She resisted its pull and backed away, crying, ‘No!’ as she did so.
She felt it laugh and then grow stronger, exerting more pressure, bending her will.
‘No!’ she cried again.
She picked up her skirts and turned and ran, through the streets, across the canals, pursued by its relentless force, dark and malign.
On she went, past the Doge’s palace, with the ghosts who haunted its bridge clutching at her. She put her hands to her ears in an effort to stop the sound of their sighing, their terrible sighing.
‘No! No! No!’ she cried.
‘Yes,’ came a whisper in the wind. ‘You are mine, my love, my bride, my Serenissima.’
On she ran, with the waters rising all around her, creeping out of the canals, oozing and alive, crawling into the streets, following her, pursuing her, and giving chase.
‘Acque alte!’ she called.
‘Elizabeth!’
‘Acque alte! Acque alte!’
‘Elizabeth,’ said Darcy again, shaking her. ‘Elizabeth, wake up. It’s a dream, my love, it’s nothing but a dream.’
The waters stopped and listened to him, and then slunk back, slithering into the canals like supple snakes, and Darcy was there beside her, a gateway back to the real world. He was bending over her and shaking her gently, his tousled hair falling into his eyes and onto the white fabric of his ruffled nightshirt. As she emerged from the strange dream world, he sank into a chair and pulled her onto his lap, cradling her to him, and she was in her bedroom once more, where the candles blazed and the fire glowed and all was peaceful and secure.
‘Ssshh,’ he said soothingly, his arms around her and his warmth wrapping her round.
‘Oh, it’s you, it’s you!’ she sobbed in relief. ‘I was so frightened! The streets were awash, the Palazzo Ducale was burning, and I had lost you, I had lost you… I looked and looked but I couldn’t find you anywhere.’
‘Hush, my love, it was nothing. Nothing but a dream.’
She put her arms round his neck and rested her cheek against his shoulder. Her heart began to slow and to resume its steady beating. She rubbed her cheek against the soft fabric of his nightshirt and gave a sigh as the last of the dream flowed out of her, then turned her face up to his. She was surprised to see that he looked troubled.
‘What is it?’ she asked, lifting her hand and stroking its back across his cheek.
Now that she was safe, the dream was receding and she felt foolish for having been so frightened.
‘Nothing,’ he said, taking her hand and kissing it, then turning it over and kissing her palm and then her wrist. ‘It is just that I am surprised, that’s all. How did you know about the floods? And how did you know that the Venetians called them the acque alte?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Someone must have told me, Giuseppe perhaps,’ although she could not recall his having done so.
‘And the fire? How did you know about the Palazzo Ducale catching fire?’
‘I didn’t. I thought it was just in the dream. Did it really burn?’
‘Yes, it did, a long time ago. Centuries ago.’
‘Then someone must have told me about it, or perhaps I read about it somewhere.’
‘Yes, perhaps,’ he said, but his mood was sombre.
‘It was nothing, my love,’ she said, and now she was comforting him. ‘A nightmare, that is all.’
‘Of course,’ he said with a distant smile.
But he put his arms around her and he did not let her go.
Chapter 10
The next morning saw a change in the weather. The last of the summer sunshine had disappeared, to be replaced by a misty, eerie fog. When Elizabeth stepped onto her balcony, she saw not the glorious blue sky and the glowing colours of late summer, but the white and ghostly miasma of autumn, which wrapped itself around the palaces and bridges like a choking vine. Gondolas loomed out of the mist like wraiths, appearing and disappearing beneath her with a sepulchral air, and the dolorous tolling of the Campanile’s bell seemed to come from a vast distance.
Elizabeth and Darcy were both subdued at breakfast. They ate, not in the courtyard as they had done when the weather was sunny, but in the dining room, an imposing, formal room ornamented with classical frescoes. Darcy ate little and left as soon as he had finished, saying that he had an appointment with his boot maker. At any other time, Elizabeth would have shown an interest, but she was thinking of her arrangement to meet Sophia at the Venezia Trionfante with some misgiving. It had been made on the previous evening, so that they would have an opportunity to talk over the ball, but she had no desire to go out into the fog. She consoled herself with the thought that it might clear by the time she needed to leave, but when the appointed hour came, it was as heavy as ever.
With great reluctance she donned her cloak, her bonnet, and her gloves, and she left the palazzo with Annie beside her. The courtyard seemed sad and cheerless without the sun to brighten its stones, and she noticed for the first time that the steps were crumbling and that there was green slime on the landing stage. She hesitated under the colonnade, thinking that the gondola was missing, and only realising that it was tied up in its usual place when the gondolier spoke to her. She took his hand and was glad of his assistance. It no longer seemed such an easy thing to climb into the flimsy little craft, now that the landing stage was slippery with moisture and the gondola itself was obscured by the fog, and she sat down and reclined with relief, only to sit up straight again because the cushions were damp and clammy. She looked at Annie and the two women pulled faces, then wrapped their cloaks more tightly around themselves, and peered ahead through the fog.
‘Where do you go to, Signora?’ asked the gondolier.
‘To the Venezia Trionfante,’ she said.
‘The Venezia Trionfante?’ he asked with a frown. ‘I do not know this place.’
There came a cry through the mist as another gondolier shouted a warning and a few seconds later another boat appeared.
‘Ayee! Carlo! Where is the Venezia Trionfante?’ cried her boatman.
He spoke in Italian, but Elizabeth was pleased to find that she could understand him.
‘The Venezia…? I know of no such place,’ said the other gondolier, resting on his oar and thinking.
‘It is a café,’ said Elizabeth.
‘A café!’ called out her boatman.
‘There is no such café in Ven—ah! you mean Florian’s! It has not been called the Venezia Trionfante for many, many years, not since it was first opened, I think, and that is eighty years ago! These English, they are crazy, they know nothing!’
‘Ah! Si! Florian’s! I know where it is! In the square of San Marco!’ cried Elizabeth’s boatman, thanking him, and straight away he was plying his oar, sending the gondola through the swirling mist and into the hidden waters beyond.
Buildings loomed up in front of them every time the mist parted for a few seconds, but instead of seeing the warm colours and the splendid proportions, Elizabeth saw the crumbling corners and the exposed brickwork where the plaster was falling off. The gilding was chipped and looked tawdry in the dull light. The water too seemed darker and dirtier, full of murky secrets.