Rosalinda sat shivering in her cold bedroom while the last clinging tendrils of her nightmare dissolved. What was it about this night's dream that was different? Was it really different, or was it just that something she had seen in it had struck a new chord in her memory? Was such a thing possible after so many years, after countless repetitions of the scenes?
"I cannot stay here," Rosalinda whispered. "Not in this room. I have to talk to someone else. I need to touch another person."
She could not wake her mother. For years Rosalinda had hidden the fact of her repetitive dream from Elisabeth, afraid the revelation would disturb her mother and make her unhappy. Rosalinda knew her mother was living with entirely too much unhappiness.
Not could she go to Leonardo or Linda. Both of those loyal friends got such sad looks on their faces whenever the assassination of Gioliamo Ricci was mentioned or even hinted at.
There was only one person to whom Rosalinda could unburden herself. Sandra knew about the dreams. There had been many a night when Rosalinda had crept into Sandra's bed, to huddle there against her sister's warmth, to cry as quietly as she could while Sandra stroked her hair and whispered to her that it was only a nightmare and all would be well again as soon as the sun rose.
Rosalinda slipped out of bed. She did not bother with either a candle or a shawl, for it was only a few steps along the corridor to Sandra's bedchamber. She stepped into the dark, silent corridor and, keeping one hand on the wall, made her way to her sister's room. Sandra was fast asleep. She then thought about waking her up but decided against it. Not wanting to disturb her just for her selfish satisfaction.
******
"Well?" Elijah Niccoló glared at the man standing before him. "Where did he go?"
"Signore, forgive me." The man's teeth chattered in fear, though he was far larger and physically more powerful than his master. "These mountain trails---- I am a man of the city, signore. I lost my way and lost the person I was following."
"Lost him?" Elijah Niccoló repeated, as if he could not believe what he was hearing. "Lost him?"
"I beg you, forgive me, signore."
"Imbecile! Cretino! Incompetent ----!" Niccoló hand rested on his dagger. He would have liked nothing better than to slit the throat of the man who was now kneeling before him. But they were presently housed in a monastery, in a pitiful little cell with none of the luxuries to which jj was accustomed. He detested everything about the monastery and could not understand why Lucian Farisi should make a habit of visiting it two or three times a year.
Unless, of course, there was some reason other than the state of his soul that brought Lucian Farisi to such a desolate location. Since Farisi himself was far too valuable to the Venice rulers of Monteferro to be dragged to the coastello and interrogated under torture, as Niccoló wanted to question the head of the house of Farisi to obtain all his secrets, then another way must be found.
Niccoló had set his spies to watch Lucian Farisi day and night, to discover all they could about his opinions, habits, and activities both social and political. Having learned enough about Farisi, Niccoló had then directed a supposedly trustworthy spy to trail the mysterious young man who had recently paid several clandestine visits to Farisi's house. From the description furnished by his people, Niccoló thought he knew who the young man was. He considered the matter important enough to prompt him to leave Monteferro and venture into the mountains on the heels of his own spy ----who had now most ineptly lost the young man.
"Signore?"
The wretched spy looked up at him, a situation Elijah Niccoló found entirely pleasing. It was always a delight to force others to their knees ----or unto their bellies or backs -----so he could look down on them. Being abnormally shirt stature himself, Elijah cherished a deep resentment against big, strong, handsome men.
"Signore," the spy said, his voice quaver in in fear, "shall I return to the place where I lost the man I was tracking, and try to find him again? "
"Of course not, you fool. He is long gone from that location by now. No, I want you to carry a message for me."
"A message, signore?"
"Yes, a message, you dolt. What kind of a spy are you, that cannot understand a simple statement? Don't worry, you won't have to remember what I want to say. I will write it down and you will sliver it only into the hands of Sotani Venice himself."
Elijah found parchment and quill on the small table in the room. Quickly, he write the message. When he was finished he folded and sealed it, wishing he could be present when Sotani Venice read it, so he could see the smile on the face of that most bloodthirsty nobleman. The river that ran through Monteferro was deep and swift in early springtime. Dumped into that river, a man's body would be carried out to sea before he was missed, and no one would be the wiser about his fate.
The spy who remained on his knees, looking distinctly relieved to be sent away from the mountains and presence of Elijah Niccoló, would never another stupid mistake like the one he had made this day. Only at his journey's end would he realize that the message he carried to Sotani Venice contained in its postscript his own death warrant.
******************************
Hope you remember Elijah?
See you in the next chapter
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RED
Romansa"Sweet Sandra," he said. "I want you to promise you will tell no one that you have seen me. It is vitally important that no one knows I am here." "I promise." She said at once. "But-----" "Not another word," he said. "I saw you come here...
