The Visitant: A Venetian Ghost Story by Megan Chance Read Free Book Online Page A

things?”
    He looked at me as if he had no idea what I was talking about. “Indulging in sguassetto is that dangerous?”
    “Yes, probably. But I was speaking of your . . . carnal . . . appetites. You know as well as I do that overindulging will only lead to more seizures.”
    He laughed, stopping in the midst of it and putting a hand to his ribs with a moan. “I wasn’t indulging any carnal appetite, much less overindulging.”
    “Don’t lie to me. You look as if you didn’t sleep at all.”
    “I didn’t. But not because of Giulia.”
    Then it dawned on me that his sleeplessness was because of pain. “I’ve brought more arnica.”
    “It won’t help enough. What can I do to convince you to forget all this? To let me drown myself in oblivion? How much are my parents paying? I’ll double it. What is it you want? Tell me what I can give you in return for walking away and leaving me to myself.”
    “I don’t want anything from you,” I said.
    “Come, there must be something. Why torment yourself with this? I’m not going to get well; we both know it. I assure you that even my parents wouldn’t blame you for walking away. God knows they’ve done so often enough. I’ll send you wherever you want to go. Rome? Paris? London? Vienna’s lovely in the snow. Wouldn’t you like a life away from that cursed asylum? Just agree, and I’ll give it to you.”
    My longing bloomed, just that quickly. “No,” I said, trying to pretend I wasn’t tempted.
    “Perhaps you don’t understand what I’m offering. I could introduce you to my friends. With that hair of yours, and those eyes . . . They’d fall over themselves to fete you. I’m guessing you’re not augmenting your shape, though one never knows these days—ah, so I’m right? I thought so. Think of it: you’d eat at the best restaurants. Drink and play until dawn. Wouldn’t you like to see the lights of Paris? And Rome at sunrise—there’s nowhere more beautiful. No more having to give cold baths or force medicine down some poor hysteric’s throat. No more worrying about some epileptic’s diet or his sexual habits.”
    “Drink the bromide, please.”
    “Don’t be a fool. Take what I’m offering.”
    I shook my head.
    “Why? Why not? My parents can’t offer better.”
    “Not everyone wants such things.”
    “But you do,” he said, more perceptively than I liked.
    I reached to take the bowl of stew away.
    He grabbed my wrist, so hard and so unexpectedly that I dropped the bowl. It cracked on the floor, shattering, stew spreading everywhere.
    “What are they holding over you?” he asked. “What are you afraid of?”
    I pulled away hard. Blindly, I said, “I need a rag to clean this up.”
    He sagged into the chair, surrendering. “There are handkerchiefs in the top drawer of the dresser.”
    I hurried to the top drawer, banishing my discomfort and his wretched temptation, shuffling blindly through the dozens of handkerchiefs as if I meant to find exactly the right one until I realized what I was doing and stopped. These were not his handkerchiefs. They were of all different colors and fabrics, designed to match different gowns. Each had a delicate lace hem, and was embroidered in the corner with a rising, rayed sun in silver and the letters LB .
    I pulled one out, staring at it, fascinated for no reason I could say. A faint scent clung to it. Cedar and iris and something sweet—vanilla. Very feminine. I was immediately suspicious. Perhaps there had been a woman here, someone other than Giulia. A mistress, perhaps? “Who do these belong to?”
    “They were here when I arrived,” he said. “Along with the furniture.”
    I felt a shift in the air with his words, a deep, sinking sadness fell over me that I didn’t understand. I didn’t know where it came from; perhaps it was simply the knowledge that whoever had left these handkerchiefs was gone, and had not returned. Her presence seemed to linger in that bit of cloth, in that