Of Love and Evil - By Anne Rice Page 0,29

and that I could ill afford to do.

One of the innumerable servants came up to me, a withered being whose garments appeared more like wrappings than clothes. He asked softly if he might be of help.

“Where is Signore Lodovico?” I asked, to indicate only that I’d been looking for him.

“With his father and with the priests.”

“The priests?”

“Let me give you a warning,” whispered this thin toothless being. “Get out of this house now while you can.”

I gave him a searching look, but all he did was shake his head and walk off muttering to himself, leaving me at the locked courtyard gates. Deep inside the courtyard, I could see the bright purple flowers I had sought to harvest. I knew now there was no time for such a plan. And possibly it had not been the best plan.

As I reached Niccolò’s bedchamber again, I saw approaching me Signore Antonio with two elderly priests in long black soutanes with gleaming crucifixes on their chests, and Lodovico, holding his father’s arm. He was weeping again, but when he saw me, he shot me a glance as sharp as a blade.

There was no pretense of cordiality. Indeed, there was a look very like triumph on his face. And the others eyed me with obvious suspicion, though Signore Antonio himself seemed deeply troubled.

From within, I could hear Vitale ordering someone to take the caviar out. This person was arguing with him, and so was Niccolò, but I couldn’t make out all that was being said.

“Young man,” said Signore Antonio to me, “come in here with me now.”

Two other men came behind him, and I saw that they were armed guards. They had visible daggers in their belts, and one wore a sword.

I went into the room first. It was Pico who’d been arguing with Vitale, and the caviar remained where it had been.

Niccolò lay there with his eyes half shut, and his lips dry and cracked. He sighed uneasily.

I prayed that it was not too late.

The guards slipped against the wall behind the chair where I’d been playing the lute earlier. We gathered around the bed.

Signore Antonio eyed me for a long moment and then he stared at Vitale. As for Lodovico, he had given way to tears again, very convincingly, as before.

“Wake up, my son,” said Signore Antonio. “Wake up, and hear the truth from your brother’s lips. I fear it can no longer be avoided, and only in the telling of it can the disaster be averted.”

“What is this, Father?” asked the patient. He seemed weaker than ever, though the caviar sat still where we had left it.

“Speak,” said Signore Antonio to Lodovico.

The young man faltered, wiped at his tears with a silk handkerchief and then said, “I have no choice but to reveal that Vitale, our trusted friend, our confidant, our companion, has in fact bewitched my brother!”

Niccolò sat up with more strength than I’d ever witnessed.

“How dare you say such a thing? You know my friend is incapable of this. Bewitched me how and to what purpose?”

Lodovico gave way to a fresh shower of tears and appealed to his father with open arms.

“Unbeknownst to me, my son,” said Antonio, “this man has craved to keep the house in which he lives, the house in which I let him live while you were ill, the house which I had chosen to bestow on you and your bride. He has summoned the evil spirit there to do his bidding, and it is by means of this evil spirit that he has made you gravely ill, and hopes that you will die so that the house may be his. He has prayed for this to his God. He has prayed for this, and Lodovico has heard his prayers.”

“This is a lie. I prayed for no such thing,” said Vitale. “I live in the house at your pleasure, and seek to put the old library in order, at your pleasure, and to find what Hebrew manuscripts were left behind years ago by the man who left the house to you. But I have never prayed for an evil spirit to aid me in any way, and would never have such evil designs upon my closest friend.”

He stared at Signore Antonio in disbelief. “How can you accuse me of this? You think that in hopes of a palazzo I can well afford to buy I would sacrifice the life of my closest friend in all the world? Signore, you wound me as if with a