Inamorata (19 page)

O
DILÉ

T
he day was beautiful, and the market was crowded. There were performers everywhere who faltered as I drew near. A magician by the fish market seemed to have more talent than most, and I paused to watch for a moment. His breathing ratcheted; he fumbled in whisking a coin from his palm, dropping it so that it rolled, flashing and glinting, across the stones. A flurry of peasant children rushed to snatch it. The world was changing color before my eyes, leaping from sepia to vibrance and back again; my edges shivering. I needed
something
, and quickly.

I stepped forward, meaning to touch the magician’s arm, to smile, to drag him away, when something made me glance at a nearby fishmonger’s. There, tucked like a jewel among stones, was a dark-haired girl wearing a black shawl, and an astonishingly attractive man. I don’t know why they caught my interest—perhaps it was the way he touched her, the way they seemed to have eyes for no one else. But then I realized he was posing her, and when he stepped back it was to pick up a sketchbook from where it lay on a nearby coil of rope. An artist.

My hunger surged sharply; I had to clench my teeth to keep from crying out. I moved toward them, slipping through the crowd, easing up behind him. He was so focused on his drawing he didn’t seem to sense me. I glanced over his shoulder at the sketchbook, wondering with an almost painful anticipation what I would see.

The drawing there nearly made me weak with relief.

The way he’d captured her, the bold strokes, the chiaroscuro . . . what he had made of her was not just beautiful, but sublime.

Smells were suddenly too sharp—the algae in the sun and the grease from the fritterers’, acrid oil and smoke from the omnibus—and my skin felt stretched tight, my fingers flexing with need. I felt I might swoon. My waiting was over. Here he was at last.

It was all I could do to say, “That’s lovely.”

He started, nearly dropping the charcoal. He looked over his shoulder—he was more splendid even than I’d thought—and I saw surprise come into his deep blue eyes, and then the look I had grown used to, the expression I craved. Appreciation. Desire. He went still, obviously speechless. My hunger working on him already.

I gestured to the sketchbook, to his hand poised over it as if it had frozen in place. “You’re exquisite.”

“Thank you so much.” The voice came from just beyond. His lover had stepped over to us. I’d already forgotten about her, but his gaze riveted to her as if she held it captive. She gave me a warily apologetic smile. She touched his arm, and he leaned toward her movement, and his allure seemed to intensify, nearly unbearably so. The monster in me lashed out. A man carrying a cage with a cockatoo was passing. The bird was bright, glowing white with a blue plume, one moment singing merrily, the next struck silent, a victim of my hunger. I saw the girl look toward it as the man raised the cage. I saw her frown with him as the bird toppled from its perch.

She was still frowning when she turned back to the artist and said, “Joseph, we should be going.”

I was confounded when I realized he was going to obey her, and, desperate to keep him from leaving, I said quickly to her, “Look at how well he’s captured you, and only in a sketch. How passionately he must love you.”

She seemed taken aback, slightly mollified, but still wary. There had never been a woman I couldn’t best. I looked at him. “Have you done her in oils?”

He licked his lips. “A few times.”

“But you’ve sketched her often before. I can see that you have. There’s a familiarity there.” I smiled at him. “She is your muse.”

Again, he swallowed. “My . . . twin. Sister.”

His sister. I was surprised again. There was an intensity between them that spoke of greater intimacy than siblings, twins or no. But it was also welcome news. She was even less competition than I’d expected.

She held out her hand. “I’m Sophie Hannigan. And this is Joseph.”

“Odilé León.” I took her hand, the coils of Venetian chain slipping nearly to my fingers. Though it was him I cared about, I meant to charm them both. “You’re American, yes? Have you been in Venice long?”

Joseph Hannigan cleared his throat. “A few weeks.”

“Where are you staying? The Danieli?”

“The Palazzo Moretta,” she said.

“Ah. The mute courtesan’s palace.”

She gave me a puzzled look.

“Do you not know the story?” I asked.

“I didn’t know there was a story.”

“It is named for the Carnivale mask, one of the ones the patrician women wore. It was held in place with a button between the lips.” I spoke to her, but I felt him listening; I worked to seduce him with every syllable.

“Really?” she asked. “But then . . . how did they speak?”

“They did not. That is why the palazzo is named for it.”

“I don’t understand.”

I stepped closer to them both, confiding. “The gondoliers say that the man who built the Moretta was in love with a courtesan. He bought her jewels and silks, anything she wanted. But no matter how he begged, she never said a single word of love to him. It was the only thing he wanted. In despair, he threw himself from the balcony into the canal below.”

“Oh . . . how sad.”

“Do you think so?” I gave her a reassuring smile. “But love always ends badly, does it not? Do you hear his ghost at the Moretta?”

Her brow furrowed. “His ghost? Oh, I don’t think there is a ghost.”

I looked at her brother, who seemed spellbound. My demon raged now that it had recognized his talent. I laid a finger upon his wrist, the pulse of him coursing through me like ambrosia. “What of you, monsieur? Do you hear him?”

