Feehan, Christine - The Scarletti Curse (2 page)

"No, I am not hurt at all," Maria Pia assured her. "What
about you?"

Nicoletta shrugged. Her left arm felt numb, but the rock that had hit her
hadn't been particularly large, and she felt lucky to have escaped with only a
bruise. They were on the palazzo grounds now, and overhead the clouds darkened
and roiled like a witch's cauldron. Long, dark shadows sprawled everywhere,
shading each bush and tree and statue as the mansion loomed up before them. It
rose right out of the cliff, a glistening castle with its enormous tower
reaching toward the heavens. Huge, heavy sculptures and smaller, more delicate
ones dotted the grounds, which also boasted great stones carved into impressive
barricades around the maze and gardens. Two huge marble fountains with gilded
edges and heavily laced with winged pagan deities rose up in the centers of the
rounded courts.

Nicoletta and Maria Pia now made their way up an immaculate path to the
castle door, the statues glaring at them and the wind continually battering
them. The door was massive and intricately carved. Nicoletta studied the
carvings for a moment while Maria Pia fussed over her, making certain she was
properly covered. "Your shoes,
bambina"
the older woman
hissed.

They were both shivering in the unrelenting wind. It was dark and gloomy
before the great hulk of the door, which seemed to stare unpleasantly at them.
Nicoletta thought the carvings were of lost souls shrieking in flames, but
then, her imagination always got the better of her when she was near this
place. Maria Pia took hold of the heavy knocker and allowed it to drop. It
boomed cavernously, the sound hollow and mournful in the gathering fog and
darkness.

Hastily Nicoletta slipped on the offending sandals, tying the thongs around
her ankles as the door swung silently open. Rows of tapered candles burned in
sconces in the lofty entrance hall, flickering and dancing along the high
walls, shrouding the long corridor and vaulted ceilings in grotesque shadows.
The man standing in the doorway was tall and thin with gaunt cheeks and
silver-peppered hair. His dark eyes moved over the two women with a hint of
disdain, but his face remained expressionless. "This way."

For a moment neither woman moved. Then Nicoletta stepped into the palazzo.
At once the earth shifted. The movement seemed but the slightest of tremors,
barely felt, yet the candles in the hall swayed, the flames leapt high as if in
warning, and wax splattered onto the floor. Maria Pia and Nicoletta looked at
one another. The older woman quickly made the sign of the cross toward the
interior of the house and then back behind them into the darkness and the
howling wind.

The manservant turned back to look at the women. At once, Maria Pia followed
him, but not before altering her entire demeanor. She stood taller, appeared
confident, a quiet dignity clinging to her. Nicoletta assumed the opposite
stance. Shoulders stooped, she slunk along the great hall, casting nervous
glances this way and that, her head bowed low, her eyes on the floor. She
scooted along the wall, hoping to blend into the shadows, her thin sandals
silent on the marble-tiled floor, drawing no attention to herself in her
attempt to masquerade as the "healer's" lowly apprentice.

The man leading the way took many twists and turns along various passageways
and halls and through several large rooms, moving so quickly that the average
person had no time to note any landmarks. Maria Pia looked serene despite the
circumstances, relying on Nicoletta, as she had so many times in the past, to
know their way back. The palazzo's interior was an incredible example of a
master craftsman's imagination and art. The enormously thick walls were of
smooth pink-and-white marble. The ceilings were high, vaulted, with impressive
domes and arches. The floors were of marble tiles throughout, the large blocks
impossibly smooth beneath their feet. Sculptures and artwork abounded, often of
huge winged creatures guarding the devil's lair. Alcoves and portals housed
intricately carved angels and demons. Horses and mythical creatures bounded
above the archways and along the walls. Great columns and arches rose upward;
and each room was larger and more ornate than the last. The tapers lent a
certain animation to the silent sculptures, which stared down with flat eyes
upon the women hurrying along the cavernous corridors.

