Read Online 4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight by Beverle Graves Myers - Free Book Online

small groups. The Gecco brothers were already at table, gulping large cups of coffee laced with milk. Plates coated with jam and buttery crumbs sat at their elbows. As I filled my own plate, Romeo and Carmela entered together, murmuring little jokes to each other and appearing none the worse for the night’s adventure. Emilio followed, bleary-eyed and out-of-sorts.
    “I don’t know if I will even be able to sing today,” he announced as he reached toward an epergne heaped with pears and apples and grapes.
    “Why is that?” I asked.
    Before answering, my fellow castrato pinched each piece of fruit, selected an apple, and made a face when the first bite was not to his liking. Some castrati took the loss of their manhood in stride, devoting themselves to music and enjoying the riches it could bring. Others harbored a grudge against the world for the rest of their lives. Emilio belonged to the latter group, and I’d never known him to stint his complaints about anything that displeased him.
    “Well,” Emilio finally replied, “up at all hours. Exposed to unconscionable violence. Ordered about by a puffed-up ironmonger. How do you like it? This surely wasn’t what you expected.”
    I shrugged, making short work of my own apple. Between bites, I replied, “Last night was a shock, but I’m eager to get started on Tamerlano . Work is the best antidote, I say. I’ve also been itching to meet this prima donna I’ve heard so much about.” I turned to the Gecco brothers. “Has Madame Fouquet made an appearance?”
    Mario stopped slurping from his cup long enough to answer, “She was the first down. She took her coffee out to the loggia.”
    I bowed to the company and made my way there.
    My first glimpse of Madame Fouquet was of her feet as she reclined on the same long chair that Octavia had graced the night before. The Frenchwoman’s face was hidden by the red-marbled covers of an open book that seemed to absorb every bit of her attention. She did not lower it so much as an inch as I approached, so I took the opportunity to admire the Louis-style heels that emphasized the arch of her dainty feet and the newly fashionable robe à la Polonaise with the coquettish hemline that stopped several inches north of her neatly crossed ankles.
    Neither her husband nor anyone else was around to make introductions, so I cleared my throat. “Madame Fouquet, allow me to present myself. I am Tito Amato.”
    She plopped the book in her lap and answered with a pert grin. “Good morning, Tito.”
    That simple act robbed me of speech. As I stared at the woman before me, my knees went soft as mush and wings fluttered over my heart.
    Bleach had washed the red from the hair that now shown brassy yellow under her lace cap, and her once sylph-like form had widened into the body of a woman. As Carmela had so rudely observed, her corseted bodice did push her pink breasts up like ripe peaches spilling from a basket. But some things hadn’t changed. I would recognize that impudent mouth and the striking angles of her cheekbones anywhere. Yes, I knew the woman laughing at me from behind brilliant dark eyes. I knew her well.
    “Come, sit.” She patted a footstool beside the divan.
    I complied stiffly, still without words.
    She sent me a challenging smile. “Nothing to say? The Tito I remember rarely shut his mouth.”
    “Grisella,” I whispered. The fluttering had moved from my heart to my stomach and was now at war with the sensation of a cherry pit lodged in my throat. My sister who was supposed to be buried in Turkish soil was draped over the divan cushions like a long-legged cat relaxing in a splash of sun. Not dead, no, very much alive.
    She straightened her back and reached out to place a forefinger on my lips. “Not Grisella. As welcome as my real Christian name sounds, I’m Gabrielle Fouquet now, and if I value my safety, must always be.”
    “I don’t understand. We thought you were dead.”
    “Did you now?” She reclined