SWNOVELS Chapter Chapter Fifty-Four
Entering the Teatro Sant’Angelo with her two bodyguards in tow, we beelined to the princess’ box on the second tier over the stage. Though I was eager to get my hands on it, Guccia wouldn’t let me stop in the lobby to buy the printed score and libretto.
“Copies are waiting for us,” she shook her head. “Come, we must hurry. Word will spread that I’ve arrived, and people will seek an audience at our box.”
Through the narrow corridor, we passed by a dozen boxes. Those still empty of people had their deep emerald velvet curtains drawn open, offering me fleeting glances at the auditorium. We entered a small drawing room through a golden door at the end of the corridor. The bodyguards waited just inside the door frame, and I handed the waiting valet my hat and cape. When she was free of her coat, and her lady’s maid had finished a once-over, Guccia took me by the wrist to show me the space.
“This is just for us, my dear,” Guccia said, as if the fact satisfied her. She pointed to another door at the far end of the room and leaned to whisper, “Behind there is a lavatory if you need it.”
Portraits of distinguished men and women covered the sumptuous walls, suspended over violet damask sofas. It surprised me to find a small lacquered card table at the center of the drawing-room, as if people came here to do more than listen to music.
Guccia took me by the wrist and led me to one portrait, its heavy golden frame lit by brass wall sconces, each bearing lit tapers on either side.
“This one is Antonio,” she said with a loving sigh at the picture of a man seated with a violin in his right hand and a quill suspended over a scroll, the parchment filled with musical notes.
“Vivaldi?” I gushed despite my intention.
“This was his home, so I keep him here to watch over us. And there is your copy of the score,” she said, pointing to a sideboard where the staff had fanned out several.
I moved to reach for one, but the breathtaking sight of the auditorium stole my attention. Beyond the small opening of the princess’ box, the massive theater laid before me with its oval ring filled with five levels of private boxes reaching the ceiling. Candlelight from the breathtaking chandeliers overhead bathed the room, their hundreds of flames exploding within the cut Murano glass to sparkle like jewels. Small mirrors at the front of each of the theater’s one-hundred-thirty-four boxes magnified more lit tapers suspended on sconces to create five stunning rings of light. It was all too marvelous to behold, but I wondered how they kept the building from igniting an inferno each night.
More than a few eyes shot toward me in the half-filled auditorium. Men and women lifted their seeing glasses in my direction, each scrutinizing my presence with unmasked interest.
“Esprit?” Guccia called from behind me.
I turned to find she’d received two couples dressed just as glamorously. The ladies gushed as I approached, lavishing their irrepressible smiles upon me, while both gentlemen offered jovial nods.
“This is my nephew to-be,” Guccia remarked to them, “the Chevalier Esprit. My dear, allow me to present Don and Donña Trivulzio, and their siblings visiting from Milan, Don and Donña Farnese.
I gave a deep bow before raising my eyes in surprise to receive their silent acknowledgments. It is our pleasure to know you, Don Trivulzio said with an affectionate nod. All four of them were lycan, and again the unnerving sensation of being among my kind, all of whom seemed to harbor only goodwill toward me, took my concentration.
“The pleasure is mine,” I smiled.
“My daughter, Nastasia, is with us tonight,” said Donña Trivulzio with a minor flourish of her silk fan painted in a floral print that matched her lavender gown. “I wonder if you’d like to visit us in our box sometime tonight and meet her?”
I hesitated at the unexpected invitation before nodding my assent. “It would be my honor.”
She gushed with gratitude.
I wondered if she recognized my nature. I’d met seven other lycan in the city during the past month, including the Prince and his secretary. None of them acknowledged my orientation, though Duccio assured me it was impossible to mask such matters of the mind.
It does not matter, Guccia whispered to me for the briefest moment before the Trivulzios and Farneses ceded the space to the next group of visitors. Men and women of our class do not marry for passion.
Duccio had shared that, as his nephew, I would receive a noble title upon his marriage and royal ascension. No longer the minor distinction of ‘chevalier’ or knight, I would be raised to a noble title. Most likely, I would become the Baron Adelchi, a title mirrored among humans. And among lycan and humans, my title would transfer to my bride. As for any children, whether natural offspring or, more likely, fostered, my title would only transfer to them by Prince Adelchi’s decree.
