The raven winged its way along the edge of the cliffs. Below, the waves crashed and foamed against the rocks, each one rising higher and higher, reaching almost angrily toward the black bird. The raven changed course, circling inland across fields of wildflowers, above bare slopes, flying until it reached the timberline. It appeared to be meandering, slowly gliding across the sky, the waning rays of sunlight glistening off its back. Patches of clouds began to drift across the horizon, almost in its wake, as if the bird was drawing a gray shadow over the land below it.
Once in the stand of trees, the bird changed speed, swooped quickly, maneuvering through leafy branches and around tree trunks as if racing the setting sun. It flew as straight as possible up the hillside into the grove on the far slope of the mountain. It made its way unerringly to a thick, twisted branch. Settling there, it folded its wings rather majestically, its round, shiny eyes fixed intently on the small woman below.
Nicoletta carefully packed rich soil around the small fern she had recently moved. The earth here was more fertile than that closer to home and would enable her much-needed and rarer forms of flora to flourish. She used extracts from the plants as medicaments for the people in the surrounding villaggi and farms. What had started as a small hillside garden had grown into an enormous undertaking—transplanting all the herbs and flowers she required for various remedies and physics. Her bare hands were buried deep in the soil, the rich fragrances of the herbage enveloping her, a riot of color from the vegetation she had sown scattered all around her.
She shivered suddenly as a gray shadow obscured the last warming rays of the sun, leaving an ominous portent of disaster in her mind. Very slowly Nicoletta stood, dusting the damp soil from her hands and then her long, wide skirt before she tilted her head to look up at the bird sitting so still above her in the tree.
“So you have come to summon me,” she said aloud, her voice soft and husky in the silence of the grove. “You never bring me good news, but I forgive you.”
The bird stared straight at her, its small round eyes shiny and bright. A lingering beam of light hit the feathers on its back, making them almost iridescent, before the graying clouds obscured the sun completely.
Nicoletta sighed and shoved at the wild mass of long, tangled hair flowing like a waterfall down her back well below her small waist, a few twigs caught in the silken strands. She looked as mysterious and mystical a creature as the silent raven, wild and untamed with her bare feet, dark eyes, and delicate sun-gilded features. A young, beautiful witch, perhaps, weaving spells amidst her lavish, exotic garden.
The bird opened its beak and emitted a loud squawk, the note jarring in the hush of the grove. For a moment the insects ceased their incessant humming, and the earth itself seemed to be holding its breath.
“I am coming, I am coming,” Nicoletta said, catching up a thin leather pouch. She raised her head to the sky above her, then turned in a slow circle, pausing her arms outstretched, as she faced each of the four directions, north, south, east, and west. The wind tugged at her clothing and whipped her hair around her like a cloak. Hastily she began gathering leaves and seeds from various plants, adding them to the dried, crushed herbs and berries already in her pouch of medicaments.
Nicoletta began to run along a well-worn path leading down the hillside. Bushes caught at her full skirt, the wind tugged at her hair, but she made her way easily through the brambles and thick vegetation. Not once did her small feet falter on a stone or branch lying in wait on the ground. As she approached a stream, she simply hiked her long skirt up her bare legs and raced across smooth, exposed stones, occasionally kicking up a spray of water, like a shower of glistening diamonds.
Timber gave way to meadows and then barren rock as she neared the ocean. She could hear the sea thundering against the cliffs, continually seeking to erode the massive peaks. She paused before completing her descent to look upon the enormous palazzo that hulked forbiddingly on the next cliff above the raging sea. The castle was large and beautiful, yet dark and foreboding, rising out of the shadows. It was whispered that the great halls held many secrets and that hidden passageways could lead one directly to the sea should there be need.
The palazzo was many stories high, with gables, turrets, lofty terraces, and the infamous tower, rumored to be a prison of sorts. The tracery overlooking the cliff was carved of slender, intersecting stone segments that formed unusual intricate patterns, seeming to signify something rather than simply dividing the stone walls with large windows. Those portals and their unusual patterns always caught her attention—and also made her feel as if she were being watched. Sculpted into the castle’s eaves, gables, turrets, and even the tower were silent sentinels, frightening gargoyles watching the surrounding countryside with hollow, staring eyes and outstretched wings.
