Whispering Bones (3 page)

When she could no longer continue, Isabella stopped and leaned against the wall of a nearby building to catch her breath. The stench of carrion had firmly entrenched itself in her nostrils, making her stomach roil. A wave of bitter anger suddenly swept through her at her predicament. She was only a child and should not be traveling the dangerous streets alone. Why had God permitted this sickness to ravage them?

When her pounding heart slowed and her breathing returned to normal, she continued on the last leg of her journey, her anger spent. As she ran, she prayed again, asking God to deliver them from the evil pestilence which he had seen fit to rain down on the city.

Toronto, Canada

Present Day

Anna woke up with a start and sat up in bed. She’d had the dream again. It always reared its head when she became stressed or anxious. Her pillow was wet, and she knew she’d been crying in her sleep. Anna waited until the nightmare and the unsettled feeling it always left behind dissipated.

The last time she’d been plagued by the dream was about a year ago, and she felt sure her visit to the cemetery earlier that day had triggered it. The dream was always the same. In it, she stood alone in a forest late at night. In the sky above her, a pale full moon shone blue-white light. The sound of a crying infant reached her and she turned to see a wooden cradle sitting on the forest floor, inside it a wailing baby. She moved toward the infant to comfort it, but her movements were sluggish, like walking under water. Before she reached it, something winged and sinister swooped down from out of the darkness, snatching the crying infant from its cradle and carrying it away into the black night.

In her apartment high atop the glass tower she called home, Anna turned and gazed out the wall of windows at the glowing orb of a moon in the velvety sky, unformed worry nagging at her. Just a case of nerves, she told herself. That’s why the dream had returned. Tomorrow evening she’d be on a plane bound for Venice, ready to start the most important project of her career.

She threw back the covers and padded to the adjoining bathroom, retrieved a sleeping pill from the medicine cabinet and downed it. Anna studied her reflection in the mirror over the sink, relieved to see the dark blue eyes staring back at her did not reflect the tiredness she felt. Her skin, although a bit pale, remained unlined and the chestnut-colored curls falling past her shoulders showed no hint of grey. High cheekbones, an aquiline nose and generous lips lent her a decidedly Renaissance appearance. She could easily be mistaken for someone ten years younger. Thankfully, she had inherited her grandmother’s good genes. She would look presentable enough tomorrow, she decided.

Back in her bedroom, Anna paused at the window before returning to bed. In the distance, the water of Lake Ontario sparkled in the moonlight. Directly below her, a well-preserved collection of Victorian industrial architecture sprawled along cobblestone streets. She never tired of the view, even after five years of living here. The contemporary tower housing Anna’s condominium overlooked the carefully restored buildings of the old distillery, which had once produced some of the finest whiskey in the country. It was this blending of past and present which had attracted Anna to the prestigious address, and she’d never regretted it, even though the place had come with a price tag of close to a million dollars. She could afford it. She’d done well for herself over the past fifteen years at Linley.

A huge international architectural firm, Linley boasted design studios in London, Paris, Dubai, Rome, New York, Los Angeles and Toronto. Anna had jumped at the chance when she’d been offered a job at the Toronto location when it first opened. Since then, she’d worked her way up to becoming a Canadian leader in the architectural design field. Even so, it had come as a complete surprise to her when, after the company had been awarded the Venetian hotel contract, Anna had been requested by the CEO in London, England, to travel there for a meeting. Then, earlier this week, he’d informed her of his decision. She’d been chosen to head the design team for the project and was to fly to Venice to meet with Paolo Falcone, the head of the Italian firm financing the construction of the hotel.

Anna talked herself into returning to bed. If she didn’t get some sleep, she’d be a jet-lagged mess tomorrow, and she wanted to put her best foot forward when she met with Falcone. She closed her eyes and allowed the little white pill to do its job.

