Rigannio, and a wiry woman he recognized as Rosanna's maid. A hand grabbing his elbow helped him to stand; when he turned to render thanks, he found himself staring into Angelina Dorma's profoundly unhappy, dark-circled eyes.
He froze, unsure of what to say, as behind him he could hear her mother's muffled sobs, and the comforting murmur of her maid.
He stood that way for an eternity. Angelina reached out toward his face, as if to touch his swelling nose, then stopped herself. She seemed at as much of a loss as he was.
"Marco—"
He turned, grateful for a chance to look away.
"Marco, whatever you did, it was right," Doctor Rigannio said, getting painfully to his feet, while the maid held Rosanna against her shoulder, letting her cry herself into calmness. "You broke her out of her hallucination—"
"She thought I was someone she knew," Marco said carefully, not sure how much of his background the House had been told. "My mother, I guess, and she knew that my mother is dead. I guess she never got a good look at me before this. I think I might have thrown her into the hallucination in the first place. I—I'm sorry. I certainly didn't mean it."
"Of course you didn't," the doctor said smoothly, one eye on Rosanna as her maid helped her to rise. Rosanna turned a tear-streaked face toward the sound of their voices, and blinked.
"Who are you? she asked, voice hoarse with strain.
"This is Marco Valdosta, Rosanna," Doctor Rigannio interposed smoothly. "You remember; Petro told you. He's going to the Accademia under Dorma sponsorship. He is a grandson of Duke Dell'este of Ferrara. The duke has made some trade agreements with us in return."
She turned away from her maid and looked at him with wondering eyes. "Marco Valdosta—you must be Lorendana's boy. She had two, I heard."
He bowed to her. "Yes, milady." The mention of Benito made him nervous.
"It's uncanny," she said, "you look just like her."
"So I've been told, milady."
"I—" Her eyes clouded for a moment, then cleared and she drew herself up, taking on a dignity and poise that reminded him sharply of his grandfather, and a beauty that had nothing to do with tear-swollen eyes, blanched cheeks and trembling hands. "I believe I owe you a debt of gratitude."
He interrupted her gently. "Milady, you owe me nothing. You were ill, I simply stayed with you until Angelina could bring the doctor. That is, or will be, my duty—I'm studying medicine after all." He was amazed at himself; he sounded years older and he wondered where the words were coming from.
They were evidently the right ones. She flushed a little and lowered her gaze.
"Rosanna, you should go rest," the doctor prompted.
"Yes," she replied vaguely. "Yes, I should. Forgive me."
As the corridor door opened and closed behind them, Doctor Rigannio cursed savagely. "Angelina, where is she getting it?" He stopped then, as if only now realizing that there was an outsider not of Dorma standing awkwardly at his elbow, privy to every word he said.
Marco cleared his throat. "It's none of my business, Doctor Rigannio, but—that looked like a lotos flashback to me."
The doctor pivoted, face blank with surprise. "Lotos flashback? What in the name of God is that?"
Marco flushed and stammered: "If y-you take enough lotos, it changes your head. Even if you never t-take it again, you can get thrown into hallucinations by any strong stimulus." He shrugged. "That's why a lot of Jesolo-marsh folk are crazy. Stuck in lotos dreams."
Doctor Rigannio closed his eyes and cursed again. "So that's why—thank you, Marco. Again. I trust we can rely on your discretion?"
Marco managed a feeble smile. "What discretion, milord? Milady Rosanna had a dizzy spell and I just stayed with her until you came. Nothing terrible and she certainly didn't say anything except to thank me."
"Good boy." The doctor clapped him on the shoulder and he staggered a little. "I'll go see what needs to be done."
That left him alone in the corridor with Angelina.
Now she wouldn't look at him.
"You've heard enough that you might as well know all of it," she said bitterly, staring at the polished wooden floor, twisting the hem of her shawl in white hands. "When Father died she took it badly—she'd been in love with him, really in love, and she couldn't bear to be without him. She started taking lotos so she could see him." Angelina looked up finally and gestured her helplessness.
"Where was she getting it?" Marco asked.
Angelina's eyes blazed. "Caesare Aldanto," she spat—and burst into tears.
* * *
Once again Marco wound up sitting on the floor of the corridor with a lady of Dorma in his arms—this one crying into his shoulder all the things she did not dare tell mother or brother. About how she still loved Aldanto—and hated him. About how her mother's manservant, Paulo, had been the go-between. About how she'd put two and two together when she realized that Paulo had known exactly where to take her the first time she'd met with Caesare—which could only mean he'd been there many times before.
And that she was pregnant with Caesare's baby.
