S. Parris - The Secret Dead

Donato was bleeding from a surface cut on his forearm wherethe girl had made contact before she was hauled off. His hangers-on fussedaround him while the rest of the tavern stared as they exchanged animatedwhispers. Signora Rosaria, who owned the Cerriglio, was berating L’Orso for notstopping the assault sooner; the crowd pressed in for a better view of thedrama. No one had noticed the girl’s knife lying on the tiles under aneighboring table. I ducked down and slipped it into my sleeve on the way tothe door.

There was no sign of her in the street. I walked a littleway along between the tall houses, toward the corner of the next alley, thinkingI had lost her, when I caught the sound of muffled sobs. She was crouched in a doorway,her right arm cradled against her chest. After the initial shock of seeing herin the tavern, my frantic thoughts of vengeful spirits had given way to a morelogical explanation, but I was still afraid to speak to her.

Alerted by my footsteps, her head snapped up and she sprangback, her hands held out as if to ward me off. The street was sunk in darkness,except for the dim glow from a high window opposite and the streaks ofmoonlight between clouds. The girl’s face was hidden in shadow.

“I think this is yours.” I offered the knife to her, hiltfirst. Her eyes flicked to it and back to me; for a long time she didn’t move,but I stayed still and eventually she began to approach, wary as a wild dog,until she was close enough to snatch it. She leveled it at me; I raised myempty hands to show that I was now unarmed.

“Who are you looking for?”

“What is it to you?” She bared her teeth. “I know you areone of them. I have seen you here before.”

“ Them? ”

“Dominicans.” She spat on the ground at my feet. “God’sdogs.”

“You know Latin?” I said, surprised. It was an old nicknamefor the Order, a pun on Domini canes , the Hounds of the Lord, but I hadnot expected to hear it from a woman, especially one who was clearly nothigh-born.

“Yes. You think a woman cannot read? Hypocrites.” I thoughtshe was going to spit at me again, but she restrained herself. “Look atyourselves. You take vows of poverty and chastity, and yet there you are, nightafter night, dicing and whoring like soldiers. And they made you the city’s Inquisitors,the ones who decide whether others are practicing their religion to the letter,and if they should die for it.” She let out a short, bitter laugh. “God wouldspit you out of His mouth.” She was lit up by her fury, illuminated fromwithin, every inch of her taut and quivering. She wanted only the slightestprovocation to stick that knife in me, I was sure of it.

“That man you attacked,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “Whathas he done?”

Her lip curled; she reminded me again of a dog that knowsit is cornered and is readying itself to fight. “I suppose he is your friend?Did he ask you to make me repeat it, so he could accuse me of slander?”

“He is no friend of mine. I only wanted to help you.”

“Why?” The word shot back, quicker than a blow. She took astep closer, holding the knife out as if I had threatened her.

I shrugged. “Because we are not all hypocrites.”

Her eyes narrowed; she did not believe me. She was rightnot to, I reminded myself: I was the biggest hypocrite of all.

“My sister,” she said, in a subdued voice, just as I had assumedshe was about to walk away.

“Your twin?” The words were spoken before I could stopthem; she stared at me, her mouth open.

“Why do you say that? Do you know her?”

“No … I …” I blushed in confusion. “I don’t know why I thoughtthat.”

“Yes, my twin,” she said, lowering the knife, as if thefight had gone out of her. “That friar” — she nodded past me in the directionof the tavern — “he saw me in the street one day and followed me to our shop.”

“What shop?”

“My father keeps a shop on Strada dell’Anticaglia, off Seggiodi Nilo. He is a master goldsmith. That man started coming into the shop tocourt me. I refused him. I would not be the mistress of a monk, for all hismoney. I have no respect for your kind.”

“So you have said.”

A muscle tightened in her jaw. “He would not take no for ananswer. Then one day he came into the shop when my father and I were out andfound my sister instead.”

“He took her for you?”

“I don’t think he cared either way. But Anna was alwaysflattered by the attention of men.”

Anna. I thought of a flayed leg thrown into amakeshift coffin like an animal carcass, stripped to the crimson muscle andwhite bone. She had had a name. Her name had been Anna.

In this girl’s face I saw again the lines of her dead twin.A whore, Fra Gennaro had said. Was that his lie, or Donato’s? My skin feltcold, despite the warm wind.

“And she went with him?”

“She started sneaking out after dark to meet him. She nevertold me where she was going, but I followed her one night. She made me swear tosecrecy. She knew it would break our father’s heart.”

“He would have been angry?”

“He would have killed her.” As soon as she had spoken thewords, her hand flew to her mouth. I felt something lurch in the hollow undermy ribs, some pulse of hope. The girl’s father found out, he killed her in afit of rage, perhaps by accident; so Fra Gennaro’s story could be true. Even asthe idea formed, I knew it was absurd.

“I meant only …” she faltered, through her fingers. “He hasnever lifted a hand to either of us in our lives. But the shame would havedestroyed him.”

“Back there, you accused the friar of killing her,” I said.“Was that a figure of speech too?”

She drew her hand slowly away from her face and took a deepbreath. It escaped jaggedly, like a sob. “My sister is missing. She went to himlast night, and she has not returned. I know she has come to harm.”

“Perhaps she has run away.” As I spoke, I felt as if therewas a ball of sawdust lodged in my throat. My voice sounded strange to me.

The girl shook her head. “She would never have done that.In any case, I followed her last night too. I was afraid for her.”

The ball in my throat threatened to choke me. I feared shecould hear the thudding of my heart in the silence.

“To the Cerriglio?”

“No. She went to San Domenico and waited for him by thegate. I saw her go in, and she never came out.”

A warm breath of air lifted my hair from my forehead andcooled the sweat on my face. Beneath my feet, the ground felt queasy,uncertain, as if I were standing on a floating jetty instead of a city street.

“You must have missed her,” I said, but the words barelymade a sound.

“I waited until first light. I could not have our fatherwake and find us both gone. I would swear she did not leave. Unless there isanother entrance. But then, why did she not come home?”

I felt my palms grow slick with sweat at her mention ofanother entrance. I should have let her go then, but I had to be sure of howmuch she knew. “Why do you think he meant her harm, if they were … involved?”

“Because she-” Her face darkened and she turned away. “Hersituation had changed. She was going to ask him for something he could notgive.”

“Money?”

The slap came out of nowhere; she moved so fast I barelyhad time to register that she had raised her hand. Rubbing my burning cheek, I reflectedthat at least she had not used the hand that held the knife. I stretched my jawto assess the damage, but she was already stalking away around the corner.

“Wait!” I ran after her, into another, narrower alley. Sheturned, eyes blazing out of the darkness.

“My sister was no whore, whatever he says.” She paused, andI saw that she was fighting back tears. “She believed herself in love with him.”She swiped at her eyes with her knuckles. “What is any of this to you? Why areyou following me?”