Venom Page 9

  “So that’s it? Once again, your grand plan is that we do nothing?” Cass waited for Falco to answer, but he was concentrating on his rowing, or at least pretending to. Despite his reassurances, he, too, seemed afraid of the place. For a couple of minutes, she watched the oar move through the water. Cass saw the outline of her aunt’s dock coming into focus through the mist, and she couldn’t stop a small fist of disappointment from settling in her stomach. “But what about the murderer? Are you just going to forget about him?”

  Falco steered the boat expertly up to the dock. “I recently ran across a girl who carries a concealed kitchen knife in her cloak,” he said, cracking a small smile. “I’m beginning to suspect she might be responsible.”

  Cass flushed. “You can never be too careful.”

  “You better be careful not to stab yourself in the leg,” Falco said, retying the ropes that moored the gondola to the dock. “See. Your aunt will never know it was missing.”

  He helped Cass from the boat and took her arm as they headed across the lawn toward the villa. Cass’s heart raced as her mind sped over all the details of the night so far. The breeze had died down and she felt cozy in Siena’s woolen cloak. The sky had gone from ebony to purple, and Cass knew the sun—and the servants—would be up soon.

  “What if we tried a different strategy?” she blurted out, surprised at her brazenness. “If we figured out who the girl was…Maybe the murderer was one of her patrons, or someone she knew. I—I’m just not ready to give up,” she finished, in response to Falco’s questioning look. She told herself it was because she wanted to know what happened to Liviana’s body, and who had killed the courtesan. And of course, to protect herself.

  But deep down, she knew she also wanted another reason to see Falco. She needed it.

  Falco paused, rubbing the skin under his right eye. “It’s not a bad idea,” he said. “But we don’t even know if she worked out of a house or on her own. There are more women-for-hire in Venice than there are rats.”

  “You said yourself she looked young, didn’t you?” Cass was thinking out loud. “We could visit a house or two. Speak to the women there, and to their patrons perhaps? They might know of her, even if she was a courtesan working for herself. You seem fairly familiar with the…industry.”

  Falco chuckled. “I know of a few places.” He paused as the old villa came into view through the mist. “But a lady of your grace and stature, surely you don’t want to go anywhere like that.”

  “A lady of my grace and stature typically doesn’t ride in stolen gondolas wearing only her nightgown,” she replied, lifting her chin. “I’ve told you. I’m not like the others.”

  Falco laughed. “Fair enough. We’ll go then. Tomorrow night or soon after.”

  Depending on his mysterious business dealings, no doubt. Still, Cass felt a quick burst of excitement. “Where should I meet you?” she asked, glancing nervously at the villa. So far she hadn’t seen any light or movement, but sunrise had to be just minutes away.

  “I’ll find you,” Falco said. He lifted one of Cass’s hands to his lips and kissed it. Then he turned back toward the dock without even saying good-bye.

  Cass fought the urge to call out to him. How would he get home? Where did he live? What had they witnessed tonight? But soon he was swallowed by the mist.

  She touched the hand he had kissed to her cheek and then her lips. Her stomach felt knotted, and for a second Cass was certain she would never see him again. She waited for the feeling to pass, but it didn’t, so she tucked her hands into the pockets of Siena’s cloak and headed into the villa.

  Her right hand bumped against the small knife’s handle, but closed around something else in the pocket. Falco’s drawing. The mysterious nude woman. Who was it meant to be? She knew she would never be able to ask him.

  As she slipped inside and shut the door, a creak from the back of the house made her jump. One of the servants was awake. Footsteps. Cass wrestled her way out of the cloak, tossing it haphazardly over the side table. Then she raced up the spiral staircase. Shutting her bedroom door with a click, she leaned back against it, catching her breath and counting the beats of her thumping heart.

  “A blow to the head,

  if sufficiently sharp,

  can produce an indentation

  in the skull. Results may be blindness,

  muteness, violent paroxysms

  of the limbs, and amnesia.”

  —THE BOOK OF THE ETERNAL ROSE

  eight

  As soon as Cass opened her eyes, the previous night’s events came flooding back to her, as though she had awakened into a nightmare. The bodies, the stolen gondola, finding Falco in the graveyard. Caspita. Cass had completely forgotten about the drawing and the knife she had left in the pocket of Siena’s cloak. What if her lady’s maid had found it?

