Read Online The Visitant: A Venetian Ghost Story by Megan Chance - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Megan Chance
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that’s what you believe,” she said, dropping her hand from the door and stepping aside. I caught it with my foot before it closed. She leaned close, whispering, “But I would lock my door at night if I were you, mamzelle.”
I was so taken aback by her warning that I said nothing as she stepped away, sashaying and bouncing as she went.
Chapter 7
That night, I stood at my bedside, thinking of the quid pro quo Samuel had asked of me. I felt an unwanted anticipation that made me say to myself, no, you don’t have to read it. Just tell him you have . But I had a feeling he would know if I lied, that he would ask me something I couldn’t answer. I wasn’t in the habit of breaking promises, either. So I took off my dressing gown and pulled the book from beneath the mattress before I crawled into bed.
It was poorly written, and I winced from the first sentences, and the preposterousness of the conceit: a mother and son needing to hide from the Republicans purging France of all aristocrats, and deciding to take refuge in a nunnery where a relative was abbess, which required that the son be disguised as a girl. I had only skimmed a few pages before they were invited to witness a priest’s “punishment” of a nun. I began to squirm. I was fascinated at the same time I was repulsed, my cheeks heating even with no one here to see, no one but God, who surely must not want me to be reading this .
The nun disrobed to take her punishment, and the disguised son began to speak of his own arousal in intimate detail, and I felt a corresponding warmth and slapped the book closed, shoving it beneath the thin mattress. I’d hardly read anything, and nothing of any substance. But what had been about to happen teased at my thoughts, and I felt . . . I hardly knew. Something that wasn’t quite shame, though I wanted it to be. I picked up my Baedeker’s Paris and its Environs , trying to forget The Nunnery Tales , but when I finally slept, I was restless, my dreams filled with unclothed nuns kneeling on cushions, and a birch rod trembling in an abbess’s hands.
The next morning, the book’s cover, peeking as it was from beneath the mattress, seemed to mock me, and images from my dreams still chased themselves in my head like fluttering ghosts. I was angry with myself for being so preoccupied with it, and feeling as unsophisticated as Samuel had accused me of being. Then I realized that he meant for The Nunnery Tales to distract me from my purpose. I did not want to understand what he was giving up. I simply wanted him to do so. Though his wounds were healing, the epilepsy was no closer to controlled than it had been when I arrived ten days ago, nor was I closer to convincing him of the need to give up his degenerate habits.
It was long past time that I understood exactly what I was up against. Both Madame Basilio and Giulia made me think there was something here I wasn’t seeing, and Giulia’s comment last night had only exacerbated the feeling. I wanted to know if they had seen a seizure. Or something else? How much was I going to have to explain away?
I went downstairs and knocked upon Madame Basilio’s door. There was no answer. It was early; perhaps she was not awake. I had just decided to give up when I heard footsteps, and the door opened to reveal Madame Basilio, dressed as austerely as ever, this time in lavender, another half-mourning color—and one that did her sallow skin no favors.
“Mademoiselle Spira,” she said with a chill politeness made even worse by the formality of her French. “What brings you here so early?”
“I’d like to speak with you for a moment, if I could.”
“Of course.” She ushered me inside, closing the door behind me.
I could not wait even the few moments it would take to get to the sala, nor bear the small politeness of an offering of refreshment. I burst out, “I wanted to ask you a question about M’sieur Farber’s dreams. The angels and his singing.”
“It
I was so taken aback by her warning that I said nothing as she stepped away, sashaying and bouncing as she went.
Chapter 7
That night, I stood at my bedside, thinking of the quid pro quo Samuel had asked of me. I felt an unwanted anticipation that made me say to myself, no, you don’t have to read it. Just tell him you have . But I had a feeling he would know if I lied, that he would ask me something I couldn’t answer. I wasn’t in the habit of breaking promises, either. So I took off my dressing gown and pulled the book from beneath the mattress before I crawled into bed.
It was poorly written, and I winced from the first sentences, and the preposterousness of the conceit: a mother and son needing to hide from the Republicans purging France of all aristocrats, and deciding to take refuge in a nunnery where a relative was abbess, which required that the son be disguised as a girl. I had only skimmed a few pages before they were invited to witness a priest’s “punishment” of a nun. I began to squirm. I was fascinated at the same time I was repulsed, my cheeks heating even with no one here to see, no one but God, who surely must not want me to be reading this .
The nun disrobed to take her punishment, and the disguised son began to speak of his own arousal in intimate detail, and I felt a corresponding warmth and slapped the book closed, shoving it beneath the thin mattress. I’d hardly read anything, and nothing of any substance. But what had been about to happen teased at my thoughts, and I felt . . . I hardly knew. Something that wasn’t quite shame, though I wanted it to be. I picked up my Baedeker’s Paris and its Environs , trying to forget The Nunnery Tales , but when I finally slept, I was restless, my dreams filled with unclothed nuns kneeling on cushions, and a birch rod trembling in an abbess’s hands.
The next morning, the book’s cover, peeking as it was from beneath the mattress, seemed to mock me, and images from my dreams still chased themselves in my head like fluttering ghosts. I was angry with myself for being so preoccupied with it, and feeling as unsophisticated as Samuel had accused me of being. Then I realized that he meant for The Nunnery Tales to distract me from my purpose. I did not want to understand what he was giving up. I simply wanted him to do so. Though his wounds were healing, the epilepsy was no closer to controlled than it had been when I arrived ten days ago, nor was I closer to convincing him of the need to give up his degenerate habits.
It was long past time that I understood exactly what I was up against. Both Madame Basilio and Giulia made me think there was something here I wasn’t seeing, and Giulia’s comment last night had only exacerbated the feeling. I wanted to know if they had seen a seizure. Or something else? How much was I going to have to explain away?
I went downstairs and knocked upon Madame Basilio’s door. There was no answer. It was early; perhaps she was not awake. I had just decided to give up when I heard footsteps, and the door opened to reveal Madame Basilio, dressed as austerely as ever, this time in lavender, another half-mourning color—and one that did her sallow skin no favors.
“Mademoiselle Spira,” she said with a chill politeness made even worse by the formality of her French. “What brings you here so early?”
“I’d like to speak with you for a moment, if I could.”
“Of course.” She ushered me inside, closing the door behind me.
I could not wait even the few moments it would take to get to the sala, nor bear the small politeness of an offering of refreshment. I burst out, “I wanted to ask you a question about M’sieur Farber’s dreams. The angels and his singing.”
“It
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