Deadly to the Sight by Edward Sklepowich

about?” It would be best to wait to hear what she had to say before telling her about his own encounter with Crivelli.
    She took a sip of tea to fortify her.
    â€œIt’s all rather embarrassing,” she began. “Or that’s all it was at first. I suppose that was why I didn’t say anything all this time. But things have changed since then. I guess the best place to begin is the day I showed Frieda the Casa Verde. I wanted to help get her established before I left for London since you’d be returning shortly after I got back. I didn’t think that Burano would suit her, especially after she had stayed at the Palazzo Uccello, but—” She broke off abruptly. “Just listen to me! I’m getting off the point already. I used to be such a good storyteller.”
    â€œCalm down. You’re all wound up, like Oriana. Maybe you should have something other than tea?”
    â€œMaybe you mean you should have. But it will just sap your strength. You haven’t been looking all that well since you got back, you know.”
    â€œMy body hasn’t readjusted to the weather.”
    â€œIs that it? Go right ahead, then. Suit yourself.”
    He was tempted, but he showed his solidarity by raising his cup and taking another sip.
    â€œGo on,” he urged.
    She took a deep breath and continued at a slower pace. Urbino settled himself in his chair, determined to keep to tea drinking for the moment, and not to interrupt her as she relived what he soon realized had been a distressing series of events.

10
    On the morning the Contessa took Frieda Hensel to Burano it was clear and bright, but it started to darken for her as soon as Giorgio was maneuvering the motoscafo to the landing.
    An old woman was standing alone on the quay staring at the boat. The Contessa recognized her as a lace maker from Burano. She had become acquainted with her when she had tried to set up a lace making scholarship there several years before. The woman had been given a large amount of money in anticipation of giving lace making lessons, but, according to the Contessa’s agent, she had given only two afternoons of instruction and then refused to give any of the money back. The Contessa had not pressed the matter.
    She now gave a little shiver. The Contessa had seldom felt so assaulted by a gaze as she was by the woman’s. Her eyes, magnified behind thick glasses, seemed to invade the very privacy of her thoughts and leave behind a chill.
    Frieda gave a full-hearted laugh. She was a tall, attractive woman in her late forties with slightly protruding eyes. She wore, as was her custom, a large colorful scarf tied around her head and draped over one shoulder.
    â€œYou are cold, Barbara?” she said. She had a strong accent, but spoke excellent English. “But today, for November, it is so warm. It is not like the winter at all. You have become Italian after all these years!”
    On their walk to the bright green house on a small canal, and all the time the Contessa was showing it to Frieda as if she were an estate agent, she couldn’t shake her chill despite the sunshine and the German woman’s enthusiasm. She realized that it was the chill of a premonition. She had felt them before. Although they usually turned out to be nothing, whenever one touched her, she expected the worst.
    All during their meal at Il Piccolo Nettuno, a small restaurant on the Via Galuppi where she often ate when she was on the island, she was abstracted and apprehensive. Frieda joked with her, perhaps perceiving that the Contessa was disturbed about something. She assured the Contessa that the little Casa Verde was delightful, and that she’d take good care of it, and that she was completely prepared—in fact, she insisted—that the Contessa accept at least a token amount from her in the way of rent.
    The Contessa responded to her exuberance with a wan smile that she saw reflected from odd, unaccustomed