31. Giacomo

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Giacomo didn't see Don Matteo return to the palazzo last night, but keeping track of the family's whereabouts wasn't part of his duties. Of course, that didn't mean he felt no concern for the youngest Barozzi especially when there was a disturbance in the square just shortly past midnight. But the conflicting directives he'd gotten from the procurator—of opening the door to no one prior to sunrise—and from his son—of standing at the ready for anything unexpected—made his already restless night even more unsettled.

Had he gotten a proper amount of sleep during his time off the day before, perhaps he would have been less jittery and not jumped from his chair by the door at every rustle and thump. Had he been able to gain any respite in his uncle's rented room in Campo San Zan Degola, maybe his breathing would have been less shallow and his heartbeat less rapid. And had he answered truthfully when the plague doctor's daughter had inquired about his constitution yesterday, perchance he could have procured a tonic to restore his dwindling strength.

But apart from lingering fatigue, the worst had now passed.

Like everyone else, Giacomo had feared the plague and the consequences of being suspected of the affliction. Now that he had ascertained that he didn't exhibit the typical symptoms—no cough, no delirium, and certainly no buboes—he was reassured that he'd avoided the scourge. Although at first it seemed like foolish hope, the bite on his still aching wrist had conceivably saved him. In less than an hour, his shift at the door would be over and he could go home to try for sleep once more. If necessary, he'd sneak a few gulps of his uncle's aromatic Port wine to assist in relaxing his mind and body. Anything to quell the unease inexplicably brewing inside him.

A knock on the door roused him to attention. The kitchen maid had only been gone a short while, so surely she hadn't yet finished buying fresh fish for the day's meals. Whoever it was deserved prompt and courteous assistance, so after rising to his feet and smoothing the wrinkles from his clothing, Giacomo opened the door.

"Good morning, signore. How may I—"

The question didn't even fully leave the boy's lips before the visitor punched him in the chest. Giacomo stared into the unrelenting eyes of the man behind the horned devil's mask as the dull pain from the strike turned into a sharp sting. Quickly spreading like a wildfire through a field of cut wheat, the tortuous pang left him unable to speak, and he extended a pleading arm to the stranger who'd caused the affliction.

But there would be no reprieve. Just as fast as he'd dealt the original blow, the masked man withdrew his gloved hand, turned on his heel and sprinted away.

Gasping for air, Giacomo retreated into the foyer, watching through the still open door as his attacker escaped across the piazza. As he raised a hand to his aching heart, his fingers first met what felt like a stiff textile and then a much bigger obstruction, which—as he looked down—appeared to be a wooden handle. The urge to extricate whatever it was overcame him, and Giacomo wrapped his trembling fingers around the object. He inhaled deeply as he pulled, the explosion of feelings—pain mixed with euphoria and elation—almost too much to bear.

The moment was fleeting. An off-white paper fragment innocently fluttered to the ground, but as the full length of the dagger emerged from his chest, so did copious amounts of blood it had dislodged within him. The warm liquid quickly stained his doublet before flowing down his breeches and dripping onto his shoes. Giacomo's knees buckled as a lightheadedness overcame him, and he fell to the marble floor at the bottom of the staircase. His eyes remained open just long enough for him to see the blood reflect the dawn's light as his life essence pooled around him.

* * *

Giacomo gasped, inhaling a lungful of air as his eyelids snapped open. He wanted nothing more than to remain still, but the smell of the salty breeze coming through the open door began to turn his stomach, while the sound of pigeon coos on the square made him increasingly uneasy. Pushing himself up from his prone position on the floor, he straightened his jacket and wiped the tip of his shoe on the back of his calf.

The sticky, red substance that dotted the brown leather also covered much of the white floor around him. That would not do. The lady of the house—her name currently escaped him—would be displeased.

He had the urge to restore order. He had to make it better. He needed to clean it up.

Grabbing a bucket and rags from a nearby supply cupboard, Giacomo got on his hands and knees and began to scrub. He pushed the fabric in a circular motion, leaving crimson streaks in its wake. After wringing out the soaked cloth, he did it again. And again. And again, but no amount of wiping or rubbing or scouring could completely wipe away the stain.

He stood, examining the scene.

It was odd. He didn't remember what had happened here, yet at the same time, he really didn't care. There was a compulsion within him to do, not think. Not question.

After putting the bucket away, he looked at his hands. The caked blood was now drying, the cracks forming irregular patterns on his ashen skin.

He didn't belong here. He had to go.

A discarded dagger by the threshold caught his eye. Giacomo slipped it into his belt and stepped outside. The sunlight hurt his eyes. Squinting, he turned right and ran. Hopefully that would take him where he needed to go.


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