Nicoletta shook her head, not daring to linger any longer. She felt an urgency in her; the need to keep moving must be great. She turned her back on the palazzo and began to walk quickly along the path winding away from the sea back toward the interior countryside. The first houses came into sight, small, neat farms and dwellings scattered among the hills. She loved the sight of those homes. She loved the people.
An elderly woman met her as she entered the settlement’s main square. “Nicoletta! Look at you! Where are your shoes? Hurry, piccola, you must hurry!” The woman calling her “little one” sounded scolding, as she often did, but already she was gently pulling the twigs and leaves from Nicoletta’s long hair. “Quickly, piccola, your shoes. You must fix your hair as we go.”
Nicoletta smiled and leaned toward the woman to press a kiss on her lined cheek. “Maria Pia, you are the light of my life. But I have no idea where I left my sandals.” She didn’t, either. Somewhere on the trail, perhaps by the stream.
Maria Pia Sigmora sighed softly. “Bambina, though you are our healer, you will be the death of us all.”
Nicoletta was the joy of the villaggio, its lifeblood, its secret. She was impossible to tame, like trying to hold water or the wind in their hands. The older woman lifted an arm and waved toward the nearest hut. At once they heard the sound of laughter, and a small child raced out carrying a pair of thin leather sandals, the thongs dragging on the ground.
Giggling, the dark-haired little girl thrust the shoes at Nicoletta. “We knew you would lose them,” she said.
Nicoletta laughed, the sound as soft and melodious as that of the clear running water in the nearby streams. “Ketsia, you little imp, skip along now and stop tormenting me.”
Maria Pia was already starting down the narrow path back toward the cliffs. “Come quickly, Nicoletta, and plait your hair. A scarf, bambina—you must cover your head. And take my shawl. You cannot draw attention to yourself.” She was clucking the orders over her shoulder as she walked briskly. She was old, but she moved as one still young, well accustomed as she was to traveling the steep hillsides.
Nicoletta easily kept pace, her sandals slung around her neck by the thongs while she deftly bound her hair into a long, thick braid. She then wound it carefully and covered her head with a thin scarf. “We are going to the Palazzo della Morte?” she guessed.
Maria Pia swung around, scowling fiercely, emitting a slow hiss of disapproval. “Do not say such a thing, piccola. It is bad luck.”
Nicoletta laughed softly. “You think everything is bad luck.” She wrapped the tattered black shawl around her shoulders to cover her bare arms.
“Everything is bad luck,” Maria Pia scolded. “You cannot say such things. If he should hear of it…”
“It isn’t bad luck,” Nicoletta insisted. “And who is going to tell him what I said? It isn’t bad luck that kills the women who go to work in that place. It is something else.”
Maria Pia crossed herself as she looked around carefully. “Take care, Nicoletta. The hills have ears. Everything gets back to him, and without his good will our people would be homeless and without protection.”
“So we must deal with Il Demonio and pray the price isn’t too high.” For the first time Nicoletta sounded bitter.
Maria Pia paused for a moment, reaching out to take the young woman’s arm. “Do not harbor such thoughts, piccola, it is said he can read minds,” she cautioned gently, lovingly, with sorrow and pity in her eyes.
“How many more of our women and children will that place swallow before it is done?” Nicoletta demanded, her dark eyes flashing like flames with anger. “Must we pay our debts with our lives?”
“Hush,” Maria Pia insisted. “You go back to the villaggio. With this attitude, you should not accompany me.”
Nicoletta marched past the older woman, her back stiff, her slender shoulders squared, outrage in her every step. “As if I would leave you to face Signore Morte alone. You cannot save this one without me. I feel it, Maria Pia. I must go if she is to live.” Nicoletta ignored Maria Pia’s outraged gasp at her openly admitting to knowing something not yet revealed to them. She tried not to smile as Maria Pia solemnly made the sign of the cross, first on herself and then over Nicoletta.
Mist was swirling up from the foaming sea, fine, sifted droplets of salt water curling around their ankles and clinging to their clothing. The wind was savage now, rising up off the ocean waves to slam into their small frames as if trying to drive them back. They were forced to slow their pace and choose their way carefully over the little-used path to the hulking palazzo. As they rounded the narrow, steep cliff jutting up from the sea, and the palazzo came into sight, the setting sun finally slipped below the horizon of water, thrusting a bloodred stain across the sky above.
