Free The True Adventures of Nicolo Zen by Nicholas Christopher

its only drawback the fact that Marta’s quarters were directly off of it on the second floor. I proceeded carefully as my eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness. At the third-floor landing, I heard heavy footfalls—like a man’s boots—in a nearby corridor. I backed up against the wall, holding my breath, but the footfalls stopped abruptly. Continuing on, I was soon outside Marta’s quarters. Beneath her door there was a band of light. Either she was awake, reading her Scripture, or asleep beside a burning candle. Gripping the front of my cloak so it wouldn’t rustle—in case she wasn’t deaf—I walked as lightly as I could past her door and down the remaining stairs. The stairwell grew dimmer until finally I was engulfed by darkness, as if I had descended into a deep well.
    In the basement, myriad doors led to storage rooms, and instruments of every sort lined the walls, from cembalos to stringless lutes. A single taper was lit, beside a narrow door. I opened the door and walked down a steep set of stairs to a subbasement where, in the bowels of the Ospedale, at the end of a short L-shaped hallway, a final door of thick oak planks led to the wine cellar.
    I pulled my hood as far forward as I could, concealing my face completely, took a deep breath, and knocked four times. The dooropened and Aldo’s large pale face appeared. He cocked his ear, listening for retreating footfalls down the hallway, but there was only silence.
    “Nicolà followed my instructions,” he muttered, “but she must be quite fleet-footed. Welcome, Adriana.”
    I kept my lips sealed; with his acute sense of hearing, unless I whispered, he would surely be able to distinguish my voice from Adriana’s. My scent was another matter, and he obviously intended to test it: before opening the door, he stuck his thick, blunt nose inches from my face and sniffed.
    “You don’t smell the way I expected,” he said.
    “No?” I whispered as sweetly as I could. “Then I’ll go.”
    “You won’t,” he said, taking my arm firmly and pulling me into the wine cellar.
    It was like a cave: walls and floor of heavy stone, the ceiling beams rough-hewn. The air was dank and cold. Several candles were burning, but the light was dim. Moldy wine casks lined the walls. A broken crucifix, speckled with bloodred paint, was hung on the far wall, just beneath the low ceiling. Two chairs were set face to face in the center of the room beside a large candle.
    “Take off your cloak,” Aldo said, “and sit down.”
    It was then I saw we weren’t alone. A man in a black cape and hat was standing in the corner, behind the last cask.
    I hesitated, but Aldo firmly guided me to one of the chairs. “I’ll get you a cup of wine,” he said.
    Reluctantly I removed my cloak, my eyes riveted on the man in the shadows. He took a step forward, but I still could not see his face. I heard a gurgling sound on my right as Aldo filled a wooden cup. He emptied it in a single gulp and refilled it.
    When I sat down, the large candle illuminated me fully. With that, the man in the shadows broke his silence.
    “You told me her hair was yellow,” he said to Aldo.
    “It is,” Aldo protested.
    “Maybe if you’re blind,” the man said acidly.
    “What goes on here?” Aldo demanded, putting down the wine cup, and grabbed my shoulder. With his other hand, he tried to feel the contours of my face. I pulled away from him, and for a split second saw Aldo’s visitor clearly as he stepped into the light: a middle-aged man with a craggy face, gray beard, long nose, and close-set eyes. Suddenly the man laid hands on me, pinning my arms behind my back.
    “Let me see her,” the man said through his teeth, and before I could move, Aldo ripped my dress right down the front, exposing my nakedness.
    “Hey!” I cried out.
    “My god,” the man shouted, releasing my arms. “She’s a boy!”
    “What!”
    “You’re a fool and a liar, Aldo,” the man growled, beating a retreat to the door.