“No.” It was a whisper.

I had him. But I saw too the way he glanced at her. Although he wanted to follow me, he would not leave her. I felt a prick of irritation, but in a way I respected him for it. Venice was no place for a woman alone. And what did a night matter now that I had found him? I would send him an invitation when I got back to the palazzo; he would be at my door tomorrow night, and then he would be mine forever.

So I withdrew my finger and smiled. “A pity. Well, it was lovely to meet you both. I hope to see you again, yes?”

“Perhaps so,” she said.

I barely looked at her, but I gave him a lingering glance, and I felt his gaze on me as I left them. He would think about me the rest of the day and into the night. His dreams would be full of me. By the time he came to me, his devotion would be a foregone conclusion.

My hunger snapped and coiled at the thought, pain sweetened by anticipation. Soon, the rapture would be mine. All that was left now was to convince him to make the bargain—and when had I ever failed to do that? I was jubilant as I gathered up the magician and used him to ease the hunger Joseph Hannigan had roused to a frenzy, and then I prepared to receive the one.

S
OPHIE

W
hen she turned away from us, the gold on her wrists—both wrists covered in Venetian gold like shackles—caught the sun, flaring into a halo so bright that the rest of the world seemed to dim about her. I watched her until she disappeared, feeling as if I had been touched by something strange and unpleasant, a shadow over the sun.

I turned to my brother, wondering if he’d felt it too, and the look on his face startled me. He was staring after her as if he were enchanted.

“Joseph,” I said, hearing a hint of despair in my voice and wondering where it had come from, why I suddenly felt it.

He turned to look at me as if he were dragged to it. His gaze sharpened—suddenly he was himself again, the brother I knew. He dropped the charcoal into his pocket and began to shut the sketchbook, but I stopped him. “Let me see.”

He held out the book obligingly. The drawing was as wonderful as she’d said, as I’d known it would be. Again, me but not me. A pretty girl with yearning stark in her expression, eyes closed, face lifted into a breeze. And all around her life going on, so vibrant I felt again what I’d been feeling as he’d drawn, that longing, a wanting so ephemeral I couldn’t hold on to it long enough to look at it.
Look at how well he’s captured you,
she’d said, but her gaze focused on Joseph. She had not even seen me until she’d looked at the sketch, until she’d been led by my brother’s vision. She was like everyone else. She could only see me through him.

The thought filled me with a bitterness that surprised me. Uneasily I looked at Joseph.

He closed the book. His smile was soft and comforting. “It was nothing, Soph,” he said, answering a question I had not asked, and I realized that he felt as undone as I did.

Uncertainly, I said, “She was beautiful, wasn’t she?”

“Yes she was.” Joseph tucked the book beneath his arm. He tilted my chin and kissed me gently, lingering to whisper once again, “It was nothing.”

But his words didn’t reassure me, and that night at the salon, I sought out Katharine Bronson and said, “Joseph and I ran into the most interesting woman in the Rialto today. Her name was Odilé León. Do you know of her?”

Mrs. Bronson’s gaze clouded. It was such an odd expression for her that I was puzzled. “Oh dear. Odilé León, did you say?” When I nodded, she laid her hand gently upon my arm. “I should stay away from her if I were you.”

“Why do you say that?”

Mrs. Bronson sighed. “You remember poor Mr. Stafford?”

“I’m not likely to forget him.”

“No, of course not.” She gave me a commiserating look. “You remember that I told you he’d taken up with a woman and stopped coming to the salon?”

I felt a twinge of dread. “I remember. And the landlady said he’d told her he could live on love.”

Mrs. Bronson nodded. “Well, it was Madame León he took up with. She’s quite irresistible, I understand.” Her voice turned cold. “She and I had rather a . . . falling out.”

“A falling out?” How odd to think of Katharine Bronson arguing with anyone.

“Over a good friend of mine. A sculptor. He was very taken with her. He was never the same after, I’m afraid.” Her gaze went distant; she called herself back with obvious effort and made the attempt at a smile. “It was quite some time ago, but I cannot bring myself to welcome her back. I should keep an eye on your brother, if I were you. And speaking of irresistible, my dear, I’ve noticed that Mr. Dane seems to have a particular eye for you these days.”

“He’s very charming.” I was uncertain what else to say.

“And not here this evening, I noticed,” she said, glancing about. “Do you know, did he intend to come tonight?”

“He didn’t tell me,” I said—which was true, although I’d expected to see him.

“I wonder if he knows the Loneghans are back in the city.”

“I didn’t realize they were gone.”

“They’ve been in Egypt these last few weeks,” she said. “Looking after one of Henry’s archaeological sites. They returned yesterday.”

“Oh. Will they be here tonight?”

“They rarely attend,” she said. “Henry isn’t inclined, you know, and Edith does as Henry likes. I do hope you have the opportunity to meet them, Miss Hannigan. Edith would so enjoy you and your brother.”

