start of the concert. Only this time I was in charge. Now Fabiani was the one who was drowning, swept along by my heartbreaking lament, sucked beneath waves of sublime song until I chose to release him with one golden note that shimmered in the air long after the harpsichord had fallen silent.
The tension that had girded my chest ever since I’d left Venice suddenly relaxed. My host was nodding, applauding vigorously. If the occasion had been less formal, I would have expected him to jump to his feet and yell “Bravissimo.”
A gust of wind raked the midnight garden, agitating the moon’s reflection in the silver pools and making me clutch the woolen cloak to my throat. I knew I should seek the warmth of my bed, but this was the first time in many days that I had been completely alone, and I had much to consider. Pressing my back against the smooth stones of the villa, I drew in a breath of moist night air and tried to make sense of Fabiani’s perplexing behavior at the supper that had followed the concert.
It was a simple buffet with dishes set out for the guests to partake of as they liked, but even so, I’d been surprised when Abate Rossobelli delivered the message that the cardinal desired my presence. I followed the abate through the unfamiliar corridors to a crowded dining room. He slipped away as soon as we entered, but it wasn’t hard to locate Cardinal Fabiani holding court near the fire. The cardinal occupied a raised chair and wasn’t eating or drinking. He was deep in conversation with two purple-clad bishops. As I approached, he waved them away and regarded me with an impenetrable stare. I sank to one knee, took his right hand, and kissed his ring of office.
I’m not sure what I expected. A word of welcome? A compliment on my performance? What I got was a slight pressure on my hand signaling me to rise, then a definite nod of dismissal. As I shuffled backward, as red-faced as if I’d made a stage entrance on the wrong cue, a nobleman in a lavender coat and black velvet breeches took my place.
“Here he is, my lost lamb. Better late than never,” the cardinal announced, his pointed face breaking into a smile. He proffered his ring for the kiss in a casual gesture, then kept the man’s hand in his while he waved an admonishing finger. “I know, I know. You have an excuse at the tip of your tongue. What was it this time? Some gypsy with an old pot he swears is an Etruscan antiquity?”
“Not this time, Your Eminence—” He would have continued, but Fabiani pressed his hand more tightly.
“Let me take another guess,” the cardinal said. “Some old woman from the hills with a song to trade for her supper? Some ditty her people have been singing since the Caesars ruled?”
“Not that either. Though I assure Your Eminence that an old ballad can teach as much about a vanished race as an inscription carved in stone.”
“Whatever the excuse, my friend, I wish you’d pull your head out of the dusty past. The delights of the present are so much more…” The cardinal released the nobleman’s hand and shrugged his shoulders. “…immediate. For instance, you just missed an amazing concert. The Venetian castrato is enchanting.”
I had to stop my mouth from dropping open. Enchanting was I? Would it have killed him to tell me so?
“Your Eminence,” the man replied. “I offer no excuses, because there can be no excuse for missing a moment of your generous hospitality.”
The cardinal chuckled. “Ah, Pompetti, where will you be if that silver tongue of yours ever goes mute?”
My breath caught in my throat. Back in Venice—it seemed a hundred years ago—Senator Montorio had warned me to be on the lookout for this man. Prince Pompetti led the cabal that supported Cardinal Di Noce.
I observed the prince even more closely. His carriage was exquisite: upright and commanding, yet graceful as a dancer’s. But he had not acquired that weather-beaten skin practicing minuets and galliards in a
The tension that had girded my chest ever since I’d left Venice suddenly relaxed. My host was nodding, applauding vigorously. If the occasion had been less formal, I would have expected him to jump to his feet and yell “Bravissimo.”
A gust of wind raked the midnight garden, agitating the moon’s reflection in the silver pools and making me clutch the woolen cloak to my throat. I knew I should seek the warmth of my bed, but this was the first time in many days that I had been completely alone, and I had much to consider. Pressing my back against the smooth stones of the villa, I drew in a breath of moist night air and tried to make sense of Fabiani’s perplexing behavior at the supper that had followed the concert.
It was a simple buffet with dishes set out for the guests to partake of as they liked, but even so, I’d been surprised when Abate Rossobelli delivered the message that the cardinal desired my presence. I followed the abate through the unfamiliar corridors to a crowded dining room. He slipped away as soon as we entered, but it wasn’t hard to locate Cardinal Fabiani holding court near the fire. The cardinal occupied a raised chair and wasn’t eating or drinking. He was deep in conversation with two purple-clad bishops. As I approached, he waved them away and regarded me with an impenetrable stare. I sank to one knee, took his right hand, and kissed his ring of office.
I’m not sure what I expected. A word of welcome? A compliment on my performance? What I got was a slight pressure on my hand signaling me to rise, then a definite nod of dismissal. As I shuffled backward, as red-faced as if I’d made a stage entrance on the wrong cue, a nobleman in a lavender coat and black velvet breeches took my place.
“Here he is, my lost lamb. Better late than never,” the cardinal announced, his pointed face breaking into a smile. He proffered his ring for the kiss in a casual gesture, then kept the man’s hand in his while he waved an admonishing finger. “I know, I know. You have an excuse at the tip of your tongue. What was it this time? Some gypsy with an old pot he swears is an Etruscan antiquity?”
“Not this time, Your Eminence—” He would have continued, but Fabiani pressed his hand more tightly.
“Let me take another guess,” the cardinal said. “Some old woman from the hills with a song to trade for her supper? Some ditty her people have been singing since the Caesars ruled?”
“Not that either. Though I assure Your Eminence that an old ballad can teach as much about a vanished race as an inscription carved in stone.”
“Whatever the excuse, my friend, I wish you’d pull your head out of the dusty past. The delights of the present are so much more…” The cardinal released the nobleman’s hand and shrugged his shoulders. “…immediate. For instance, you just missed an amazing concert. The Venetian castrato is enchanting.”
I had to stop my mouth from dropping open. Enchanting was I? Would it have killed him to tell me so?
“Your Eminence,” the man replied. “I offer no excuses, because there can be no excuse for missing a moment of your generous hospitality.”
The cardinal chuckled. “Ah, Pompetti, where will you be if that silver tongue of yours ever goes mute?”
My breath caught in my throat. Back in Venice—it seemed a hundred years ago—Senator Montorio had warned me to be on the lookout for this man. Prince Pompetti led the cabal that supported Cardinal Di Noce.
I observed the prince even more closely. His carriage was exquisite: upright and commanding, yet graceful as a dancer’s. But he had not acquired that weather-beaten skin practicing minuets and galliards in a
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