His Last Duchess Read Online Free

the kitchen girl’s good arm and pulled her through the bustle of the kitchen into the shadows at the furthest end. “Come on ,” she said. “This way.”
    They stopped in front of the two squat oak barrels. A nauseous lump rose in Lucrezia’s throat as she watched the slimy tangle twisting and writhing below the surface.
    â€œPut your arm in here. They won’t hurt you and the water is cold.”
    With a whimper, the girl shrank back, twisting her arm to try to free her hand from Lucrezia’s grasp. The scalded arm she held up against her chest.
    â€œI’ll put mine in with yours,” Lucrezia said and, gritting her teeth, she took the girl’s red, angry arm by the fingers, shut her eyes and plunged both their arms down into the barrel before the girl had a chance to fight against her.
    The water was thick, opaque and slimy, and the eels slid around each other in silky knots. Lucrezia’s sleeve covered most of her arm, but they slithered horribly around her hand; she felt the occasional graze of unspeakable sharp teeth, though nothing that really hurt. The girl’s fingers were tense and stiff and she was pulling hard against Lucrezia’s grip, breathing in shallow gasps through an open mouth, her eyes huge and dark as she stared into the seething barrel.
    â€œHow does it feel now?” Lucrezia said. They were pressed together, so close she could feel the girl’s hair against her neck. She smiled, but the girl did not smile in return.
    After a few more moments, Lucrezia said, “Perhaps it has been in the water long enough now. My hand’s frozen. Let’s see.”
    She pulled her arm out of the barrel, letting go of the girl’s fingers. The plum-coloured silk sleeve was a sodden dark brown to a line above her elbow and clung to her like a second skin, glistening with the eels’ slime. Thick droplets fell from it, staining the russet skirt, so Lucrezia bent forward and held her arm out to the side. With her other hand, she picked at the laces on her shoulder, then, lips squared with disgust, she peeled the soaked sleeve over her hand and off. Holding it away from her in both hands, she squeezed it out, and more viscous drops splattered onto the dusty floor.
    The kitchen girl began to examine her scald. The red stain was less vivid, and beads of glistening water clung to the hairs that stood up through the red on her thin wrist. She gingerly touched the place with a trembling finger, then raised her eyes to Lucrezia. “It is a little better,” she said. “Thank you, Signorina. You did not have to do that for me.”
    Lucrezia saw the girl eyeing the russet dress, jewelled and beautiful—now stained with eel-slime. She watched her take in her bare arm, and the crushed and sodden sleeve in her hand, and wondered what she was thinking. How did she see her? As a benevolent, compassionate young noblewoman, prepared to sacrifice part of her sumptuous wardrobe to aid a stricken castle drudge? As a silly girl, dressed like a duchess but reckless and babyish, spoiling her fine clothes on a whim? Or, worse still, as nothing more than an interfering busybody?
    She opened her mouth, trying to think of something to say that might reassure both the girl—who looked frightened—and herself, but before she could utter a word, an angry yell cut through the buffeting background noise of the kitchen, making her jump.
    â€œWhat are you playing at, Catelina, you lazy trollop? Get back here! That accursed pan will have boiled dry by the time you’ve finished your pointless prattling!” The enormous and corpulent Signor Angelo, hands on hips, mouth like a rectangular hole in his unbaked loaf of a face, was glaring at them from the far side of the kitchen. “And you—you two children!” He flapped a hand. “Get out of here—before I call for the Signora!”
    â€œCome on!” muttered Giovanni. He jerked his