* * * *

The next morning, Anna woke to a dull throbbing at her temples, an after-effect of the sleeping pill, and the shadowy remnants of the dream. She got up to make coffee, determined to throw off the oppressive feeling hanging like a cloud over her head. No dark thoughts would be allowed to enter her mind on this day, she decided. Nor would she allow her grandmother’s anger the previous day, or the damned dream, to interfere with her enthusiasm for the new project.

After a quick shower, Anna dressed, then spent the next two hours packing for her overseas trip, making sure to include the Italian designer dresses she had acquired, as well as jeans and casual wear for site inspection. As an afterthought, she threw in a pair of sturdy boots, in case the ground conditions at the proposed site called for them.

At one o’clock, she locked up the condo and dragged her luggage to the elevator. Once downstairs, she informed the concierge she’d be gone for a couple of weeks, then continued on to the underground garage, placed her bags in the trunk of her car and headed to the office to put in some work before leaving for the airport.

Several hours later, finishing the last of the paperwork on her desk, she glanced up to see Ed Gromley standing in the doorway of her office.

“All set?”

“Pretty much. Just getting ready to leave.”

He smiled at her. “I’m very proud of you. I know you’re going to do a fantastic job.”

Ed was a kind man, probably the reason she had indulged in a brief affair with him last year—one which had proven disastrous. He’d wanted more from her and she’d not been able to give it. A year later, she still felt awkward around him.

“Thanks, Ed,” she said without meeting his eyes.

When she returned her attention to him, he was staring at her with a look of regret that had become all too familiar. But all he said was, “Knock ’em dead,” before he disappeared down the hall.

At six o’clock that evening, seated in an uncomfortable plastic chair at the boarding gate at Pearson International Airport waiting for her flight to be called, she took out her cellphone to call her grandmother to say goodbye. A nurse answered, telling Anna her grandmother had already been taken to the dining room for the evening meal.

“No. No message,” she said when the woman asked. “Just remind her that I’ll see her as soon as I’m back in town.”

Twenty minutes later, Anna took her window seat on the Air Canada flight to Rome. From there, she was booked on a connecting Alitalia flight to Marco Polo airport in Venice. As the plane taxied down the runway, she replayed her grandmother’s conversation of the previous day. Why hadn’t she wanted her to make the trip? If something happened to Nonna while she was gone, she would feel terrible. The idea made her uneasy all over again.

Venice, Italy

1927

Dr. Alberto Rossi adjusted his round spectacles and looked again at the slender, dark-haired woman sitting opposite his desk. Young and attractive, to be sure, but like all women, she required firm direction. When he spoke to her, his voice assumed the condescending tone he reserved for all of his female patients.

“
Signora
Marino, you are with child once again. Congratulations to you. However, you must keep in mind that, on the past two occasions, it is my opinion that your mental anxiety is what prevented you from carrying the child to full term. You must make a conscious effort to avoid negativity. Keep only pleasant thoughts in your mind—and I will prescribe a tonic, to be taken daily. Return to see me in a month.”

Rosaria Marino, twenty years old and married for the past two to Massimo Marino, a gondola-maker, addressed the doctor. “
Dottore
, it is true that I am anxious. I want nothing more than to bear my husband a child. But my mother recounted to me how she lost three children before giving birth to me. Perhaps I inherited some physical problem from her?”

Dr. Rossi looked over his spectacles and frowned at the young woman. “Are you questioning me? If so, you may leave this office and not return...
signora
.” He continued to stare disapprovingly at Rosaria until she lowered her eyes.

“Of, of course not,
Dottore
, I just thought...”

“Don’t think. Concentrate on the husband you claim to love and the child you
will
give birth to... If you follow my instructions.”

Rosaria nodded, her eyes still lowered. Dr. Rossi softened his tone as he sent her on her way. “Very well. I will see you next month.”

Rosaria uttered a nervous, “Thank you,
Dottore
,” and hurried from the office.

As she turned to leave, Rossi studied her slim legs and rounded buttocks through the drab grey outfit she wore. Probably her Sunday-best clothes. Although he found the girl extremely attractive, he mentally dismissed her. He had no use for foolish young women. If not for his wife’s acquaintance with Rosaria, he would never have taken the woman on as a patient. But Alberto Rossi, at thirty-nine and at the height of his medical career, had never denied his young bride Serafina anything over the course of their six-year marriage.