Maria Pia cried out, halting as the vivid color swept across the heavens, a portent of disaster and death. She moaned softly, trembling as she rocked back and forth, clutching at the cross she wore around her neck. “We go to our doom.”
Nicoletta put an arm protectively around the older woman’s shoulders, her young face passionate and fierce. “No, we do not. I will not lose you, Maria Pia. I will not. He cannot swallow you as he has the others! I shall prove too strong for him and his terrible curses.”
The wind howled and tore at their clothes, raging against her challenge.
“Do not say such things, bambina. It is dangerous to speak such words aloud.” Maria Pia straightened her shoulders. “I am an old woman; better that I go alone. I have lived my life, Nicoletta, while yours is just beginning.”
“The Palazzo della Morte has taken mia madre and mia zia. It will not swallow you, too. I will not allow it!” Nicoletta vowed fiercely, hurtling the words back at the wild wind, refusing to bow down before its savage intensity. “I am going with you as always, and he can go to hell!”
Maria Pia gasped her shock and blessed Nicoletta three times before proceeding along the path. The wind shrieked its outrage of Nicoletta’s defiance, roaring through the pass, and dislodged pebbles that trickled down from above them, pelting the two women as they hurried between the two cliffs. Nicoletta circled the older woman’s head protectively with one arm, trying to shelter her from the shower of stones cascading down around them as they ran.
“Does he command the very mountains?” Maria Pia cried. Her words were whipped away from her and taken out to sea by the fury of the wind.
“Are you hurt?” Nicoletta demanded, running her hands over the older woman, looking for injuries, her anger and defiance swirling together like the mist. She was gentle, however, her touch light and soothing despite the emotions seething within her.
“No, I am not hurt at all,” Maria Pia assured her. “What about you?”
Nicoletta shrugged. Her left arm felt numb, but the rock that had hit her hadn’t been particularly large, and she felt lucky to have escaped with only a bruise. They were on the palazzo grounds now, and overhead the clouds darkened and roiled like a witch’s cauldron. Long, dark shadows sprawled everywhere, shading each bush and tree and statue as the mansion loomed up before them. It rose right out of the cliff, a glistening castle with its enormous tower reaching toward the heavens. Huge, heavy sculptures and smaller, more delicate ones dotted the grounds, which also boasted great stones carved into impressive barricades around the maze and gardens. Two huge marble fountains with gilded edges and heavily laced with winged pagan deities rose up in the centers of the rounded courts.
Nicoletta and Maria Pia now made their way up an immaculate path to the castle door, the statues glaring at them and the wind continually battering them. The door was massive and intricately carved. Nicoletta studied the carvings for a moment while Maria Pia fussed over her, making certain she was properly covered. “Your shoes, bambina,” the older woman hissed.
They were both shivering in the unrelenting wind. It was dark and gloomy before the great hulk of the door, which seemed to stare unpleasantly at them. Nicoletta thought the carvings were of lost souls shrieking in flames, but then, her imagination always got the better of her when she was near this place. Maria Pia took hold of the heavy knocker and allowed it to drop. It boomed cavernously, the sound hollow and mournful in the gathering fog and darkness.
Hastily Nicoletta slipped on the offending sandals, tying the thongs around her ankles as the door swung silently open. Rows of tapered candles burned in sconces in the lofty entrance hall, flickering and dancing along the high walls, shrouding the long corridor and vaulted ceilings in grotesque shadows. The man standing in the doorway was tall and thin with gaunt cheeks and silver-peppered hair. His dark eyes moved over the two women with a hint of disdain, but his face remained expressionless. “This way.”
For a moment neither woman moved. Then Nicoletta stepped into the palazzo. At once the earth shifted. The movement seemed but the slightest of tremors, barely felt, yet the candles in the hall swayed, the flames leapt high as if in warning, and wax splattered onto the floor. Maria Pia and Nicoletta looked at one another. The older woman quickly made the sign of the cross toward the interior of the house and then back behind them into the darkness and the howling wind.
The manservant turned back to look at the women. At once, Maria Pia followed him, but not before altering her entire demeanor. She stood taller, appeared confident, a quiet dignity clinging to her. Nicoletta assumed the opposite stance. Shoulders stooped, she slunk along the great hall, casting nervous glances this way and that, her head bowed low, her eyes on the floor. She scooted along the wall, hoping to blend into the shadows, her thin sandals silent on the marble-tiled floor, drawing no attention to herself in her attempt to masquerade as the “healer’s” lowly apprentice.
