Free The Violinist of Venice by Alyssa Palombo

the night before?
    â€œGive me that violin of yours,” he said. “You will have no further need for it.”
    â€œI gave it to Giuseppe yesterday, and told him to destroy it, in accordance with your wishes,” I said. Giuseppe would have his wits about him enough to lie for me if my father should question him before I could speak to him.
    My father narrowed his eyes. “Oh, you did, did you?”
    I widened my eyes. “I assumed you wanted it destroyed, so that it would not present any further temptation for me.”
    â€œHmph.” My father grunted in displeasure. I knew perfectly well that he had intended to destroy the instrument himself—or sell it, perhaps—after taking it from me. “Very well, then,” he said. He began to walk toward the door, then stopped and turned back to me. “I trust that you will not forget what we spoke about yesterday, Adriana,” he said.
    Or, rather, that I will not forget what you beat into me yesterday. “No, Father,” I said. “Rest assured I will not forget.”
    â€œGood.” With that, he left my chambers, and I allowed myself to exhale, ever so slightly.
    *   *   *
    Each hour of that day, and the one that followed, seemed to crawl by at the speed of one of the slowest barges on the Grand Canal. I lived for nothing but the moment when I would be able to slip away again and return to Antonio. Even the dull pain between my legs served only to make the memories and longing even sharper.
    I moved through those two days like a ghost, uno fantasma, keeping to myself, getting in nobody’s way, unwilling to pull myself from the world within my head.
    Yet the longer I was away from Antonio, the more my fears grew. I remembered how he had begun to voice his doubts, when we had awoken. And had he not hesitated when I had asked him when I should return? In my absence, might he not have come to regret his actions all the more? Now that he had time to think, away from me? I was almost paralyzed with fear at the thought that he would never wish to see me again, imagining him remorseful and angry and … ashamed. Then at other times I would tell myself I was being foolish; after all, he had told me to return, had he not? And how he had kissed me just outside the door of the palazzo …
    And so my vicious cycle of doubt and reassurance went on. I barely ate. Sleep was all but impossible.
    Finally, the appointed night arrived, and I again left the palazzo as soon as quiet began to settle over it. The possibility of being discovered was no less real or likely than it had been the first time, yet wrapped in a love-struck haze that was a potent mixture of fear, desire, anxiety, and anticipation, I did not dwell on it.
    I arrived safely at Vivaldi’s house, and knocked softly two times before going in. The state in which I found him was unfortunately more or less what I had feared.
    He had evidently been pacing the floor, waiting for me, and stopped to look up when he saw me. “Adriana,” he said. “Come in. I must speak with you.”
    I stepped into the dim light of the room and undid my cloak, trying not to let him see my shaking hands. “What is the matter?” I asked. But God help me, I already knew.
    He began pacing again, as though unsure how to say what he wanted. I knew with a crushing certainty that I would not like it, whatever it was.
    â€œI cannot countenance what I have done,” he said at last, stopping and looking at me. Just as suddenly, he looked away, running his fingers through his loose, unruly hair. “I have defiled a virgin. I have broken my vows as a priest. I have put you in grave danger. I have…” He trailed off. “Ah, God!” he cried, his voice vibrating with anguish. “ Domine Deus, how I have sinned…”
    My breath froze in my lungs as I listened to him.
    No  … please, God, stop him saying these things. Does he