None of this—except for the business with Rosanna and the lotos—was any surprise to Marco. It was pretty obvious from her intermittent hysterics that Angelina was "not herself" and adding those frequent visits to Caesare gave anybody good cause.
But that she thought the man was the source of the drug—
Lord and Saints.
He didn't know quite what to say or do, so he just let her cry herself out—something she evidently needed—then helped her to tidy herself and helped her to her feet.
"Thank you, Marco," she said, shyly, a little ashamed. "I didn't mean—"
"That's what friends are for," he told her. "We are friends, aren't we?"
"I'd hoped so—but after—"
He shrugged. "I learned things from that whole mess—and it got me here, didn't it?" He delicately declined to mention how much that fiasco had placed him in Aldanto's debt.
"Then we are friends." She offered him her hand with a sweet smile that could still make his heart jump a little, even if he wasn't in love with her anymore. He took it, squeezed it—and they parted.
* * *
The dancing lessons were worse than ever. Even if his mind hadn't been elsewhere, Marco would have found the intricate precision of the steps hard to remember and follow. It was odd, in a way, given that his memory was normally so perfect. Why should he have so much difficulty with this, when he didn't with herbal remedies and cargo lists?
In the end, listening to the dance master's shrill and humorless criticisms, Marco decided his memory was being sabotaged by itself. He and Chia
no used to dance little jigs sometimes, in the marshes, without ever worrying about whether the "steps" were proper and correct. Remembering the cheerful and raucous jibes of Sophia which accompanied those moments of gaiety, he smiled.
"Marco!" shrilled the dance-master. "You're not supposed to smile during this dance! This dance is a very solemn—"
Marco sighed. There are ways in which my old life was a lot easier . . .
Chapter 65
When Marco was summoned to Petro Dorma's office at sunset, he assumed it was due to the near-disaster with Rosanna in the private corridor the day before. This time Marco followed the servant to the top of his house with only a little trepidation. He had, he thought, handled the whole mess fairly well.
The east windows framed a sky that was indigo blue, spangled with tiny crystal star-beads. The west held the sun dying a bloody death. Petro was a dark silhouette against the red.
Marco cleared his throat. "You sent for me, Milord Dorma?"
Petro did not turn around. "It seems," he said dryly, "that you have fallen into the muck-pit of Dorma secrets. Doctor Rigannio told me a bit—'Gelina told me more." He sighed. "It seems to me the older and more honorable the House, the deeper and darker its closet. Almost as if our 'honor' were a reaction to this."
He seemed to be waiting for a response.
"Every House has secrets," Marco replied carefully. "You know more'n—more than a few things that neither the Valdosta nor the Dell'este could be proud of. You can trust me, Petro."
Now Petro turned, though he was still nothing more than a sable shape to Marco. "Well. I will admit I have been toying with this notion for a while, but—I didn't quite know how to phrase this delicately, yet I also did not want you to have any deceptions about what I was going to offer. Angelina told you, she says, that she's—"
"Expecting," Marco supplied.
"And who the father is." Petro coughed. "We are in something of a dilemma. It just isn't done for a Case Vecchie daughter to have an—unacknowledged child. Yet we can hardly look to Caesare Aldanto as a husband. It would seem best for Angelina to make a marriage, but frankly, there wasn't anyone she wanted to confide in—really, no one she truly didn't find repugnant even for a titular husband." He paused, significantly. "Until today."
Marco was considerably less of a fool than he had been half a year ago, but this was still a shock.
"You mean—" He gulped. "You mean me."
"It would be of great benefit to Dorma," Petro admitted frankly. "A marriage with Valdosta would get us out of an awkward situation—and not incidentally, give us a chance to negotiate for a better access to Ferrara's steel trade." His voice was wry. "I do have to think first of Dorma as a whole before I think of Angelina—but if I can benefit both . . ."
Marco fought for solid ground. "Was this Angelina's idea, not yours?"
Petro tapped his chest. "I suggested it after she told me about this afternoon. She seemed to welcome the idea. She does like you, Marco—and so do I. I'd be quite pleased to have you further tied to my House."
Marco was floundering. He could have Angelina Dorma, the girl he'd once dreamed of—and if he kept his mouth shut, she'd continue to blame Caesare for her mother's addiction. That would, eventually, break the hold Caesare had on her heart. Which would please Maria, and maybe Caesare too. It would save the Casa Dorma from a potentially damning scandal. Marco could read between Petro's careful words. Finding a husband for Angelina that wouldn't drag the family down was going to be hard, to say nothing of expensive. And he, Marco Valdosta, owed the Dorma. For protection as much as advancement. He owed Caesare. He owed Maria too.
