Carpathian 00 - The Scarletti Curse

them stopped at a door. "The bambina is in here. She is very ill." The gloomy, fatalistic tone of his voice indicated that they had taken too long to arrive. He pushed open the door and stepped back, not going into the room but rather moving quickly out of the way, one hand discreetly covering his mouth and nose. A blast of heat and a foul odor exploded out of the bedchamber. The stench was overpowering.
    The child had been sick repeatedly. The coverlet was wet and stained with the aftermath of her body attempting to rid itself of poisons. Nicoletta had to tamp down a swift surge of fury that adults would leave a child to suffer alone because they were afraid of possible contagion. She repressed the need to gag at the unholy stench and approached the bed. Behind her the door swung shut with a loud thud, but despite its thickness, it didn't drown out the useless, annoying wailing coming from the hall. The fireplace was roaring, generating tremendous heat and making the room seem to glow eerily orange from the flames.
    The child looked tiny in the heavy wooden bedstead. She was very young, perhaps seven, her dark hair in tangles, her clothes sweat-soaked and stained. Her face was beaded with perspiration and twisted in agony. Nicoletta approached her without hesitation, her dark eyes mirroring her compassion. She slipped a hand around the child's tiny wrist, her heart in her throat. "Why did they wait so long to summon us?"

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    she whispered softly.
    Something large and menacing stirred in the far shadows of a recessed alcove near the large windows.
    Maria Pia cried out and leapt backward toward the door, crossing herself. Nicoletta protectively stepped between the shadows and the child, prepared to defend her from the specter of death. A man's large frame slowly emerged from the darkness. He was tall, powerfully built, his black hair long and damp with sweat. He swayed unsteadily for a moment, one hand pressed to his stomach. Pain etched deep lines into his face.
    Nicoletta moved swiftly toward him, but he shook his head, and his jet-black eyes narrowed in warning.
    "Do not come near me." His voice was faint but held an unmistakable command. He indicated the child with a gesture. "Is it the Black Death?" His gaze was on Maria Pia's wizened face.
    Both women froze in place for a moment. It was the don—Don Scarletti himself. Even ill as he was, wracked with fever and pain, he looked powerful and entirely capable of easily disposing of two peasant women. Much to Nicoletta's disgust, Maria Pia crossed herself a second time.
    "Dio! God, woman, answer me!" he demanded, his white teeth snapping together like those of a hungry wolf.
    "Signorina Sigmora, do we have the plague?"
    Maria Pia glanced very briefly at Nicoletta, who shook her head slightly and moved once more to the child, quickly resuming the demeanor of a frightened servant girl. She was well versed in the role, using it as often as needed. She didn't look again at the man, focusing her attention instead on the little girl.
    Saving her would be a fight; the child was nearly gone. Nicoletta stripped off the coverlet and bedding, taking grim pleasure in opening the door and hurtling the items into the hall where the haughty manservant and whimpering aristocrats lurked.
    "We need hot water," she said, without lifting her eyes to him. "Lots of hot water, clean rags, and fresh bedding at once. And send two servants to help wash this room immediately. The healer must have these things now if the bambina is to live." Her voice was thin and reedy, a quality also well practiced.
    Scurrying back inside, she ignored the man leaning against the wall and threw open the window. The wind howled into the room, making the curtains dance macabrely and the fire leap and roar. The cold sea air immediately rushed inside, and the temperature in the room dropped almost instantly while the mist pushed out the terrible odor.
    The child was shivering, sweat running down her body. Nicoletta stripped her of her soiled clothing, smoothing back her hair. Maria Pia leaned in close that they might consult. "Are you certain it is not the Black Death? He is ill also." The older woman whispered the words into Nicoletta's ear.
    "I need to know what food they shared." Nicoletta's lips barely moved. Her hands were gentle on the child's distended abdomen.
    "Good sir," Maria Pia asked, "did you and the child partake of a meal