The Girl Behind The Curtain (Hidden Women) Read Online Free Page B

have stayed.

Chapter 3
    Venice, September last year
    The Palazzo Donato was silent as ever. Outside, Venice carried on as it had always done, unchanged for centuries, entertaining all-comers from every country in the world. Late-summer tourists crowded the narrow streets and posed for photographs against the eternally romantic background of crumbling ochre buildings and sleek black gondolas in that perfect mellow light. The cafés of San Marco were doing a roaring trade. Meanwhile, liners as big as tower blocks docked at the Maritime Port and disgorged yet more visitors, keen to lay eyes on the most beautiful city on earth.
    Unseen inside the courtyard garden of the Donato house, the roses were putting on one last show. The fountain was turned off; only the persistent drip that provided a shower for the dusty sparrows revealed that it still worked at all. The statues of Orpheus and Eurydice still reached for each other in vain. The gallery from where the palazzo’s original owner, courtesan Ernesta, had once observed the comings and goings of her eminent guests, echoed only to the sound of Silvio the old retainer’s footsteps as he went about his business like a monk.
    Marco Donato had retreated to his life of seclusion again. There was one brief moment when it seemed as though Sarah the English girl’s brave decision to burst into his hiding place and confront him might have worked. A couple of days after she left, Marco had spoken to his doctor about the possibility of surgery. Perhaps there was still something that could be done to wipe away the traces of the accident that had changed everything. The doctor confirmed that there had been advances. New techniques might bring a great deal of relief. But then the momentum died away. It had been much too long. That faint flicker of optimism was gone again and Marco turned his face to the wall, just as he had done for real in the private hospital all those years earlier. It was hopeless. The scars were far more than skin-deep.
    Silvio knew better than to try to coax his master to talk about the situation. Though Marco had seen no one but Silvio and the doctor in years, Silvio would not dare to presume for himself the privileges of a friend. He just carried on as before. He rose at six to have his master’s breakfast ready for seven. He made lunch at one and dinner at eight. He kept the house clean. He ran errands. He was Marco’s connection with the outside world. But there was an interior world that he could never hope to penetrate.
     
    While Silvio walked the corridors with his trusty wooden broom, Marco remained in his office. In the mornings, he dealt with his business interests. The Donato shipping line still reached every corner of the globe and there were many decisions to be made. Much responsibility. Marco hadn’t lied to Sarah when he told her that he often spent what should have been his leisure time at work. When he did have free time, he read. For the most part he read history. The history of his own city, of Paris and of Germany. He used to draw but he hadn’t picked up his sketchbook in months. Couldn’t think of anything he wanted to look at for long enough to make a drawing of it. Not any more.
    Marco stared at his last sketch of Sarah as though, if he looked at it hard enough, it might just come to life. It was the picture he had drawn on the afternoon she had made herself vulnerable to him. He had drawn her sitting in the chair at the library desk. She had her legs open. Her long shirt dress was unbuttoned at the bodice. Her hands were hidden in the folds of her skirt. She was leaning back. Her head tipped. Hair streaming behind her. Her mouth was open. Her throat exposed.
    As he looked at the drawing, a far clearer picture conjured itself in Marco’s head. In his mind he could hear her as well as see her. He heard her breathing. He heard her whisper to herself as she read his instructions on the laptop screen. She had trusted him so much. But then