The sound of wailing echoed through the halls. As they rounded a corner, two
women came into view. They were clinging to each other, the younger sobbing
hysterically, the older one crying softly. A young man stood rather helplessly
beside them, obviously grief-stricken, one hand covering his face. A quick
glimpse told Nicoletta they were highborn personages, their clothes lavish,
their hair perfect despite circumstances. For some reason that detail stuck in
her mind. She knew the two women on sight, of course; they came often with
their servants to the
villaggio
demanding new material for their
dressmakers. The older woman was beautiful, cool, and aloof, no more than
thirty-five and probably younger. Portia Scarletti and her daughter, Margerita.
Portia was a widow, a distant Scarletti relative who had lived in the palazzo
most of her life. Her daughter was about fifteen or sixteen and extremely
haughty to the girls in the
villaggio.
Nicoletta knew the young man was
Vincente Scarletti, youngest brother to the don. She averted her eyes quickly
and shrank farther into the gloom of the corridor.

The servant escorting them stopped at a door. "The
bambina
is in
here. She is very ill." The gloomy, fatalistic tone of his voice indicated
that they had taken too long to arrive. He pushed open the door and stepped
back, not going into the room but rather moving quickly out of the way, one
hand discreetly covering his mouth and nose. A blast of heat and a foul odor
exploded out of the bedchamber. The stench was overpowering.

The child had been sick repeatedly. The coverlet was wet and stained with
the aftermath of her body attempting to rid itself of poisons. Nicoletta had to
tamp down a swift surge of fury that adults would leave a child to suffer alone
because they were afraid of possible contagion. She repressed the need to gag
at the unholy stench and approached the bed. Behind her the door swung shut
with a loud thud, but despite its thickness, it didn't drown out the useless,
annoying wailing coming from the hall. The fireplace was roaring, generating
tremendous heat and making the room seem to glow eerily orange from the flames.

The child looked tiny in the heavy wooden bedstead. She was very young,
perhaps seven, her dark hair in tangles, her clothes sweat-soaked and stained.
Her face was beaded with perspiration and twisted in agony. Nicoletta
approached her without hesitation, her dark eyes mirroring her compassion. She
slipped a hand around the child's tiny wrist, her heart in her throat.
"Why did they wait so long to summon us?" she whispered softly.

Something large and menacing stirred in the far shadows of a recessed alcove
near the large windows. Maria Pia cried out and leapt backward toward the door,
crossing herself. Nicoletta protectively stepped between the shadows and the
child, prepared to defend her from the specter of death. A man's large frame
slowly emerged from the darkness. He was tall, powerfully built, his black hair
long and damp with sweat. He swayed unsteadily for a moment, one hand pressed
to his stomach. Pain etched deep lines into his face.

Nicoletta moved swiftly toward him, but he shook his head, and his jet-black
eyes narrowed in warning. "Do not come near me." His voice was faint but
held an unmistakable command. He indicated the child with a gesture. "Is
it the Black Death?" His gaze was on Maria Pia's wizened face.

Both women froze in place for a moment. It was the don—Don Scarletti
himself. Even ill as he was, wracked with fever and pain, he looked powerful
and entirely capable of easily disposing of two peasant women. Much to
Nicoletta's disgust, Maria Pia crossed herself a second time.

"Dio!
God, woman, answer me!" he demanded, his white teeth
snapping together like those of a hungry wolf.

"Signorina Sigmora, do we have the plague?"

Maria Pia glanced very briefly at Nicoletta, who shook her head slightly and
moved once more to the child, quickly resuming the demeanor of a frightened
servant girl. She was well versed in the role, using it as often as needed. She
didn't look again at the man, focusing her attention instead on the little
girl. Saving her would be a fight; the child was nearly gone. Nicoletta
stripped off the coverlet and bedding, taking grim pleasure in opening the door
and hurtling the items into the hall where the haughty manservant and
whimpering aristocrats lurked.

"We need hot water," she said, without lifting her eyes to him.
"Lots of hot water, clean rags, and fresh bedding at once. And send two
servants to help wash this room immediately. The healer must have these things
now if the
bambina
is to live." Her voice was thin and reedy, a
quality also well practiced. Scurrying back inside, she ignored the man leaning
against the wall and threw open the window. The wind howled into the room,
making the curtains dance macabrely and the fire leap and roar. The cold sea
air immediately rushed inside, and the temperature in the room dropped almost
instantly while the mist pushed out the terrible odor.

