The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice Read Online Free

at my lodgments, a tiny room atop an old atelier, where my form lay still, clutching my journal in deep sleep.
    My flight drew to its end. I cast my eyes to the Virgin on the doorway of S. Maria Mater Domini and stepped back into the campo.   I had no sooner touched the ground when a sound tore through the night. It was her! Her sobs, they called for me. They drew me near.
    Enraptured by her cries, I ran. In my frantic quest to near her, I lost myself in the sepia glow of Santa Croce and soon, its narrow streets were tossed into a deafening blackness. An icy gust singed at my face as fear enveloped me, and yet I ran.
    Where was she?
    The peals of nearby church bells joined in unison but the streets remained empty, steeped in the resolute night.  I entered a courtyard and there, I came to a halt.  Near the well, the heart-wrenching sobs rose in pitch.
    I saw the lady once more.  The lady of the bridge.
    She was huddled at my feet, resplendent in a purple velvet gown, mystical behind the lace that veiled her downcast eyes. Emotion knotted my throat. In a vision that took my breath away, she leapt, unfurling with a frightening violence.  I clenched my heart, startled by her rising form. Her dress no longer touched the ground. It clapped against the draft, like the wings of a giant raven, casting its shadow over me.
    Hideous.
    Where was the beauty I had glimpsed over the bridge? Where was the enchantress who had courted me in my sleep? Now her traits had deformed into something demonic and vile. Her lament had veered to rage. The soft black strands I had longed to touch in that first vision, had lifted about her face. Like menacing tentacles, they whipped the air, until she resembled a medusa in flight.
    A horror seized me. I stepped back and gave out a cry. The giant form rose above me. She seemed tormented. Her body writhed in mid-air as though claws gripped at her, tore through her, inflicting such pain that I saw the veins on her temples bulge as though they would burst. Angry red blood seeped from underneath her mask, streaking her cheeks to crimson.  Her face began to shrivel to cinders as though devoured by flames. She gave out a harrowing, inhuman moan that chilled my bones. And as I looked to her neck where dark blood glistened, I saw the thickening mass encrusting her rue pendant.
    I could bear no more.  I waved my hands at her, wishing her away, gasping, gritting my teeth, soaking my bed.
    Such was my night. The night before the masquerade began.

Murders in Venezia
     
    Journal of Antonio da Parma
    21 December 1422
     
    I fumble to write this entry.  As I recall I was not appointed to Venezia to engage in a murder inquest, or even less to dabble with the Consiglio’s net of spies.  But on this day of the Winter Solstice, only two days following my arrival in Venezia, the ugly task has befallen me and there is no turning back.
    Early that morning, it is odd that even as I crossed the Piazzetta and reached the palace molo , the Marangona’s chime clouded my thoughts. I recall turning, raising my face to the Campanile, my line of sight crossing the two granite towers, and I remember thinking that all I knew of Venezia may be a lie.
    I breathed in that curious moment; a moment suspended in time, time marked by the morning bell, time spent in haste by the money changers at the base of the bell tower, time halting for a political whisper between the masked men of the Piazzetta. And no sooner had the Marangona ceased to ring, than I had a wakening sense of the doom that would soon overshadow the city.
    I decided to think no more of it.  I told myself that if I pleased Almoro Donato, I may eventually seek a post as avogadore to the Consiglio dei Dieci. I traversed the molo , making my way past the many taverns and I entered the Palazzo Ducale. 
    Almoro Donato had no sooner received me in the entrance hall, than he began to insist I assume the inquisitor role he had long praised me for.  His gaze was uncertain and