But what about Kat? His heart felt like it would break.
Dell'este honor.
He'd followed the dictates of his heart before. The result had been disaster.
Dell'este honor demanded payback. And he might be in love with Kat . . . yet he still had no idea if she was in love with him.
More than anything, at that moment, Marco wanted to talk to Kat. Desperately. But he had no idea how to reach her before their appointment on Thursday. He didn't know where she lived—even her last name.
Everything hurt.
He was almost gasping like a fish out of water, now. His mind, reeling, tried to find a point of solidity somewhere. The only one which came was—
Honor. Family honor.
Marco had a feeling that if he saw Kat again, family honor might just crumble. But honor demanded that he did see her. Didn't it?
"Milord—three things," he said carefully, choosing his words and somehow managing not to stammer. "The first is—I need to think about this. There's someone—never mind. I'd like to get out of the House for a while."
His mind slipped into a medical track, seeking comfort in the familiar. "For your mother . . . I'll suggest a few things that I know of to Doctor Rigannio. But while he's trying them, it might be a good idea anyway if Milady Rosanna wouldn't be in a position to see me."
Petro nodded. "Certainly. I didn't expect an immediate answer. But please keep in mind . . . Marriage can't wait too long, Marco. Angelina's three months pregnant already. Closer to four months, I suspect. As for the other, a place away from my mother could be arranged—but not back with Aldanto. Did you have anything in mind?"
"Well—my friend, Rafael de Tomaso, was talking about there being a suite of rooms at a boarding house not far from Zianetti's. He was kind of wishing he knew somebody he could trust to split it with him. I think he was hinting at me. He's Father Bellini's protégé, in art."
Petro nodded again. "A good choice. I think we can arrange that. What else?"
This was daring, but— "Caesare Aldanto isn't where Milady got her drugs. There isn't much he hasn't done, but that's not one of them." He coughed a little, shamed, but offered the confession to balance the secrets he'd stumbled on. "A while back, I think I found out where the introit of lotos shipments was. This was about two months ago. This . . . problem with your mother has been going on for some time longer than that hasn't it? And Caesare Aldanto didn't know about the lotos sales then. So . . . I can't prove it, not yet, but—it wasn't him."
"So?" Petro's voice was neutral.
"Before I say anything to Milady Angelina, I want to be able to prove to her that it wasn't Caesare. I want everything clean between us."
Dell'este honor.
He sighed. "I want her making her choices without any lies. I messed her up with lies before; I don't want to do it again. If she knows the truth—she might make different choices. And that's her right."
Petro folded his arms across his chest; the sky behind him deepened to blue and the first stars sprinkled across it. "I can respect that," he said, a certain warmth coming into his voice. "I can respect that and I can understand that. Of course as the head of family, I can tell you that Aldanto will never be acceptable to Dorma. And you know that I serve as one of the Signori di Notte. Since Lord Calenti's death we know the damned lotos trade has started up again. Even if it was not my mother, I'd want to know. Because it is . . . I want to know badly. Very well—you seek your proofs and I'll see about getting you moved out of Dorma so that you can have your time to think. But please. The wedding has to be soon."
"Thank you, milord," Marco replied quietly and turned to go.
"Marco—"
He stopped and turned back.
He could just see Petro's smile in the blue dusk.
"You are part of our secrets. Therefore, you are part of us. Whatever decision you make regarding a marriage to my sister—welcome to Casa Dorma, Marco."
* * *
Marco was in a daze after he left Casa Dorma. Now that he was no longer in the presence of Petro Dorma, the Head of the House, matters of family responsibility and honor seemed less overwhelming. His personal hopes and desires loomed far larger.
I have to talk to someone!
But who? He considered Benito, but ruled him out almost immediately. His younger brother's advice on this matter would be useless
, or even worse.
Rafael, perhaps. Marco needed to speak to him anyway, on the subject of the lodgings.
But, as he made his way through the narrow streets, dark now that evening had fallen, Rafael's advice on the matter seemed less and less attractive. Marco couldn't help but remember that the last time he'd taken Rafael's advice on a matter of the heart, the results had been . . . mixed, to say the least. For all of Rafael's self-confidence and ease, the truth was that he was still too young himself to really understand what would be the right course.
Thoughts of Rafael, however, triggered thoughts of Chiano. Or Dottore Luciano Marina, as he was now. Chiano will have good advice.
Marco didn't know where Chiano lived. But he was sure that Rafael did. The student would be reluctant to tell him, since Marco was not another Strega. But that he would, Marco had no doubt. He would just have to be persuasive.
The Shadow of the Lion Page 66
