Carpathian 00 - The Scarletti Curse

Pia fussed over her, making certain she was properly covered. "Your shoes, bambina" the older woman hissed.
    They were both shivering in the unrelenting wind. It was dark and gloomy before the great hulk of the door, which seemed to stare unpleasantly at them. Nicoletta thought the carvings were of lost souls shrieking in flames, but then, her imagination always got the better of her when she was near this place.
    Maria Pia took hold of the heavy knocker and allowed it to drop. It boomed cavernously, the sound hollow and mournful in the gathering fog and darkness.
    Hastily Nicoletta slipped on the offending sandals, tying the thongs around her ankles as the door swung silently open. Rows of tapered candles burned in sconces in the lofty entrance hall, flickering and dancing along the high walls, shrouding the long corridor and vaulted ceilings in grotesque shadows. The man standing in the doorway was tall and thin with gaunt cheeks and silver-peppered hair. His dark eyes moved over the two women with a hint of disdain, but his face remained expressionless. "This way."
    For a moment neither woman moved. Then Nicoletta stepped into the palazzo. At once the earth shifted.
    The movement seemed but the slightest of tremors, barely felt, yet the candles in the hall swayed, the flames leapt high as if in warning, and wax splattered onto the floor. Maria Pia and Nicoletta looked at one another. The older woman quickly made the sign of the cross toward the interior of the house and then back behind them into the darkness and the howling wind.

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    The manservant turned back to look at the women. At once, Maria Pia followed him, but not before altering her entire demeanor. She stood taller, appeared confident, a quiet dignity clinging to her.
    Nicoletta assumed the opposite stance. Shoulders stooped, she slunk along the great hall, casting nervous glances this way and that, her head bowed low, her eyes on the floor. She scooted along the wall, hoping to blend into the shadows, her thin sandals silent on the marble-tiled floor, drawing no attention to herself in her attempt to masquerade as the "healer's" lowly apprentice.
    The man leading the way took many twists and turns along various passageways and halls and through several large rooms, moving so quickly that the average person had no time to note any landmarks.
    Maria Pia looked serene despite the circumstances, relying on Nicoletta, as she had so many times in the past, to know their way back. The palazzo's interior was an incredible example of a master craftsman's imagination and art. The enormously thick walls were of smooth pink-and-white marble. The ceilings were high, vaulted, with impressive domes and arches. The floors were of marble tiles throughout, the large blocks impossibly smooth beneath their feet. Sculptures and artwork abounded, often of huge winged creatures guarding the devil's lair. Alcoves and portals housed intricately carved angels and demons. Horses and mythical creatures bounded above the archways and along the walls. Great columns and arches rose upward; and each room was larger and more ornate than the last. The tapers lent a certain animation to the silent sculptures, which stared down with flat eyes upon the women hurrying along the cavernous corridors.
    The sound of wailing echoed through the halls. As they rounded a corner, two women came into view.
    They were clinging to each other, the younger sobbing hysterically, the older one crying softly. A young man stood rather helplessly beside them, obviously grief-stricken, one hand covering his face. A quick glimpse told Nicoletta they were highborn personages, their clothes lavish, their hair perfect despite circumstances. For some reason that detail stuck in her mind. She knew the two women on sight, of course; they came often with their servants to the villaggio demanding new material for their dressmakers. The older woman was beautiful, cool, and aloof, no more than thirty-five and probably younger. Portia Scarletti and her daughter, Margerita. Portia was a widow, a distant Scarletti relative who had lived in the palazzo most of her life. Her daughter was about fifteen or sixteen and extremely haughty to the girls in the villaggio. Nicoletta knew the young man was Vincente Scarletti, youngest brother to the don. She averted her eyes quickly and shrank farther into the gloom of the corridor.
    The servant escorting