The man leading the way took many twists and turns along various passageways and halls and through several large rooms, moving so quickly that the average person had no time to note any landmarks. Maria Pia looked serene despite the circumstances, relying on Nicoletta, as she had so many times in the past, to know their way back. The palazzo’s interior was an incredible example of a master craftsman’s imagination and art. The enormously thick walls were of smooth pink-and-white marble. The ceilings were high, vaulted, with impressive domes and arches. The floors were of marble tiles throughout, the large blocks impossibly smooth beneath their feet. Sculptures and artwork 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 looked powerful and entirely capable of easily disposing of two peasant women. Much to Nicoletta’s disgust, Maria Pia crossed herself a second time.
“Dio! God, woman, answer me!” he demanded, his white teeth snapping together like those of a hungry wolf. “Signorina Sigmora, do we have the plague?”
Maria Pia glanced very briefly at Nicoletta, who shook her head slightly and moved once more to the child, quickly resuming the demeanor of a frightened servant girl. She was well versed in the role, using it as often as needed. She didn’t look again at the man, focusing her attention instead on the little girl. Saving her would be a fight; the child was nearly gone. Nicoletta stripped off the coverlet and bedding, taking grim pleasure in opening the door and hurtling the items into the hall where the haughty manservant and whimpering aristocrats lurked.
“We need hot water,” she said, without lifting her eyes to him. “Lots of hot water, clean rags, and fresh bedding at once. And send two servants to help wash this room immediately. The healer must have these things now if the bambina is to live.” Her voice was thin and reedy, a quality also well practiced. Scurrying back inside, she ignored the man leaning against the wall and threw open the window. The wind howled into the room, making the curtains dance macabrely and the fire leap and roar. The cold sea air immediately rushed inside, and the temperature in the room dropped almost instantly while the mist pushed out the terrible odor.
The child was shivering, sweat running down her body. Nicoletta stripped her of her soiled clothing, smoothing back her hair. Maria Pia leaned in close that they might consult. “Are you certain it is not the Black Death? He is ill also.” The older woman whispered the words into Nicoletta’s ear.
“I need to know what food they shared.” Nicoletta’s lips barely moved. Her hands were gentle on the child’s distended abdomen.
“Good sir,” Maria Pia asked, “did you and the child partake of a meal together? I must know if you two shared anything to eat or drink.”
The man was shivering almost uncontrollably. He clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering. “You are certain of what you are doing, letting in the cold this way?”
“We must bring the fever down quickly. Both of you are far too hot. And the room reeks of sickness. It is not good. Come, come, girl, hurry now.” Maria Pia did not like the way the don’s black, piercing eyes took in Nicoletta’s graceful, soothing hands as they moved over the child. Deliberately she shoved herself in front of the younger woman, pretending to examine the patient. “Well, Don Scarletti? Did you two partake of the same comestibles?”
“We shared a portion of soup. Sophie could not finish it. I helped her.” The words revealed far more of the man than he might have thought.
Nicoletta glanced at him; she couldn’t help herself. He was Il Demonio, the demon, his family under a terrible curse. He was arrogant and aloof, cold and unyielding, his neighbors terrified of crossing him, yet he had shared a bowl of soup with a child, perhaps to prevent her from being punished for failing to finish her meal. It was the first nice thing she had ever heard about him, their dictator, their don, the man who held the power of life and death over her people.
Maria Pia coughed to get her attention. Nicoletta quickly resumed her charade as shy, inconsequential apprentice to the healer Signora Sigmora, hunching as she closed the window and straightened the curtains. Two servants peeked in timidly with buckets of hot water and armloads of rags. The taller male servant behind them carried fresh coverlets folded in his arms. None of them entered the room but lingered out in the hall. Nicoletta had little patience with them and took the water and rags rather abruptly, setting them down before whisking the coverlets out of the third manservant’s hands. With her foot she forcefully slammed the door closed on them, hoping it hit them right in their noses.
Maria Pia hissed softly at her, scowling fiercely to remind her the don was watching. Nicoletta and Maria Pia went to work. While Maria Pia bathed the child to bring down her fever and clean her, Nicoletta scrubbed the room and the bed. Maria Pia consulted with her “assistant” in whispers quite often. Seemingly under the older woman’s watchful eyes, Nicoletta combined various potions, ensuring the medicaments were mixed properly. It was Nicoletta who assisted the child, pulling the small body into her arms, rocking her gently while she fed her tiny sips, coaxing and soothing with whispers of encouragement as the devil in the corner watched them with a steady, relentless black stare.