  The wall clock ticked in her ear like a second heartbeat. It was still early—she had slept for only a few hours—but there was no time to waste. Slipping a satin robe over her nightgown, Cass thudded down the stairs barefoot and skidded to a stop in front of the little side table. It was empty, except for Luca’s letter.

  Her eyes flitted around the entrance hall. A plain corridor led to the pantry, the butler’s office, and Agnese’s personal storage. She could have sworn she had left the cloak right here, just inside the door. Confused, she headed upstairs to the portego.

  One of the servants had opened the shutters, and threads of early spring mist hung in the air, the sky a whitish gray. Cass peeked underneath the divans, searching for Siena’s cloak and Falco’s drawing. As she moved across the smooth tile floor, she found her eyes repeatedly drawn to the replica of The Last Supper. She swore Jesus’s eyes followed her from corner to corner. Cass liked the work of da Vinci, but had always found the mosaic a bit disturbing.

  Passing through the dining area, Cass descended the servants’ stairs and strolled casually into the kitchen, as if it were perfectly normal for her to be prancing about all areas of the villa in her sleepwear. The cook and his assistants were hard at work, preparing what looked to be a very elaborate breakfast. Narissa and Siena both loitered around the long countertop, sneaking occasional bites of food as they pretended to help cut fruit and tray pastries. The younger maid’s brown woolen cloak hung neatly on the hook by the pantry. Someone must have found it and replaced it. But who? And had they found the drawing?

  Narissa puttered around an area covered with breads and cheeses, carefully selecting the best ones to add to a tarnished oval platter that was already overflowing with food. Cass noticed with amusement that the woman seemed to be eating two pieces of cheese for each one that made it onto the platter.

  Siena worked at a separate station, slicing the tops off giant red strawberries. Crystalline bowls of grapes, melons, cherries, and pomegranates already sat in a neat row, ready to be transported to the dining room. The knife in Siena’s hand looked a lot like the one Cass had been carrying last night.

  Cass plucked a grape from the bowl and popped it into her mouth. “Kitchen duty? Are you two being punished?” she asked, backing her way up to the cloak.

  “No, Signorina,” the cook answered. “They are just helping. Signora Querini told us last night she wanted us to prepare a gala breakfast for the two of you before she left on her trip.” His thick forearms moved gracefully as he carved a block of white cheese into the shape of a swan.

  Cass had almost forgotten: it was time for her aunt’s trip to the salt baths in Abano. Healing tonics or not, Cass found the idea of sharing a bubbling pool with other people distasteful, but she suspected her aunt benefited as much from the social setting as she did from the medicinal ointments and elixirs. Agnese often came back bragging of how she had won a small fortune betting on cards with her oldest friends. Cass had been excited at the idea of having the run of the villa for a few days, but now she felt a pang of loneliness. The place would be much quieter without Agnese ordering everyone around, calling for Cass fifteen times a day
just to make sure her niece was exercising proper decorum.

  Too quiet, like a tomb.

  “How long until breakfast?” Cass reached inside the pocket of the cloak, hoping Siena wouldn’t choose that moment to look up. Fortunately, Siena was so focused on her work that she didn’t even seem to hear Cass. Unfortunately, the pocket was empty.

  “Fifteen minutes or so,” Narissa said. “But you may want to find something a bit more presentable to wear.”

  Cass turned to go back to her room and then stopped. “Speaking of things to wear, I seem to have misplaced one of my cloaks. Have either of you seen a cloak lying around?”

  Siena cried out as the blade of her knife sliced through the top of a strawberry and into her hand. The maid stepped back from the fruit table and studied the droplets of blood oozing from the tip of her index finger.

  Narissa shook her head at Siena. “Clumsy girl,” she said. “You could have spoiled the whole lot of them.”

  “No, Signorina,” Siena answered Cass, her voice wavering slightly. “I never saw it.”

  “I haven’t either,” Narissa added. Her clipped tone hinted to Cass exactly what she thought of careless young women tossing their outer garments casually around.