“I hope to meet them as well,” I said, trying not to sound eager. Her words distracted me completely from Odilé León. I had a task to accomplish, though I had to admit there was more to it now. I’d thought often of Nicholas Dane in recent days, the way he’d looked at me, the things he’d said. Despite everything I’d told myself, I was looking forward to seeing him again. I warned myself to be careful as I went in search of him, but it turned out I hardly needed to. Mr. Dane was annoyingly elusive tonight. When I ran into Mr. Martin, he said fawningly, “I haven’t seen him since this afternoon, but I’ve no doubt he’ll appear.”

He didn’t, which dismayed me. After the kiss we’d shared . . .
Well, what did you expect? Nothing,
I told myself. I wanted nothing. I
should
want nothing. It was better this way. But still . . . I could not help my disappointment.

“Martin didn’t know where he was?” Joseph asked when we returned home that night.

“No. I’ve told you.” The cast-iron rail was cold beneath my hands as we went up the stairs to the piano nobile
.

“Perhaps something came up,” Joseph said.

“Do you think I offended him again?”

“I don’t know. Did you say something offensive?”

“No, of course not!”

“Don’t snap at me—it was your suggestion. What was the last thing he said to you?”

“‘Good night, Miss Hannigan.’ You were standing right there.”

“I mean before that.” We were at the landing. He stepped back to let me go into the
portego
first. “When you kissed him, did—”

“Mr. Hannigan?”

The voice came from the courtyard below. Both Joseph and I paused and glanced over the railing. There stood the plump shadow of Mrs. Bedemann, faintly illuminated by the gaslight coming from the open door of the rooms downstairs, which she leased with her husband. She advanced to the foot of the stairs, waving something in her hand.

“I have a message for you. No one was home, so the man left it with me.”

Joseph said in a low voice, “There’s word from Dane now,” and hurried down to fetch it.

My heart raced as my brother hurried back up again, taking the stairs two at a time. I followed him into the
portego
and through the darkness to my bedroom, where he lit a lamp.

“Is it from him?” I asked, trying to take it.

He snatched it away. “I don’t know yet.” He glanced down at it. “Oh. No. It’s for me.”

“For you? Only you? From whom?”

Joseph slid his finger beneath the seal, breaking it. He unfolded the paper. “It’s an invitation to dinner,” he said slowly, reading it. “From Odilé León. At the Casa Dana Rosti.”

I was dumbfounded.

Joseph said, “For tomorrow night. Eight o’clock.”

“But . . . we don’t even know her.”

Joseph threw the invitation to the top of my dresser. “This is how you get to know people, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but . . . why would she want to invite you to dinner?”

“I don’t know.”

But I did.
She is irresistible to men.
I remembered the way Joseph had looked at her, and my uneasiness returned. I looked at my brother, who had taken off his suit coat and was unbuttoning his shirt, and I said, “I spoke to Mrs. Bronson about her tonight. Do you know that she was the woman Mr. Stafford died of love for? She was the one he killed himself over.”

Joseph took off his shirt and laid it over the back of a chair. “She can hardly be blamed for that.”

“How do you know? Perhaps she was cruel or . . . or vicious.”

My brother laughed. He sat on the edge of the bed. “Vicious?”

I took a deep breath and knelt on the bed behind him, putting my hand on his shoulder. I could not keep myself from saying, again, “She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Is that what troubles you?” He tilted his head to look at me. “That she’s beautiful?”

“I worry, that’s all. Mrs. Bronson said she was irresistible to men, and—”

He laughed again. “Afraid she means to ravish me? Shall we call her out? Pistols at dawn?”

His exaggeration made me smile. “That’s so old-fashioned. Poison would be better, I think.”

“I’m glad to see how well you guard my virtue.”

“Your virtue was lost long ago. It’s your mortal soul I’m trying to protect.”

“Another lost cause, I fear.” He sobered suddenly, all teasing gone, replaced by that quick and fatal darkness, that unappeased longing. It reminded me that Odilé León was just another beautiful woman, and there had been many of those. I had nothing to fear from her.

Joseph took my hand from his shoulder, kissing my palm, then closing my fingers around the kiss as if he meant for me to keep it tight. “I think I’ll get a breath of air. It’s muggy in here tonight.”

It wasn’t the least bit, but I knew it wasn’t mugginess he was trying to escape. “Joseph . . .”

He went to the door, then paused, turning to look at me again. “Come with me to her dinner.”

“She didn’t invite me.”

“But I am. Come with me. We’ll tackle her together. I’ll just tell her I mistook the invitation.”

“What can she do for us, Joseph?”

“I don’t know. I suppose that’s what I want to find out. How can it hurt?”

He was right. I could not dispute that, though I didn’t really like it. “Very well. I’ll come.”

He gave me a soft smile, whispering, “Good. Now go to sleep. I won’t be far. Just in the courtyard.” Then he left me. I felt strangely abandoned as I watched him disappear.