Lady Midnight

Lady Midnight

by

Amanda McCabe

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ISBN: 978-1-61417-846-0

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright © 2016 by Amanda McCabe. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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Dedication

In memory of Anne Backus, 1974-2004

"Fear no more the heat o'the sun,

Nor the furious winter's rages;

Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone and ta'en thy wages"

—Shakespeare,
Cymbeline

Prologue

Italy, 1819

"Is she dead?"

"How can I see if she is dead, Maria, when she's all twisted up like that? Santi Giovanni. Here, take her arm and help me move her."

The voices came to Katerina faintly, as if they echoed down a long, empty corridor. She wanted to open her eyes, but they were sealed shut, and her head throbbed so intensely she couldn't bear to move it. Every time she tried, stars burst in her brain, white-hot, out of focus. She managed to open her hand flat, and felt the wet stickiness of sand. The same coarse sand clung to her lips and cheek.

Slowly, she touched the tip of her tongue to her teeth, and tasted the unmistakable coppery tang of blood.

Blood!

Where was she? What had happened?

Her mind was a scattered, whirling blank. She struggled painfully to remember, but the harder she grasped, the farther it all slipped away. She was almost certain she had been at a party of some sort. There were vague echoes of champagne, music, laughter—a handsome pair of gray eyes gazing down at her admiringly. How had she gone from
that
to lying on a strange shore, with blood in her mouth and her head about to explode?

If only she could
remember...

Then strong hands reached for her, turning her onto her back.

Another sharp pain cracked through her head. Even those fragile wisps of memories retreated with the force of that agony. Katerina gasped, struggling not to slip back down into that sticky darkness.

"She's alive, Paolo!" a woman's voice cried. "See, she is breathing."

"So she is, barely. There's a lump at the back of her head, and this cut on her cheek is deep."

A rough fingertip prodded lightly at her cheek, and she jerked away from the sting.

"She must be a fine lady," the woman whispered. "Look at her jewels, and this silk gown."

"All of her jewels won't save her if we don't get her to the doctor now," the man muttered. "You wait with her, Maria, while I fetch Gianni and the others. We can't carry her to the village ourselves."

A quiet moment passed, filled only with the shrill of gulls soaring overhead, before Katerina felt a cool touch smooth the wet clumps of her hair back from her face. She smelled the distinctive odors of fish and lemon, as well as the salty tang of the sea. Somehow, those familiar, earthy scents were comforting, and calmed her.

"Can you hear me,
cara?
" the woman said.

Katerina spat out a mouthful of sand and blood. Painfully, she forced a whisper through her raw throat.
"Si.
I hear you, signora."

"Va bene!
You're awake. You mustn't worry about a thing. We will take you to the doctor. Just lie still here."

Using every ounce of her strength, Katerina pried open her gritty eyes and stared up at the woman. It was a gray, cold day, but even that faint light hurt. The woman, an elderly peasant with silver threaded through her black braids and a stained white apron over her faded dress, was surrounded by a halo of the dazzle.

Katerina closed her eyes against it.
"Grazie,"
she whispered hoarsely. "Thank you for your help."

"Poor little one! How you must have suffered. Do you remember what happened?"

"No." Nothing but that echo of music—and the tall, dark man that held her close as they danced.
My Beatrice,
he whispered.
You are far more lovely than Dante's beloved could ever have hoped to be.

She shivered at that flash of memory.

"Nothing? Not even your name?"

She did remember that. It was emblazoned on her mind like a beacon. "Katerina."

"What a pretty name. Katerina. I am Maria." Katerina felt the woman shift around. "Ah, here is Paolo and the boys! You will soon be at the doctor."

Katerina heard the shuffle of booted footsteps in the sand, the rustle of rough wool cloth. "I see she is awake now, Maria!"

"For now. She can't remember much, though. We have to get her to the doctor quickly."

"Si, si.
Here, boys, help me lift her onto the litter."

Hands reached for her again, lifting her high into the salty air as if she were a load of fish. Katerina screamed out against the fresh sword stabs of red agony. Just when she knew she could take no more, that she would die of the pain, the world went dark at the edges. The thick blackness spread until there was nothing at all.

* * *

When she woke from the suffocating darkness, it was not on cold, wet sand. She lay on soft, sunshine-scented linens. The pain had receded; it was no longer so sharp and urgent, but dull, hovering over her like a faint threat.

She sat up very slowly against a pile of fluffy pillows, her head spinning even with that small movement. Though her memory was very hazy, she was sure this was not her own room. It was too small, with a slanted, whitewashed ceiling, as if it was tucked beneath the very eaves of a house. The high, narrow windows were hung with sheer white curtains, which let the buttery yellow sunlight stream in over the furniture. There was only the narrow bed on which she lay, a small table that held a pitcher of water and a bowl, and one straight wooden chair.

Folded neatly on that chair was a water-stained gown of bright blue silk trimmed with lace, and a small cloth bundle.

Katerina glanced down at herself, and saw that she wore only a loose, faded nightdress of cheap muslin. This tiny movement set her cheek to throbbing as if tiny demons danced there. She reached up gingerly to find a thick bandage fixed to her skin.

San Marco,
but where was she? What had happened to her? Why could she not remember! She searched her mind, but the answers eluded her, shimmering just beyond her pained grasp.

She sobbed with utter frustration, pounding her fists against the blankets. That did not help at all—it only made her realize how very stiff and sore she really was.

Surely you can remember something,
she told herself.
Think, think.

After she took a deep, cleansing breath, then another and another, she knew that she
could
remember some fragments. Her name was Katerina—she had known that all along. She did not live here, in this salt-and sunshine-scented house, but in Venice. And she had been on a boat, at a party of some sort.

But what had brought her here?

She pushed back the blankets and swung her weak, trembling legs over the side of the bed, reaching for the floorboards with her bare toes. Her whole body, from her eyebrows to her toenails, felt bruised and battered. It screamed in protest at the slightest movement, but she pressed on, gritting her teeth together. She had to find out what was happening.