  Cass stared at Siena for a moment, but the maid refused to meet her gaze. The girl must have found the cloak and replaced it, and judging from her silence, it looked like she was going to keep Cass’s secret. But what had she done with the drawing?

  Cass returned to her bedchamber with Siena in tow. After being quickly laced into a simple but proper gown and twisting her hair up under a hat, she returned to the dining room, sliding into her place just next to her aunt at the vast table. Kind of ridiculous, really, to have such a giant table for just the two of them.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d taken a trip to the Abano baths yourself,” Aunt Agnese said cheerfully. “What’s given you such a rosy glow, hmm?”

  Cass eyed her suspiciously. She knew she looked far from her best. She was sure her aunt would have something to say about her simple attire, or about the misbehaving curls of auburn hair that were no doubt working their way out from underneath the brim of her hat. And Agnese never gave compliments freely.

  “You’re sure you’re not having problems with your eyesight?” Cass said lightly.

  “My eyes are about the only thing on this old body that haven’t decided to stop working.” Agnese’s voice softened. “You look especially like your mother today.”

  Cass’s eyes went to the portrait of her mother on the wall. Agnese’s whole family was up there: Cass’s grandparents, her mother, three uncles, and two more aunts who lived in the nunnery on the mainland. But as always, the other paintings all blurred into the background when Cass looked at her mother. They did have the same high cheekbones and wavy auburn hair. Cass quickly glanced away from the portrait, her gaze skimming past the pair of stoic serving boys who leaned against the mahogany credenza. Her eyes landed in her lap, where her fingers were twisting the cloth napkin one of the boys had placed there.

  “There, there, dear. Being sorrowful over the dead is like regretting too many slices of cake.” Agnese reached out to pat Cass’s hand. “What’s done is done, and she’s in a better place now, of course.”

  “I know. I just miss her. And my father.”

  “As do I, dear. As do I.” Agnese bowed her head and Cass did the same. She listened to her aunt murmur out a short grace. “But now,” Agnese said, “on to happier news.”

  Cass took a couple of pastries from the silver platter and passed it to her aunt. One of the servants scooped a spoonful of cherries and melon slices onto her plate. Platters of breads and cheeses and bowls of fruit covered the long table. It was enough food for at least six people.

  “What happier news?” she asked, straightening up in her high-backed chair.

  “The news of your upcoming nuptials, of course.”

  Cass almost choked on her pastry. She coughed and swallowed hard. “What?” she asked, feeling her face redden. “But Luca still has quite a bit of school left. It will surely be years…”

  “I still thought it was time we made the engagement public. The stars are very favorably aligned at the moment,” Agnese said, opening her mouth wide around a particularly thick piece of fruit. Cass could almost see the lump of food moving down her wrinkled neck, like a dead mouse in the body of a garden snake.

  “But it’s no secret,” Cass said. “Plenty of people know of my arrangement with Luca.” She was thinking of herself and Madalena, and a few other friends.

  “Well, I’ve passed along a letter to Donna Domacetti, so now everyone knows.” Agnese smiled so widely, her thin lips almost disappeared into her gums.

  Above Cass’s head, a tarnished candelabra creaked and groaned as it swayed in a gentle circle. For a second, the candle flames blurred before Cass’s eyes and she feared she might faint right into her breakfast. So that’s why Agnese had been flattering her. Her aunt had been talking to Donna Domacetti! The woman was the biggest gossip—and, incidentally, one of the biggest women—in all of Venice. Donna Domacetti’s appetite for food was surpassed only by her insatiable hunger for scandalous stories. She lived with Don Domacetti in one of the most luxurious palazzos on the Grand Canal and spent the bulk of each day watching the canals below her. Cass imagined even the lepers had heard the news of her engagement if Donna Domacetti knew.

  Cass’s thoughts flew to Falco. What if he had somehow heard? Would he still want to help her investigate? Would he even want to speak to her anymore?

  “Mangia, my dear,” Agnese said, smiling through a mouth half full of food. “You need to thicken up so Luca doesn’t feel like he’s sharing his wedding bed with one of the serving boys.”

  Cass cringed. She wished the wooden floor would swallow her whole.

