In the murky light within, the Venetian mirrors distorted shapes, so that a bronze Antinous or Furietti centaur of red marble glimpsed in their mottled depths seemed to shift and gesture as he passed. In the library he was troubled to find that his books and papers on the desk had been disturbed. At once the idea came to him that the mad acolyte had been snooping, and had acted out her show of welcome merely to throw him off the scent. If so he was at a loss to know what the faintly reddish mess was that dappled the papers and books. Could it be henna, rouge or lipstick? A volume of classical verse lay open, and a smudgy stain lay like a clumsy underlining on the page.
A veiled threat? Or was she mad enough to see anyone who threatened her shrine as a murderer? He would make sure he locked the door from now on.
And so he did. The papers and books were undisturbed next day. Pleased with himself for having thwarted her, he worked well all morning, lunched contentedly and returned to the library rubbing his hands in anticipation. While all of Venice lay under a spell of sleep, he would select some choice volume and browse away an hour or two. Almost he was tempted to take down the folio of mythological drawings, but after a few drinks the subject matter might turn his thoughts in unwonted directions, so instead he chose a treasure of Venetian printing that was hardly conducive to lascivious thoughts: The Feast of the Sensa, being an account of the ceremony of the Doge’s ritual espousal of the Sea on Corpus Christi day.
Summers had heard of this charming ritual enacted yearly, when a wedding ring was cast by the Doge into the waters to ensure the favours of the ocean, so necessary for a sea-faring empire. That indeed was how the account began, but when the Doge set off in the ceremonial splendour of his bucintoro for the open sea, a second Doge similarly clad was described leaving in a covered gondola through the canals to a certain house, named Phytonteo, where he descended by secret ways to a chamber deep below the level of the waters, a dark and noisome place, hung with weapons of torture. There, at an altar raised to other, older gods, he performed a very different rite.
Summers considered his Italian better than adequate, but the strange archaic mixture of Italian, Venetian dialect and Latin in which the book was written confused him. Which of the two Doges was the real one? What did Phytonteo mean? Did the rite culminate in the Doge sacrificing a victim to the waters, or was it the Doge himself who died in monstrous butchery? The tone and subject matter of the book brought to his mind some words of Lawrence on Venice with which Summers had felt no empathy until now
The day was beginning to fade down the long reaches of the library. He should really turn on a lamp, but his surroundings were more than usually beautiful at this time, disclosed and concealed in perfect measure, and even one lamp might spoil a light so richly insufficient. Letting the book slip into his lap, he dozed.
The chiming of the great clock awoke him. He was looking downwards at a shiny expanse of frozen swirls and eruptions of faded colour, fired to life by a strange, tawny light. Faint, reflected images hung inverted just below the smooth surface, but he knew he was not looking at liquid. He was slumped forward in his chair, looking down at the terrazzo floor of the library, now ablaze with the last, low shafts of the setting sun.
There was a sound of movement across the floor in his direction. He remained still, in the posture he had assumed in sleep. If it was the Contessa’s acolyte, she was in for a big surprise.
He could recognise the sound now, bare feet slapping wetly on the cold, marble floor in an uneven, shambling step that seemed too light for one of such rotund form. He became aware of a smell, like stagnant well water; a reflection swam over the undulating surface, into the range of his downcast eyes, and he knew with a horrible certainty that it was not her. The outline he saw was much taller, and much, much thinner, with a head hairless enough to form a bony outline, and gnarly limbs trailing ragged shreds that the figure was attempting to gather around itself with weak, ineffectual movements. It shook and shivered as it moved, and Summers heard a low moan of pain or despair. He was unable to move, or raise his eyes to look fully on what approached him in a wave of ever colder, ever more foul air. As it drew closer, he closed his eyes and clenched himself, still unable to move or breath.
Nothing happened. He risked opening his eyes.
The shape was passing to one side of his seat, towards the nearest book-shelves. By peering out of the corner of his eye, he saw the dimly reflected figure reach towards the books, touch one, and resolve itself into the veins and swirls of colour in the stone. Forcing himself to look up, he confirmed that the figure was gone.
It was just possible that he had confused sleeping and waking, and what he had just seen had not really happened. The test of that theory could hardly be avoided. Crossing to the spot where the reflection had last been, he examined the books before him and found—let him admit it at least to himself, with no real surprise—a familiar dapple of reddish dampness on one of the vellum spines.
Summers drew it out and looked at the title page. It was a volume of Herodotus published by Gregorio de Gregoriis. Returning a little shakily to his seat, he examined it.
There were no annotations or apparent insertions, but the book would not close properly, springing open at a page with no obvious significance. The cause was a piece of paper slipped into a split in the vellum at the head of the spine. It was written in a hand that Summers now recognised, but was a rough draft for a letter, and therefore difficult to decipher. The writer could no longer tolerate the blasphemous and cruel actions in which he had been forced to participate, and unless they ceased, he would have no choice but to denounce the perpetrator, destroying his high renown.
The choice of words was a little convoluted, and the writing scarcely decipherable, so perhaps his translation was faulty. What he had found must be a last attempt by Mortensa to warn Borsini of the consequences of his actions. Yes, that was surely what it must be. In any case, it was high time he got away from this place for a while. With some relief he returned to his lodgings.
That night sleep did not come easily to him. The events of the day replayed themselves in his head. Frightened as he had been by the moment of its appearance, Summers felt that the apparition had done nothing to suggest that it meant him any harm. On the contrary, the whole effort of the poor creature had been to draw his attention to the letter. Was it then Mortensa who had returned? But if so, why had he ever hidden the rough draft, and why was it so important that Summers be shown its hiding place?
The water taxi was late, and he had an urgent letter to post. To make things worse, the water level was rising, lapping the steps of the fondamenta and soaking his feet. It was his sense of urgency rather than whim that led him to hail a gondola, a ridiculous extravagance he would not otherwise have countenanced. Still, he had to admit, as he settled back into the dark leather seat, that his decision had been the right one. For all its image as a tourist cliché, the gondola was undeniably the essential Venetian experience. For a while he lay back and watched the slow, hypnotic parade of elegant bridges, scarred brickwork, crumbling plaster and peeling shutters, his senses lulled by the slap of water on weed-smothered stone and the rhythmic swish of the oar.