Mrs. Chirone hesitated, but finally acquiesced, stepping back to allow Kendra to enter the tiny foyer. “May I ask what this is about?”
“I’m hoping she’ll be able to give me information that I need in another matter.” Kendra followed the woman to the staircase at the end of the hall. It was so narrow that they had to ascend single-file. “How long have you been taking care of your sister?”
“All her life.” That was said with a sad smile. “She’s my youngest sister. It was very hard to deny her anything, even when she dreamed of the stage. Opera,” she added, pausing to wait for Kendra on the landing. “Isabella has . . . had the voice of an angel.”
Kendra didn’t know how to respond to that—offering her sympathy again seemed pointless—so she said nothing.
The upstairs hallway was a skinny strip with two closed doors on either side of the stairs. Sunshine fell from a window on the opposite wall.
“She may be asleep,” Mrs. Chiron cautioned, moving to the door on the right. “I give her opium. To ease the pain.”
They entered a tiny room dominated by a single cot and a nightstand with a candle, a glass of water, and a vase with several roses. A chamber pot was under the window. Kendra took in the figure in the narrow bed. The sun’s rays were merciless as they illuminated the woman’s face. Boils and raw lesions pitted Isabella’s forehead and chin. Horrific, but not as horrific as her nose—or, rather, the place her nose should have been. The disease had eaten away the flesh and cartilage, collapsing the bridge, leaving a gruesome, skeletal gap in the middle of her face.
Kendra believed Mrs. Chirone when she said that her little sister had been beautiful. Unfortunately, the only thing left of her former beauty was her dark mane. It had been cut short, but it was still thick and vibrant, curling around the ravaged face.
Isabella’s eyes were closed, and she was breathing heavily.
“Isabella,” Mrs. Chirone crooned softly, moving to her sister’s side. “Wake up,cara.A lady has come to visit with you.”
Stepping closer, Kendra had to brace herself against the smell. The roses couldn’t cover the stench of rotting flesh, urine, defecation, and impending death.
“Isabella?” Mrs. Chiron said a little louder.
Isabella’s eyes fluttered, then opened. Blue eyes filmy with encroaching blindness searched for her sister. “Bianca?”
“Sì. I’m here,cara.” She darted a quick, agonizing look at Kendra. “And Lady Sutcliffe. She would like to speak with you.”
“Lady, my lady . . . oh, to be addressed by the high-born,” Isabella smiled mistily in Kendra’s direction, then frowned. “Ladies don’t know women like me. Is she a spirit, Bianca? Come to take me away?” Skeletal fingers clutched at the quilt covering her. “Take me to the heavens to soar with the angels?”
“No, no,cara. Lady Sutcliffe is real. She is here.”
“The lords like me. Not the ladies. Nine ladies leaping . . . no, that’s wrong. Nine ladies dancing. Yes, that’s right!” She giggled. “Ten lords a-leaping.”
Kendra stepped closer. “Isabella, I need to ask you a few questions.”
Isabella frowned. “How can there be nine ladies and ten lords? There are too many lords. They need to match. How can the lords and ladies dance if they don’t match?”
Mrs. Chirone shot Kendra an apologetic look. “This is the way she’s been for the last several weeks, my lady.”
Kendra nodded, but kept her eyes on Isabella. “Do you remember Clarice, Isabella?”
“Clarice isn’t a lady dancing. She isn’t a lady. She’s my friend. We will perform on stage. White roses will be thrown at our feet. The lords will be a-leaping then.” She threw her head back and laughed. In that joyous sound, Kendra could almost imagine the flirtatious girl that Isabella must have been. “We will be the sun and the moon. Glory be . . .
“Gloria. Glo-ri-a, glo-ri-a,” she began singing. Her voice was hoarse and thready, but again Kendra caught the echo of another Isabella. “Glo-ri-a in excelsis De-o.”
“Cara—”
“Sposa son disprezzata.” Isabella’s voice gained in strength as she switched from Vivaldi’s famous church hymn to an aria written by Geminiano Giacomelli. “Fida, son oltraggiata…Cieli che feci mai? Cieli che feci—”
“Silenzo!” Mrs. Chirone snapped, rubbing her temples. “Per amore di Dio.Mi scuso—I apologize, Lady Sutcliffe, but my sister’s wits have fled. She can be of no help to you.”
Kendra was beginning to think Mrs. Chirone was right, but she had to try. “Isabella, did you help Clarice when she told you that she had the pox?” she asked. “Did you send her to someone who might cure her? The same person who promised to cure you?”
Isabella had stopped singing at her sister’s sharp rebuke. Now she whispered, “They will save us. They will clean our blood and make us whole again. And we will save the world.”
“Who, Isabella? Tell me who told you that you’d save the world?”
“God spoke through Vivaldi,” she murmured dreamily. “Glo-ri-a in excelsis De-o—"