The child was shivering, sweat running down her body. Nicoletta stripped her
of her soiled clothing, smoothing back her hair. Maria Pia leaned in close that
they might consult. "Are you certain it is not the Black Death?
He
is ill also." The older woman whispered the words into Nicoletta's ear.

"I need to know what food they shared." Nicoletta's lips barely
moved. Her hands were gentle on the child's distended abdomen.

"Good sir," Maria Pia asked, "did you and the child partake
of a meal together? I must know if you two shared anything to eat or
drink."

The man was shivering almost uncontrollably. He clenched his teeth to keep
them from chattering. "You are certain of what you are doing, letting in
the cold this way?"

"We must bring the fever down quickly. Both of you are far too hot. And
the room reeks of sickness. It is not good. Come, come, girl, hurry now."
Maria Pia did not like the way the don's black, piercing eyes took in
Nicoletta's graceful, soothing hands as they moved over the child. Deliberately
she shoved herself in front of the younger woman, pretending to examine the
patient. "Well, Don Scarletti? Did you two partake of the same
comestibles?"

"We shared a portion of soup. Sophie could not finish it. I helped
her." The words revealed far more of the man than he might have thought.

Nicoletta glanced at him; she couldn't help herself. He was
il demonio,
the demon, his family under a terrible curse. He was arrogant and aloof, cold
and unyielding, his neighbors terrified of crossing him, yet he had shared a
bowl of soup with a child, perhaps to prevent her from being punished for
failing to finish her meal. It was the first nice thing she had ever heard
about him, their dictator, their don, the man who held the power of life and
death over her people.

Maria Pia coughed to get her attention. Nicoletta quickly resumed her
charade as shy, inconsequential apprentice to the healer Signora Sigmora,
hunching as she closed the window and straightened the curtains. Two servants
peeked in timidly with buckets of hot water and armloads of rags. The taller
male servant behind them carried fresh coverlets folded in his arms. None of
them entered the room but lingered out in the hall. Nicoletta had little
patience with them and took the water and rags rather abruptly, setting them
down before whisking the coverlets out of the third manservant's hands. With
her foot she forcefully slammed the door closed on them, hoping it hit them
right in their noses.

Maria Pia hissed softly at her, scowling fiercely to remind her the don was
watching. Nicoletta and Maria Pia went to work. While Maria Pia bathed the
child to bring down her fever and clean her, Nicoletta scrubbed the room and
the bed. Maria Pia consulted with her "assistant" in whispers quite
often. Seemingly under the older woman's watchful eyes, Nicoletta combined
various potions, ensuring the medicaments were mixed properly. It was Nicoletta
who assisted the child, pulling the small body into her arms, rocking her
gently while she fed her tiny sips, coaxing and soothing with whispers of
encouragement as the devil in the corner watched them with a steady, relentless
black stare.

Only when the child made a feeble attempt to drink on her own did he finally
stir, sagging against the wall as if his legs could no longer support his
weight.

Maria Pia went to him at once, helping to ease his large, muscular frame
into a sitting position. "He is burning up," she said with a nervous
glance at Nicoletta.

Nicoletta lay the child carefully on the bed, drawing up the coverlet. The blanket
caught her attention. Neat little stitches, beautiful workmanship, the pattern
so dear and familiar. For a moment she could hardly breathe, her throat clogged
with painful memories. She traded places with Maria Pia, as if the older woman
needed to examine the child while her assistant took care of the basic needs of
the second patient.

Nicoletta used the excuse to run her hands over the don's hot skin, to
examine him and "feel" his illness. Don Scarletti was all roped,
sinewy muscle, as hard as a tree trunk beneath her gentle, exploring fingers.
She skimmed over him lightly, soothing him with her touch.

Suddenly his fingers circled her wrist like a vise, holding her still while
he examined her hand. He stared down at it curiously.

Those pain-filled eyes saw far too much. Nicoletta tugged to get her hand
back, her heart slamming uncomfortably in her breast. She jerked away from him,
moving out of range, back into the shadows, drawing her shawl more tightly
around herself. There was danger in his close scrutiny. Maria Pia and Nicoletta
had perfected their illusions, the reversal of roles that ensured Nicoletta's
safety, guarding her "differences" successfully from the eyes of
those who might suspect her a witch and call upon the Holy Church—or Don
Scarletti himself—to have her investigated… or worse.