Read Online 3 - Cruel Music by Beverle Graves Myers - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Beverle Graves Myers
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works out well enough.”
At least some things never changed. I would sooner expect the stars to fall from the sky as Benito to start behaving against his nature. We had never landed in a new place without my manservant entering into some fleeting liaison. I rubbed my eyes again, then lurched forward, my attention caught by a sudden trick of moonlight.
A gauzy phantom seemed to float through the garden, a pale luminescence against dark shadows. It circled a reflecting pool, danced on the breeze, and finally paused to hover at the top of an evergreen cypress. Benito and I peered wonderingly, and we both jumped when a spectral arm shot out. It pointed straight to the pavilion by the garden wall and was answered by a quavering glow that winked out almost immediately. The light could have been a candle from the main villa reflecting off a window in the pavilion, but that phantom was more substantial than mere moonshine. Did a ghost haunt the Villa Fabiani?
The breeze suddenly calmed, and a laugh burbled from my manservant’s lips. “It’s nothing. How silly. We’re shivering over a scarf blowing in the wind. Look, it’s caught in the top of the tree. ”
“And here comes its owner,” I replied. The old marchesa flitted around a shoulder-high hedge with Gemma panting in hot pursuit.
“The crazy lady. Guido told me about her, too.”
I nodded slowly, giving vent to a mammoth yawn.
Deciding that the hour was fit only for lunatics, Benito and I sought the comfort of our respective beds. As my head sank into the goose-feather pillow, I contemplated the bell mounted above. Would the cardinal have trouble sleeping tonight? Would I have to face his cool stare at close quarters? My body was too tired to let my mind worry over it. The bell remained silent and I slept the sleep of the dead.
Chapter Six
The new day began with an ancient gargoyle of a footman named Roberto banging on my door. He had come to summon me for Mass. In my travels, I’d become quite negligent in my devotions, much preferring a cup of chocolate in bed to a tiresome session on my knees. I’d also convinced myself that God heard my prayers no matter where I said them. But when Roberto insisted with an air as proud as his master’s, I reluctantly pushed my warm covers aside and applied my feet to the cold floor.
The villa’s chapel lay at right angles to the tapestried entry hall. I hovered at the entrance while the servants arranged themselves according to some preordained pecking order. The housekeeper led the above-stairs servants into the middle range of pews: valets first, then maids and footmen. The kitchen crew followed, led by the cook in her towering white kerchief. Next came the coachmen and grooms, these last attended by more than a hint of stable odor. Most of the staff took little notice of me, but my appearance seemed to amuse a pair of young scullery maids. They took one look at my smooth throat and beardless cheeks and giggled behind their prayer books until the cook rapped her knuckles on their heads.
Wondering where I fit in, feeling uncomfortably neither fish nor fowl, I looked around for the musicians who had accompanied me the night before. Down front, among the priests, the old marchesa was dozing next to the altar rail, attended by a middle-aged woman with graying hair scraped back under a white cap. Did the cardinal allow Gemma a day off now and again? If the marchesa’s late night wanderings were anything to judge by, the girl certainly deserved one. Unable to locate my fellow musicians, I decided they must live out, in their own homes. When a courier in leather breeches and riding boots pushed me aside, I trotted past the servants and squeezed into a pew filled with clerks, much relieved that no one admonished me for taking a place above my station.
At the altar, Cardinal Fabiani commenced his rituals under an image of the Christ writhing in anguish on a huge crucifix. By contrast, the cardinal appeared well-rested and
At least some things never changed. I would sooner expect the stars to fall from the sky as Benito to start behaving against his nature. We had never landed in a new place without my manservant entering into some fleeting liaison. I rubbed my eyes again, then lurched forward, my attention caught by a sudden trick of moonlight.
A gauzy phantom seemed to float through the garden, a pale luminescence against dark shadows. It circled a reflecting pool, danced on the breeze, and finally paused to hover at the top of an evergreen cypress. Benito and I peered wonderingly, and we both jumped when a spectral arm shot out. It pointed straight to the pavilion by the garden wall and was answered by a quavering glow that winked out almost immediately. The light could have been a candle from the main villa reflecting off a window in the pavilion, but that phantom was more substantial than mere moonshine. Did a ghost haunt the Villa Fabiani?
The breeze suddenly calmed, and a laugh burbled from my manservant’s lips. “It’s nothing. How silly. We’re shivering over a scarf blowing in the wind. Look, it’s caught in the top of the tree. ”
“And here comes its owner,” I replied. The old marchesa flitted around a shoulder-high hedge with Gemma panting in hot pursuit.
“The crazy lady. Guido told me about her, too.”
I nodded slowly, giving vent to a mammoth yawn.
Deciding that the hour was fit only for lunatics, Benito and I sought the comfort of our respective beds. As my head sank into the goose-feather pillow, I contemplated the bell mounted above. Would the cardinal have trouble sleeping tonight? Would I have to face his cool stare at close quarters? My body was too tired to let my mind worry over it. The bell remained silent and I slept the sleep of the dead.
Chapter Six
The new day began with an ancient gargoyle of a footman named Roberto banging on my door. He had come to summon me for Mass. In my travels, I’d become quite negligent in my devotions, much preferring a cup of chocolate in bed to a tiresome session on my knees. I’d also convinced myself that God heard my prayers no matter where I said them. But when Roberto insisted with an air as proud as his master’s, I reluctantly pushed my warm covers aside and applied my feet to the cold floor.
The villa’s chapel lay at right angles to the tapestried entry hall. I hovered at the entrance while the servants arranged themselves according to some preordained pecking order. The housekeeper led the above-stairs servants into the middle range of pews: valets first, then maids and footmen. The kitchen crew followed, led by the cook in her towering white kerchief. Next came the coachmen and grooms, these last attended by more than a hint of stable odor. Most of the staff took little notice of me, but my appearance seemed to amuse a pair of young scullery maids. They took one look at my smooth throat and beardless cheeks and giggled behind their prayer books until the cook rapped her knuckles on their heads.
Wondering where I fit in, feeling uncomfortably neither fish nor fowl, I looked around for the musicians who had accompanied me the night before. Down front, among the priests, the old marchesa was dozing next to the altar rail, attended by a middle-aged woman with graying hair scraped back under a white cap. Did the cardinal allow Gemma a day off now and again? If the marchesa’s late night wanderings were anything to judge by, the girl certainly deserved one. Unable to locate my fellow musicians, I decided they must live out, in their own homes. When a courier in leather breeches and riding boots pushed me aside, I trotted past the servants and squeezed into a pew filled with clerks, much relieved that no one admonished me for taking a place above my station.
At the altar, Cardinal Fabiani commenced his rituals under an image of the Christ writhing in anguish on a huge crucifix. By contrast, the cardinal appeared well-rested and
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