The Secret Dead Read Online Free PDF Page B

you.”
    Not for the child, I thought. “But you cannot publish your
account, surely?”
    “True. At least, not in Naples, and not under my own name. Eventually,
however, who knows …” His voice tailed off and his eyes grew distant. Perhaps
he was dreaming of a book full of his experiments and discoveries.
    “But in the meantime — are you not afraid someone will find
your notes?”
    He smiled again, like a child holding a secret. “I keep
them very safe. And I trust you, as I said.”
    I forced myself to return his smile, though he meant that I
was now as deeply implicated as he was. In ways I could not yet fully
comprehend, I felt irreversibly altered by what we had done that night. Despite
scrubbing myself with scalding water and a bristle brush until my skin grew
raw, I could not erase the smell of blood, nor the memory of the girl’s wild
death stare. Fra Gennaro made me up a bed in the infirmary, so that I was
excused the office of Lauds on account of my supposed fever, but I could not
rest. If I closed my eyes I saw her walking toward me with her hands
outstretched, pleading, before she reached up and tore the skin from her own
face until it hung in tatters from the bloodied pulp beneath.
    *
* *
    The following night, I barely waited until the sun had set
before slipping out of the side gate and through the alleys to the Cerriglio. I
needed company, drink, the easy conversation of my friends. Pushing open the door,
I was assaulted by its familiar heat and noise, the animated shouting of a
dozen different arguments, its odor of charred pig fat and young red wine and
sweat. In the back, someone was strumming a lute and singing a love song; his
friends were filling in bawdy lyrics, howling with laughter. I stood still for
a moment on the threshold, allowing the tavern’s chaos to crash over me,
pulling me back to the world I knew. I had not been able to eat all day, and
now the smell of hot bread and meat tickled my throat, filling my mouth with
salt and liquid.
    At least half the Cerriglio’s customers were young friars from
San Domenico and their companions. Gaudy women moved among the tables, stroking
a forearm or sliding a finger under someone’s chin as they passed, gauging the
response. One caught my gaze as I stood there and I blinked quickly away; when
I looked at their painted faces, all I could see was the bone and gristle
beneath the skin.
    I scanned the room, looking for my friend Paolo. Laughter
blasted across from the large table in the center, where Fra Donato was holding
court, as usual. He glanced up and saw me standing alone; his eyes narrowed and
he leaned across and muttered something to Fra Agostino beside him, whose lip
twisted into a sneer. Neither of them troubled to hide the fact that they were
talking about me. I had barely spoken to Fra Donato, but I knew his reputation.
His father was one of those Neapolitan barons who had managed to cling to his
land and titles under the Spanish, which led people to speculate about what he
offered them in return. But he was a valuable benefactor to San Domenico, and
his son was regarded as a prior in the making, despite the boy’s obvious
distaste for the privations of religious life. Fra Donato was tall and unusually
handsome, with the blond looks of a northerner; it was said he was a bastard
and his mother a courtesan from Venice, or Milan, or even, in some versions,
France or England. Whatever the truth, his father indulged him generously and
Donato had certainly learned the trick of buying influence. He was a few years
older than me; I had not expected to attract his attention, but recently I had
been aware of his scrutiny in services and at chapter meetings. I guessed that I
had been pointed out to him as a potential troublemaker, and that this had
piqued his interest. Now, though, hot with the fear that people could smell the
girl’s blood on my skin, I could not help but interpret any suspicious glances
as proof that someone had seen me last