Cry to Heaven by Anne Rice Read Free Book Online Page A

which his brothers came to life. Even his father had come to the table. And now that it was over, he was aching inside, and nothing could soothe him.
    Finally, when the clocks struck the hour of three throughout the house, he rose, and slipping a taper and a sulphur match into his pocket, neither of which he would really need, he went to roaming.
    He wandered through the upper floors, into Leonardo’s old rooms where his bed stood like a skeleton, and to the apartments where Philippo had lived with his young bride, leaving behind nothing but faded patches on the walls where there had been pictures. He went into the small study where Giambattista’s books still stood on the shelves, and then, out past the servants’ rooms, he went up onto the rooftop.
    The city lay under a mist, rendering it visible but touched with a special beauty. The dark tile roofs glistened with the damp, and the light of the piazza glared against the sky rosy and even in the distance.
    Odd thoughts came to him. Who would be his wife? The names and faces of cousins in convents meant nothing to him; but he envisioned her lively and sweet, and throwing back her veil to give out a secretive and passionate laughter. She would never be sad; melancholy wouldn’t touch her. And together they would give great balls; they would dance all night; they would have strong sons, and in the summer they would go with all the great families to a villa on the Brenta. Even her old aunts and unmarried cousins could come to live in this house,her uncles, brothers; he would make room for them. And the wallpaper would go up, and the new draperies. And the knives would scrape at the mold on the murals. And never would there be any place empty or cold, and his sons would have friends, dozens of friends forever coming and going with their tutors and nurses. He saw scores of such children poised for the minuet, their coats and frocks a medley of splendid pastel silks, the house tinkling with music. He would never leave them alone, his children. No matter how busy he was with affairs of state, he would never, never leave them alone like this, in this vast empty house, he would never….
    And these thoughts were still in his head as he wandered back down the stone steps and entered the chill air of his mother’s apartments.
    Now he lit his match, with a sharp strike on the sole of his shoe, and touched it to the little candle.
    But she lay so sound asleep nothing could disturb her. Her breath was bitter when he drew near, yet her face was so perfectly innocent in its miraculous smoothness. He stood for the longest time watching her. He saw the point of her small chin, the pale slope of her throat.
    And blowing out the candle, he climbed into bed beside her. She was warm under the covers. She drew close to him, her hand working around his arm as if to cling to it.
    And as he lay there, he dreamed dreams for her.
    He saw the fashionable ladies at mass; he saw the cavalieri serventi. But it was no good.
    And with a vague horror he conceived of the whole of her life passing slowly before him. He saw its loneliness without hope, he saw its gradual ruin.
    After a long time, she gave a little moan in her sleep. And it deepened slowly.
    “Mamma,” he whispered. “I’m here. I’m with you.”
    She struggled to sit up, and her hair fell down around her in a nasty veil of glinting light and tangles.
    “Hand me the glass, my darling, my treasure,” she said.
    He took the cork from the bottle. And then he watched her drink and settle back. And wiping the hair from her forehead, he rested a long time on his elbow just looking at her.
    *  *  *
    The next morning, he could scarcely believe it when Angelo announced that from now on they would take an hour’s stroll every day in the piazza. “Except when the carnival comes, of course!” he added crossly. And then he said with a little uncertainty and belligerence as if he didn’t quite approve: “Your father says you are old enough