Only when the child made a feeble attempt to drink on her own did he finally stir, sagging against the wall as if his legs could no longer support his weight.
Maria Pia went to him at once, helping to ease his large, muscular frame into a sitting position. “He is burning up,” she said with a nervous glance at Nicoletta.
Nicoletta lay the child carefully on the bed, drawing up the coverlet. The blanket caught her attention. Neat little stitches, beautiful workmanship, the pattern so dear and familiar. For a moment she could hardly breathe, her throat clogged with painful memories. She traded places with Maria Pia, as if the older woman needed to examine the child while her assistant took care of the basic needs of the second patient.
Nicoletta used the excuse to run her hands over the don’s hot skin, to examine him and “feel” his illness. Don Scarletti was all roped, sinewy muscle, as hard as a tree trunk beneath her gentle, exploring fingers. She skimmed over him lightly, soothing him with her touch.
Suddenly his fingers circled her wrist like a vise, holding her still while he examined her hand. He stared down at it curiously.
Those pain-filled eyes saw far too much. Nicoletta tugged to get her hand back, her heart slamming uncomfortably in her breast. She jerked away from him, moving out of range, back into the shadows, drawing her shawl more tightly around herself. There was danger in his close scrutiny. Maria Pia and Nicoletta had perfected their illusions, the reversal of roles that ensured Nicoletta’s safety, guarding her “differences” successfully from the eyes of those who might suspect her a witch and call upon the Holy Church—or Don Scarletti himself—to have her investigated…or worse.
Maria Pia clucked her sympathy as she bustled around looking busy. She conferred with her assistant, watched closely to assure the younger woman mixed her drafts and powders correctly and insisted on helping the don swallow the liquid herself. “You must rest now,” Maria Pia ordered. “We will see to the child through the night. Pray we did not arrive too late.”
Nicoletta signed with her hand discreetly as she once more went back to persuading the child to drink small sips of the medicine.
“I must know if others are ill. Did others share the soup?” Maria Pia asked at Nicoletta’s suggestion.
The man shook his head, murmured. “No one else,” and ignored the older woman’s nervous gasp as he rose and staggered across the room to a large chair. “I will stay with the child.” He said it firmly, closing his eyes and turning his head away from them.
Maria Pia looked helplessly at Nicoletta, who shrugged. The room was as clean as they could make it in so short a time. The child’s fever was down slightly, although she was still quite ill. But the fact that she was keeping down the potion Nicoletta had concocted, that her stomach was not rejecting it, was a good sign. The don was likely not nearly as sick as the child. He was much larger, stronger, and his body more capable of fighting off the ill effects of the soup they had both ingested.
Maria Pia took several candles from Nicoletta’s leather satchel and placed them around the room. Nicoletta had made them herself out of beeswax and various aromatic herbs. Their scent at once filled the room, dispelling the last remnants of the foul odor of sickness. The fragrance was also peaceful and soothing, aiding in further calming the little girl.
“Mio fratello awaits news of his bambina.” It was another order, delivered by a man accustomed to being obeyed.
Nicoletta was outraged that the man’s brother—the child’s father—was outside the room, leaving his daughter to the care of her sick uncle and two strangers. She bit down hard on her lip to keep from making a sound. She would never understand the aristocrazia. Never.
Maria Pia opened the door and delivered the news that the don would recover and that they would continue to battle for the child’s life throughout the night. It was not the dreaded disease the household had thought, and the don wished them to know.
Nicoletta wished they would all just go away and stop their useless wailing. What good did such a din create? None of them had come near the child, afraid they might catch her illness. Poor bambina, to matter so little that her own father refused to see to her! Nicoletta’s heart went out to the child.
As a hush finally fell over the household, Nicoletta settled down on the bed close to young Sophie. The child desperately needed more medicine in her to counteract the effects of the poisoning. Had it been accidental? Or deliberate? Nicoletta tried not to think about that as she quietly removed her sandals, settled against the strangely carved headboard, drew up her knees, and tucked her bare legs beneath her long skirt. With the glow from the stoked fire and the flickering candles, she had sufficient light to observe the room.
