Free Season of Storms by Susanna Kearsley Page A

piazza, with nothing but a chest-high open railing between me and a dangerous drop to the pavement beneath, would be in Rupert’s eyes an accident waiting to happen.
    As Den tugged me over to look at the replica horses, Rupert touched my sleeve and told me, “Do be careful.”
    And I had the odd impression that he wasn’t speaking only of the height.

 
    She came, as he had known she would. She came at the appointed hour that night; she came alone. It took all of his will not to leap from his chair when he heard the first knock at the door, not to bolt across the marble hall and wrest the great doors open himself, so urgent was his own desire to see her. But he clenched his hands and kept his place, determined that the scene should be played in the way he had staged it . . . she must find him here, sitting so, where the light from the candles fell just the right way to steal years from his face, and the tapestried wall at his back gave the proper effect.
    She knocked a second time; he heard the measured tread of Thompson answering the summons; heard the scrape and creak of key and bolt and hinges; heard her voice within his hall.
    With beating heart he listened to the footsteps coming nearer, arranging himself with great care in the armchair in the instant before Thompson opened the door to the study and announced, expressionless: “Signorina Celia Sands, signore.”
    “Thank you, Thompson.”
    And then the door swung closed again and there was only her.

ix
    VENICE grew more beautiful at night.
    Freed for a few stolen hours from the sunlight that showed every flaw in her fading complexion, she emerged in all her finery, transformed by the darkness that gave back her youth and her mystery. The brilliant stars above became her personal adornments, as did the moon, almost full, that threw its bright reflection into the thousand murmuring ripples of the canals.
    Gone was the city of commerce and trade; in its place was a city of lights, of strolling couples and soft conversations half-caught in the shadows; the paddle and splash of a gondola’s oar and the sound of a footfall in darkness, retreating.
    I sighed, a small unconscious sigh, and scooted back my chair across the paving stones beneath the wide green awning of the family-run trattoria where we were eating dinner.
    I’d chosen the place myself, more of necessity than anything else—Rupert and Den had been so locked into their rivalry, searching for the perfect restaurant, that we might never have eaten at all if I hadn’t stepped in. Not that it was really a rivalry, in the proper sense of the word. After watching them all afternoon I’d come to the conclusion that Den was only being Den, he wasn’t doing anything on purpose. He was simply one of those people who knew everything and had tried everything and no matter what story you told they could do you one better, though he did it in a non-annoying way. It was Rupert, I’d decided, who kept trying to compete.
    At any rate, they’d paraded me for miles, it had seemed, through tight twisting streets and close alleys, along back canals and over bridges. I’d finally had enough. When we’d passed the trattoria, set along one of the smaller canals, I had dug in my heels and pointed. “There,” I’d said. “That’s where I want to eat.”
    I’d taken them both by surprise, I think, but they’d stopped, and now, my menu spread in front of me, I was finally enjoying a bit of peace. The night air felt soft and cool and relaxing, faintly scented by the sea but only now and then, when the breeze blew the right way along the canals. I lifted my face to it, looking across to where the high water with dapples of light lapped the mossy green steps of a derelict building. It made a nice picture, quite soothing.
    To make sure that Rupert and Den didn’t get going again and spoil it, I steered the conversation clear of anything to do with history or sightseeing, opting instead for the more neutral topic of