Read Online The Secret Dead by S. J. Parris - Free Book Online Page B

the
eye.
    “Wait,” she called, as I began to walk away. “That man. The
friar. Donato, is that his name? Where can he be found?”
    “At San Domenico. Or at the Cerriglio, where you found him
last night.”
    “But he is always surrounded by people. I want to speak to
him alone.”
    “He would never allow it. Not after your last encounter.”
    She shrugged. “Still, I have to try. For my sister’s sake.
I just want to know.”
    I considered this. “He is rarely alone, except in his cell.
Or perhaps when he takes one of the upstairs rooms at the tavern, to meet a
woman.”
    She nodded, tucking the information away. “The cruelest
part,” she said, with some difficulty, pausing to master her emotions, “is that
he has stolen from us even the chance to bury and mourn her properly. Whatever
he has done with her, I can never forgive him for that.” I watched her teeth
clench. She took a deep breath. “Thank you,” she said, her voice harder this
time, determined. “For what you have done for my family. Perhaps we will meet again.”
    “Perhaps.” I bowed and turned away. She would never know my
part in what happened to her sister, but I would carry the weight of that
knowledge with me always.
    *
* *
    September rolled into October, apples ripened in the
orchard, and mists drifted in from the bay, though without a repeat of the
previous year’s fever epidemic. Fra Gennaro relaxed around me as he realized
that I appeared to have suppressed my qualms and was not going to endanger him
with a sudden eruption of conscience. He requested my assistance more
frequently in the dispensary, and on occasion confided in me his notes and
drawings from previous experiments, as if to demonstrate his trust. He promised
to introduce me to a friend of his in the city, an aristocrat and a man of
considerable influence as a patron of the sciences. As the weeks passed, I even
managed to sleep through the night untroubled by dreams of the dead girl,
though not every night.
    But in other ways, my fortunes took a turn for the worse. It
became clear that I had put myself on the wrong side of Donato, and that was a
dangerous place to be. Perhaps he thought I knew too much, or perhaps he just
wanted to remind me of his threat. I was summoned before the prior, charged
with a series of minor infractions of the rules that he could not have known
about unless someone was spying on me. I was given penance and a stern warning
not to repeat the offenses, as there would be no leniency in future. I lost the
small freedoms taken for granted by the wealthier young friars, and found
myself reduced to a life of prayer, worship, and study — which was, I supposed,
no more or less than the life I had signed up to in the first place, but it
still chafed. The watch brothers were told to confirm that I was in my cell
every night between Compline and Matins. My reading material and my
correspondence were subject to unannounced inspections. Everywhere I felt Donato’s
eyes on me — in the refectory, in chapel, in chapter meetings — and I could do
nothing but watch and wait for him to strike. All this petty needling, I felt,
was just a prelude. Donato was afraid of what he thought I knew, and he had
something planned for me. The worst was not knowing what or when, so that I was
permanently on my guard.
    Over a month had passed since the night of
the girl’s death. The season was growing cooler; at night, when we trooped
reluctantly to Matins as the bells struck two, the air was tinged with wood smoke.
I shuffled to my place in the chapel one night in October, stifling a yawn
(there was a penance for that, if you did it too often), when I glanced across
the choir and noticed the empty seats. Donato, Agostino, Paolo, and at least
two of the other younger friars had not returned in time for the service. This
in itself was unusual; for all his swagger, Donato was careful to make an
outward show of obedience. He reasoned that, as long as he was present at