11
Lucia
After the wild evening I’d shared with Romeo, I’d anticipated his return to me would be soon. And as usual, I both wanted it and didn’t want it. My feelings where he was concerned remained capricious. But the memory of the ecstasy he’d given me hadn’t dimmed by a single degree. I wanted him again, even if it was wrong to do so. Yet then, days passed without him. Time stretched out into a week and then two, providing me with both relief and disappointment.
But then I discovered something I couldn’t have predicted.
“SignoreRomeo has been gone,” Philippa mentioned one evening as she brought me my dinner.
“Yes, I know.”
“Gone from the house,” the maid clarified. “He has not been back even to rest.”
“You mean he’s not coming home at night?” I assumed he’d been here and just not coming to see me.
“No,signorina.”
“Did he go on a trip or something?”
“I do not know.”
I pulled at a loose thread on the duvet. “Well, he’s all right, isn’t he? Hisfamigliaaren’t worried, are they?”
Philippa shook her head, all wide-eyed puzzlement, reiterating that she had no knowledge on the subject. I told her goodnight and took a couple of bites of my food before becoming distracted. Was something going on? Had something happened to Romeo? Surely the maid would know if something bad had happened to the Cavetti heir. He was too important within the hierarchy for such a thing to be ignored.
But then, that didn’t mean I would be informed. Evidently, the Cavettis did not prize their wives like the Bonifacios did. Romeo might intend to keep me his prisoner even if he did change his mind and deign to make me his wife. For a second, I forced myself to imagine it. Him barging into this room seeking sexual gratification for himself—and possibly me—based on his whims. Him eventually making me with child, then children.
What if he never let me out of this enclosed windowless room? Would I give birth in this bed? Do child rearing here? Would I grow old and gray within the confines of these walls and breathe my last on this four-poster frame always having been a pitiful captive? Never more than just a plaything of his?
This notion was enough to have me back on my feet as I rubbed my hands together in contemplation. Out of habit, I jiggled the door handle and heard a sound I didn’t recognize. Every time I’d tried this door in the past, it hadn’t budged. Not even a little. But this time, there was a slight rattle, as if something might’ve come loose inside. I jostled the door again—one sharp pull—and the handle moved.
The door swung open.
I almost skipped into the corridor, but then reconsidered. The last time I’d tried something rash, I’d wound up right back here where I’d started. I had to be more cunning this time around, more cautious. While I’d seen bits and pieces of this building the night Romeo had taken me to the patio on the roof, I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of my trapped siblings.
I knew from Philippa that my brothers were being kept in a dungeon and that they were being severely hurt, so much so that Antonio may have even lost his sanity. I prayed that was untrue, but that made him the one I most needed to save.
That was enough to make up my mind.
Stealing from my room, I crept as silently as I could down the hallway. I peeked around the corner to where I’d followed Romeo, and seeing no one, kept going. Now that I was near some windows, I could see that it was pitch black outside. Since Philippa had left my dinner only recently, I had to guess that it was the early evening, which meant I’d have to be on the watch for others.
I made it all the way to the set of parallel staircases before I caught sight of anyone. It was Marcello Cavetti, I believed, but he was traveling away from me. Holding my breath and going still, I waited for him to vanish, then went on. I crept down the left side of the white marble steps and through the atrium with the chandelier, continually heading downwards. I had to reach the basement. When I stepped foot onto the ground floor, there was more activity.
Apparently, this floor housed the main kitchens and servants’ quarters because I saw several moving about their business. Skirting behind a set of thick wine-colored draperies, I stayed there listening to snatches of conversation, the clanging of pots and pans being cleaned, and then a series of vacuums.
Terrified I’d made it this far only to be caught, I made myself stationary. I had to be disciplined and silent, skills my many private tutors had drilled into me. So I remained there for a long time, probably an hour or more, holding my position with the wall at my back and nothing but a curtain to conceal me from view. But then, finally, the night chores came to a halt, the people scattered, and I was blessedly alone again.
Ever since I’d made it to the ground floor, I’d been navigating blind. I’d never been on this level and had no idea how to reach the dungeons in the basement from here, so I utilized the only thing I could: logic and my instincts. Logic told me that the dungeons were unlikely to be located near facilities where food was kept and servant’s housed. So, as I left the safety of my hiding spot, I treaded away from the swinging transparent doors of the kitchen.
I’d reached a place in the mansion that felt more derelict, less flashy. Where every room I’d been in so far had been festooned with design elements most often found amongst the residences of the British Monarchy or similar royalty, this hallway had been left strangely unadorned. That boded well for me being on the right track.
I’d tried to go through another locked door when I heard voices issuing from the other side.
“Why do we never get to go into the good part of the house? How come we’re always down here?” one raspy voice asked and another much more nasally one answered.
“Shut your yap. All you do is bellyache. It’s about the pecking order. You’re new, so you’re down here for guard duty.”
“You ain’t new,” Raspy pointed out.