Serafina, only two years older than the patient who had just left his office, had already borne him two children, a girl, Julia, and a boy, Vittorio. And, unlike the patient who had just left, his wife possessed an astute intelligence, and used it. He hoped Serafina would bear him many more children. Julia and Vittorio were beautiful and well-behaved children—not unlike his wife.

All the young women in Venice wanted lots of children. Since
Il Duce
had taken power, more children brought better tax privileges. Dr. Rossi was a great fan of Mussolini. He took seriously
Il
Duce
’s statement that he wanted peace and quiet, work and calm for Italy, and if those who chose to oppose their leader suffered at the hands of the black-shirts, what of it?

Mussolini had also taken a keen interest in the state’s education system. Alberto knew his son would not be forced to scratch and claw his way to the top, as he had. His own rise to prominence in the medical field had been anything but easy. The son of a poor gravedigger who had died following a strange mental illness when Rossi was a young boy, he had determined early on that he would devote himself to the betterment of those who struggled with mental disorders. He had worked at odd jobs since the age of eight, and read every book he could lay his hands on as a child. All through secondary school he had supported himself, living off the meager earnings of whatever night work he could find, while keeping up with his studies. After grueling years of living in poverty in the slums of the city, he’d earned his dream, a scholarship to medical school. He’d seized his only chance with both hands, and the rest was history. His tenacity and determination had paid off.

He looked around at his well-appointed office, satisfied in the knowledge that he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

* * * *

Rosaria opened the wooden, centuries-old door of the home she shared with her husband, Massimo, and his family. After greeting her mother-in-law, she hurried upstairs to change out of her good clothes.

“I’ll be back in a minute to help with dinner,” she called over her shoulder to the woman as she headed back outside. Rosaria walked to the large workshop next door that backed onto the canal. Massimo, like his father and grandfather before him, was a
squero
, a gondola-maker. Her husband had been fortunate enough to grow up under the tutelage of his highly skilled father, a master craftsman. And, she thought with pride, Massimo’s abilities would soon rival those of her father-in-law.

She entered the workshop, breathing in the scent of wood—oak, cherry, walnut and mahogany—that permeated the place. Massimo and his father worked at the bow of a raised vessel, putting the finishing touches on their latest construction. The completion of a gondola marked a truly special occasion. The meticulous, demanding work performed by her husband and father-in-law produced only two boats a year.

They had not heard her enter, and Rosaria did not approach them right away, taking a moment to admire the sleek, almost sinister-looking vessel. To Rosaria, it resembled a black butterfly, its funereal beauty softened and made romantic by graceful, sweeping curves and the crimson-covered seats of the raised cabin. Only three embellishments were permitted to be affixed to a gondola—a curly tail, a pair of metal seahorses, and the pronged
ferro
, or prow. Massimo and his father were in the process of fastening the metal, six-pronged prow to the bow of the gondola. When they stopped to inspect their handiwork, Rosaria moved behind her husband, putting her arms around his waist and planting a kiss on his neck.

Massimo turned to face her, smiling. “How did it go?”

“You know,” she told him, after greeting her father-in-law, “I’m not sure.
Dottore
Rossi is so stern. I don’t think he likes me very much.”

“He’s a very respected doctor, Rosaria. You were lucky to have gotten to see him. We must send Serafina a token of thanks for putting a good word in for you.”

Rosaria did not respond right away. The thought of good-natured and lively Serafina, her childhood friend, married to the condescending Dr. Rossi, a man almost twice her age, made Rosaria more than a little sad. When she’d last seen Serafina, she couldn’t help but notice some of the light had gone out of her friend’s eyes.

“So? What did he say?”

Rosaria smiled at him, grateful to have such a handsome and caring husband. “He said I must think only good thoughts—and he prescribed a tonic which I’m to take daily.”