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