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

subtle perfume, so present , I felt oddly as if I might turn around to see her standing there.
    I pushed the feeling away. “It’s a shame to use these. They’re beautiful.”
    “They’re handkerchiefs,” Samuel said dismissively. “It’s what they’re meant for.”
    There didn’t seem to be anything else, and so, resignedly, I took several of the older ones and went to the spill. Samuel scooted back, hard enough that the chair scraped over the floor, but not quite giving me enough space, instead simply spreading his legs so that I had to kneel between them to clean the floor. I tried to ignore him, but my shoulder kept brushing his thigh, my arm bumping his calf.
    “The stain will never come out.”
    Suddenly, I felt a rush of cold air. The temperature in the room dropped precipitously. I shivered and glanced up, looking for the source of the draft, and saw Samuel staring at the riffling reflections from the stinking canal below spilling from the ceiling to dance across the walls.
    “My angel,” he whispered. His voice was strange, disembodied, distant. His hands flexed on the armrest. It was unnerving. I would have called him catatonic except for his expression, because it wasn’t blank. He was watching intently, engrossed, and I had the sense it wasn’t just the movement of the light he watched, but something within it, beyond it.
    The cold seemed to pierce my bones, making me want to hug myself against it. “Samuel?” I whispered.
    Not a motion. No sign that he heard. The draft felt almost . . . preternatural. Again I felt the weight of sadness, caught in time, suspended. The press of the Basilio thickened the air; suddenly I could not take a breath, everything constricting, underwater, submerged.
    “What is it?” I forced the words. “What do you see?”
    The spell—or whatever it was—broke, a clap in the air, and the sorrow was gone, the press, the terrible cold. I could breathe again. Samuel blinked, confusion in his eyes as if he didn’t know who I was or how I’d appeared. He jerked away from me, lurching to his feet, too quickly, all his weight on a knee that could not hold him. It failed; he fell. He made a sound of panic and tried to scramble away. He was like a wild animal, frantic with fear.
    He climbed to his feet, and I grabbed his shoulder, gripping hard, and he stopped struggling, but his eyes were still unfocused. I realized what this was. He’d had a petit mal seizure. That’s what the trance had been, nothing so strange or unusual after all. And now he was confused in its aftermath.
    “Samuel, it’s me. It’s Elena.”
    “Elena,” he repeated, but not as if he recognized the name, or me.
    I heard a “Pardon,” from the doorway, and spun to see Madame Basilio standing there. I immediately panicked. I tried to think of what to do, how to hide his confusion. But she glanced past me, to Samuel, and said in French, “M’sieur, I had a letter from Nerone this morning. He says to tell you he will be arriving in a few days.”
    I opened my mouth to answer, but just then Samuel came to himself, his confusion clearing. “Thank you, Madame.”
    I was relieved, but Madame Basilio’s dark gaze sharpened. “You do not look well, m’sieur.”
    Samuel sighed and swiped his hand through his hair. “Thank you for your concern. I’m fine.”
    “He is not,” I said, finding my voice. “He’s recovering, and he needs his rest, and your housekeeper is bringing him food he should not be eating.”
    “The sguassetto is very nutritious.”
    “Not for him. He shouldn’t have such highly flavored foods. It excites his blood. It will only inflame his . . . head injuries.”
    Something flashed through her eyes—understanding, yes, but something else that confused me. Her voice, already cold, went almost brittle as she said, “You must forgive me, mademoiselle. I sent Giulia with the stew. It is well known in Venice to cure every ill.”
    “Not this kind,” I said firmly.
    “I