Nicoletta couldn’t understand why anyone would put a small child in such a chamber. It was far too large, and the carvings in the walls were demonic. Long, coiled, forked-tongued snakes and strange serpents with fangs and claws cavorted between the enormous windows. The marble reliefs and a particularly wicked-looking gargoyle seemed almost alive, as if they might leap off the walls and attack one. The curtains were heavy and dark, and the ceiling was far too high and carved with a plethora of winged animals with sharp beaks and talons. Nicoletta couldn’t imagine a child of seven attempting to fall asleep with these creatures surrounding her in the darkness.
Eventually, Maria Pia fell into a doze slumped in a small chair beside the fire. Nicoletta covered her with the spare coverlet and reluctantly checked on the don. He was very quiet, his breathing shallow enough that she could tell he continued to be in pain but was refusing to acknowledge it. Though almost afraid to touch the man, she laid a cooling hand on his forehead. A strange current suddenly ran between the two of them. She could feel it arcing and crackling beneath her skin, beneath his, and it made her distinctly uneasy. His fever was down but not entirely gone. With a little sigh, Nicoletta held the cup of liquid to his mouth. She didn’t want to wake him, but he, too, needed the medicaments to ensure his recovery.
His hand abruptly moved up to trap hers around the cup as he drank, making it impossible for her to let go. He was enormously strong for a man so ill. When he had drained the contents, he lowered the cup but retained possession of her hand. “I wonder how the healer knows which remedy to use. I have heard of her skills; the healer to your villagio is spoken of often with great respect.”
Nicoletta stiffened, her heart thundering in her ears. She tugged, a not-so-subtle reminder to release her, but this time he tightened his grip, not allowing her to escape back into the shadows. There was danger here; she sensed a threat to her. “I…I do not know, Don Scarletti. Her secrets are hers alone.” Deliberately she stammered and hung her head, shrinking into herself like a not-so-bright servant.
The don continued to hold her still, regarding her through half-closed eyes. In the firelight he looked a dark and dangerous devil, far too sensuous and powerful to be trifled with. Nicoletta didn’t waver beneath the scrutiny, although she wanted to tear her hand free and run for her life. He was so much more dangerous to her than she had first thought. She felt it, as she did everything. Resolutely she stared at the floor.
The don retained possession a few moments longer, then abruptly let her go, his eyes closing, clearly dismissing her. Nicoletta prevented her sigh of relief from escaping and moved swiftly to put a safe distance between them, curling up on the bed beside the child once more. She breathed slowly, calmly, watching the rise and fall of his chest until she was certain he slumbered once more.
Several times she attended the child, washing her to keep the fever down, prompting her to drink fluids and the physic. The child seemed to be breathing more easily and each time Nicoletta rested her hand on the distended little abdomen, it seemed to be twisting less, the pain subsiding.
She was finally drifting off to sleep herself when a movement at the far side of the chamber caught her eye. A bell pull seemed to sway, though there was no breeze. She shifted her gaze to the wall behind it, watching intently. The smooth, seamless panel seemed to waver, as if her eyes were out of focus. She sat up, staring intently. The wall was marble, a beautiful pink and white, yet it seemed to move in the flickering firelight. Shadows danced and stretched, and the flames and curtains leapt as if a draft had entered the room. She shivered as two of the candles suddenly went out.
For one awful moment she though she saw the sheen of eyes staring at her malevolently from the shadows, but then the child beside her moved restlessly, breaking the spell. Instantly Nicoletta protectively gathered her close, her gaze once more straying to the wall. It was as unblemished as a sea-smoothed stone. The little girl began to cry in her sleep, a soft, pathetic sound.
Nicoletta rocked her gently and began to hum, then quietly sang a soothing lullaby, a whispered melody for the child. The little girl began to relax in Nicoletta’s arms, clinging to her tightly as if she might never let go. The words, thought long forgotten, emerged naturally, a ballad Nicoletta’s mother had often sung to her when she was young. Nicoletta’s heart went out to the lonely child, who had no one who cared enough to hold her in the darkness when the nightmares came.
Nicoletta looked around the cavernous room, taking in the heavy curtains and hideous carvings, enough to give anyone nightmares. As she rocked, the little girl snuggled close to her, and they drifted to sleep together, neither noticing the man sitting in the chair observing Nicoletta through half-closed eyes.