  After they’d finished breakfast and Agnese was satisfied that her trunks had been packed appropriately, Cass stood by her aunt in the entrance to the villa while Giuseppe and Bortolo heaved each of the leather chests down the lawn and into the gondola. For being ancient—and blind in Bortolo’s case—the servants made quick work of loading her aunt’s sizable trunks into the boat bound for the mainland.

  “Have a safe trip,” Cass said, lifting her aunt’s veil to kiss each of her pale wrinkled cheeks.

  “Try to keep everything up and running while I’m away, dear,” Agnese said, the loose skin on her arms jiggling as she folded Cass into a hug. “Sometimes I think the old place would crumble to bits without a strong woman to support it.”

  Cass was inclined to think the old place would eventually crumble to bits even if the Dogaressa and her ladies moved in, but she didn’t feel like teasing. She was surprised to feel a lump welling in her throat. She watched as Agnese and Narissa boarded the boat and floated away from the shore in front of the villa. Giuseppe would take them to Mestre, where they would catch a carriage to the baths at Abano.

  Cass waved as the boat moved out of sight. For a second, she flashed back to the last time her parents had pulled away from their dock at the palazzo where Cass had grown up. The same sense of dread gripped her, as if she were suddenly all alone in the world.

  Cass turned away and headed back to the villa. A dark thundercloud rolled in from the shore, casting a shadow over the grounds. Cass thought of the man with the tall forehead, and the terrible basins full of waxen bodies. She remembered the terrifying note signed with the bloody X. Her aunt’s morning pronouncement had almost eclipsed those awful visions, but now that she was alone again, the darkness came flooding back.

  There won’t be any wedding if the murderer finds you.

  Determined to shake off her ominous mood, Cass resolved to forget about tombs and corpses and workshops full of strangely organized gore. She spent time lazing about the garden and skimming the newest additions to Agnese’s library, which included a printed book by Michel de Montaigne, one of her favorite writers. Over a light dinner of bits of bread and meat
, Cass tried to chat with some of the servants, but they all responded awkwardly, as if conversing with her made them terribly uncomfortable. Later, Cass even attempted a bit of needlepoint, muddling her way through half a handkerchief before tossing the cloth down in disgust and heading up to her room.

  Cass’s journal lay open on her dressing table. A portrait of the Virgin Mary stared down at her from the wall. Cass lowered a veil of black silk over the front of the painting. She wasn’t sure if the immaculate mother would consider writing a vain pursuit or not, but it was best to play it safe.

  Time seemed to slow down as she stared at the blank parchment, brimming with things to write but unable to form her swirling thoughts into sentences. She was running her finger back and forth through the flame of her oil lamp when a scraping noise made her jump, nearly upsetting the lamp.

  Cass glanced out the window, her eyes drawn to the graveyard gates that were shut tight. Everything was still. She wondered if she was losing her mind. As she returned her eyes to the parchment, she heard the noise again—but louder, huge, as though it was coming from right behind her. One long scraping sound followed by lots of little scratches. Like fingernails on stone. Cass was suddenly seized by the idea that Liviana’s missing body was here in her bedroom, that it had been here the whole time.

  Cass fought the urge to flee. She got up from her desk and moved across the room to the armoire. Pausing for a moment, her hands curled around the cool brass handles. Then she threw open the wooden doors to find all of her clothes undisturbed, dresses folded neatly, hats stacked one atop the other. She ducked down below the shelves to examine the armoire’s dark corners. Empty.

  “Idiota,” Cass murmured, before closing the wooden doors with a soft click. The corner of her velvet coverlet caught her eye. It was folded backward, on top of her mattress, exposing a chasm of darkness under her bed. Cass’s heart started pounding. Her legs felt weak and unsteady as she tiptoed over to the bed. With one hand on her chest, she bent down and peered into the inky blackness. Slipper was playing with the ribbon that bound the bundle of letters Cass kept hidden there. The stack of folded parchment represented almost all that remained of Cass’s mother. Years’ worth of letters, sent from various trips abroad. “Silly cat,” she said. “You scared me half to death.” Slipper looked up and mewed plaintively, his eyes winking in the dark.