The Blind Contessa's New Machine (17 page)

Carolina squeezed her hand and released it. “My husband tells me I am beautiful.”

Sophia laughed as if Carolina had just revealed herself to be surprisingly clever, for a child. “Of course he must say so,” she said. “But how do you
know
?”

“Sophia, there you are,” Turri broke in. “Princess Bianchi has been looking for you.”

“But I just spoke with her.”

“The woman is adamant,” Turri said, an edge in his voice that Carolina didn’t recognize.

Without another word, Sophia rose. Her skirts swung haughtily for a few steps, then were lost in the chatter and hum of the crowd.

Turri took Carolina’s hand and held it for a moment. Then he kissed her fingers and settled into the seat his wife had left.

“Everyone is wearing plaster masks tonight,” he said. “It’s the new rage. They’re not just for Carnevale anymore. I’m surprised Pietro didn’t order you one.”

Carolina smiled.

“My wife, for instance,” he continued, “is wearing a chicken’s head that cost me ten thousand lire.”

“Are the chicken heads the most stylish, then?” Carolina asked.

“I am not the man to answer that question,” Turri said. “Clowns,” he added after a moment, as if watching a pair pass by. “A cat.”

In the background, Carolina caught her husband’s voice, approaching. He stopped several paces away and laughed, overloud, as she’d often heard him laugh in the company of pretty girls. Then his voice dropped into conspiratorial tones and disappeared below the music.

“Contessa Rossi,” Carolina said. “Is she wearing the new fashion?”

“Contessa Rossi,” Turri replied, “is a hungry wolf in a Milanese dress.”

A warm hand settled on the back of her neck. Carolina started and shrugged it off, but under his touch her flesh had come alive, singing and clamoring. Turri had never touched her like this before, and she couldn’t understand why he would now. She struggled to keep her composure as heat beat through her in time with the music.

Pietro laughed. Instantly she realized: it had been his touch, not Turri’s.

“Turri,” Pietro said. He replaced his hand on Carolina’s neck. “You didn’t give me away.”

“I’m afraid not,” Turri said.

“Did you take me for a stranger?” Pietro asked Carolina, and bent to kiss the side of her face.

“I’m afraid not,” Turri repeated low, speaking to himself. Another realization broke in on Carolina: Turri knew she had confused the two of them. He had seen her shake off the hand she thought was his.

“You surprised me,” Carolina told her husband, to cover Turri’s words.

“I was introduced to Princess Bianchi,” he said. “She is visiting from Florence.”

“She’s very pretty,” Carolina said.

“How did you know that?” Pietro asked in alarm.

Turri laughed and rose. “I had just asked your wife to dance,” he said. “Do you object if she accepts?”

“She can’t see your hand in front of her face,” Pietro warned him.

Carolina rose as well. “I can hear the music and follow the steps,” she said.

Maybe Turri waited for a sign of agreement from Pietro. She would never know. After a moment, Turri touched the small of her back and guided her to the dance floor.

“I learned how to dance from a bear,” Turri told her.

She laughed into what she thought might be his eyes.

His grip on her tightened. He pressed his cheek against hers, his lips at her ear. “What do you
see
?” he whispered, urgent but without hope, as if pleading with one of the old gods for a kind of mercy they had never shown.

Breathless, Carolina struggled against him.

“All right,” he said, letting her go. “You will forgive me.”

Carolina’s skin was aflame. Blood beat in her temples louder than the music, and she felt dangerously weightless, as if only Turri’s hands kept her from rising slowly into the atmosphere.

“Carolina?” he asked.

When she looked up at him again, tears stood in her eyes.

“No, no,” he said. “They already think I’m a monster. Don’t give them proof of it.”

She laughed and a tear escaped down her cheek. In an instant, he had erased its track with his thumb.

“You will come meet me,” he said. “At the lake. When?”

“Tomorrow,” she whispered.

Outside, the clatter of their carriage faded toward the stables. Pietro lingered for a moment, fumbling with something at the door. But as Carolina ascended the first few steps, he caught her hand.

“You like the dress?” he asked.

Carolina nodded. Then, realizing he couldn’t see her in the darkness, she spoke: “Yes.”

He kissed her palm, and her wrist. Following the line of her arm, he climbed the stairs until his mouth found the lace where her dress met her breast. With a sigh and a shudder, he lifted her into his arms and carried her up to her room.

Carolina awoke to the sound of a step outside her closed door. She turned her head and waited, as she so often had before, for shapes to emerge from the darkness. When none did, she pushed her hair away from her face and raised herself on her elbows.

Silence.

Then, although she heard no footfall, a board beyond the door creaked: a long groan, like a good soldier with a mortal wound giving his last warning.

“Pietro!” Carolina whispered, very low, so as not to frighten the unknown visitor. “Do you hear it?”

Pietro didn’t stir.

A hand turned the doorknob slowly, with only the faintest clank and scrape of metal on metal. Carolina realized with a chill that if she were not already awake, the footsteps would be entering undetected. But the footsteps didn’t enter. Instead, they waited as the door swung wide. Then, making no attempt at concealment, they walked away, unhurried and confident.

Long after they vanished, Carolina held still as a cornered animal, her fists balled in fury, as if she were the intruder in her own room.

When she woke again, Pietro was gone.

Outside, no birds sang and no servants complained.

Carolina rose at once and went to her dressing table. Naked in the darkness, she sorted through her jewelry box until she found her pearl earrings. She put them on, fastened the matching necklace around her neck, and went to her closet.

There, she chose a hunting dress with cotton lace at the elbows and bodice. She fastened it up expertly, then returned to her dressing table to pull her hair back in a quick knot. Her leather boots stood beside the closet. She threw a short cloak over her shoulders, cradled the boots in her arms, and descended the staircase barefoot. When she reached the front hall, she sat on the lower steps to pull the boots on and tie them. Then she crossed to the door and caught the knob.

It was locked.

Carolina twisted and pulled, but the door didn’t budge. She pressed both palms flat against the cracked varnish, then ran her hands over the entire surface, the angles and planes of the deep rectangles that had been cut in the old wood. She traced down the narrow gullies where the door met the frame, searching for another latch to turn, a forgotten key.

Nothing.

In the yard, a dove cooed experimentally. Another answered. Soon the two of them were arguing, each repeating its own points word for word with increasing volume. After a few moments, a lark began to scold them. Suddenly, the whole morning was alive with birdsongs, obliterating one another and Carolina’s thoughts.

In the back of the house, a door slammed.

Carolina gave the door a final pull. It held fast.

Without missing a step, Carolina returned to the stairs. She laid her hand on the railing as surely as if she could see it through the scattering darkness, and climbed back up to her room.

“I’ll want a pen and ink,” Carolina said that morning as Liza fastened a chain at the back of her neck. Liza dropped the clasp lightly onto Carolina’s flesh and stepped away.

Carolina listened closely, to see if she recognized the step, but Liza was like a cat: Carolina didn’t catch another sound until the girl had almost reached the door, when a board gave her away with a faint creak.

“Liza,” Carolina said.

She had hoped to gauge the girl’s position by her answer, but Liza didn’t speak.

“Paper,” Carolina added after a moment. “And wax and a flame.”

Liza made no sound of assent, but after another moment Carolina knew with certainty that she had gone, as she still knew with certainty when daylight left a room.