I’d hesitated at the idea of being a woman’s husband. But faced with my first exposure to this life devoid of constant risk, maybe I could play the role. Perhaps the truth of this culture was precisely what might free me from my biting jealousy. If I also took a wife, wouldn’t that union place Duccio and me on more even ground? Two noblemen who preferred time together instead of with their wives? Somehow the idea struck me as possible, even desirable, which was one more unexpected thing for my mind to struggle with tonight.
When I least expected it, the light in the auditorium behind me dimmed—a strange shuddering that I turned to behold. I hastened to sit at the front of the box and scanned the room to find the largest chandelier had risen into a ceiling nook that masked most of its light. The fascinating effect made the stage lights even more pronounced. Because our box’s location, curved almost more toward the auditorium than the stage just beneath us, the footlights beamed in my direction. Just then, the orchestra players unleashed a torrent of sharp music filled with an exquisite, driving joy that set my heart to racing.
“Esprit, meet Ambassador Pazzi and his wife.”
I nodded as if distracted. But soon I realized Guccia meant for me to sit behind her, that the seat I’d taken belonged to Donña Pazzi. Masking my frustration, I stood and moved aside to let both ladies sit at the front of the box, taking my proper place.
“The Princess says you’ve only just arrived in the city a month ago,” Ambassador Pazzi told me.
Again, I nodded in agreement, my focus seeking the music lost somewhere on the far side of the ladies, who continued to speak to each other. A mild anxiety took me when I realized that most people in the theater were also talking.
“It’s quite an unusual place,” said Ambassador Pazzi with his raised voice. “I’ve taken to walking where I can. The boats are not good for my stomach.”
I stared back at him as if he were insane. Pazzi continued his cruel babbling about affairs of state while a tenor below opened his sublime throat to release a condemning decree to banish Griselda back to the forests from which she came. But it was not just the ambassador I contended with—I could hardly see past Guccia’s absurd wig from my relegated vantage point. I thought I’d lose my mind as the storm of chattering from around the room overwhelmed each but the loudest nuances of the music.
Worse, while a slight darkness shrouded the rest of the boxes, the stage lights lit us like ours was part of the stage. The garish lights placed us on display for the rest of the auditorium to watch as if we were part of the performance.
Guccia turned back, no doubt sensing my agitation. I gave her a perplexed look, then shot my eyes to the quiet roar coming from the rest of the theater. It seemed like no one had come here to be entertained—that their conversations were the actual performance, and Vivaldi played merely to accompany their miserable chatter.
“Oh, but we should lower our voices,” Guccia said to Donña Pazzi. “My nephew is one of those rare eccentrics who come here to listen to the music.”
Donña Pazzi released a peel of muffled giggles, shooting me an adoring smile behind her ruffling fan.
“Signore,” a man said from just behind me.
The servant held out a silver tray with four glasses of sparkling white wine, and Ambassador Pazzi reached to take one for his wife and then himself. I mimicked the gesture and handed a glass to Guccia. To my surprise, he placed a small table between me and Pazzi to set down a plate filled with food.
“Tonight’s apertivo includes Casatella Trevigiana, Cacciato di Asiago, and Marzemino olives,” the servant said, then nodded his head to withdraw.
“Excellent,” Pazzi grunted with approval as he grabbed three olives and swallowed them with a jerk of his head, chewing like a content bull. “Only in Veneto.”
Apertivo, the servant had said. I realized they would serve a full meal during the performance. He might return to incite this disruption as many as nine times more.
Struggling to hear Griselda’s plea to Gualtiero, I imagined murdering every miserable Venetian in the room.
At once, my field of vision became clouded. A strange cloud of deep crimson occluded the surrounding room. The auditorium’s noise fell away as if the people and players had stopped breathing to cede a deep rumbling I couldn’t quite place. Anger overtook me, and I felt my skin tingle. My wolf promised to break free of this gilded cage at any moment.
I rose with an unconscious bolt, upsetting my chair, and staggered back from the box into the drawing room. I couldn’t hear anything but my heart pounding and realized I must escape this place.