10. Vivi
VIVI
It’s dusk on my eighth full day on the island when I finish clearing the gaps around the door. I was hoping to finish sooner, but I lost a whole night when my first knife broke, and I couldn’t replace it until my breakfast tray arrived the next morning.
Hands sore and callused, I step back from my handiwork, careful not to disturb the plaster dust I’ve tucked into tidy piles.
Once the wind dies down, I’ll scoop them up with pieces of drawing paper and dump them out of the windows, like I’ve been doing since I started.
A storm is brewing tonight, giant gusts of wind buffeting the villa.
I don’t want to dump the plaster dust outside and have it blow back through the windows and scatter everywhere.
Talk about impossible to clean up, and something the housekeeping staff would definitely notice the next time they’re in.
Behind me, stacked in more neat piles, are roughly two hundred sketches. I’ve done some in pencil, others in pastels, all beach scenes, and all pretty mediocre. I’m not an artist. Never have been. But I can get the general vibe across and, right now, vibe and quantity are all that’s important.
And some tape.
Over the past week, the fourth wall of my room has become a makeshift gallery.
My sketches going up as fast as I can make them.
It’s been a decent distraction, but it’s also how I’ve been hiding my work from Giovanni’s staff.
Guards with food, housekeepers. None of them have looked twice at my amateurish artwork. No one has realized what it hides.
Right now, that fourth wall is bare of art. The outline of the concealed door is clearly visible. I’m not thrilled about the lack of daylight, but I don’t want to wait until morning.
My last meal tray was collected an hour ago. The next one won’t arrive for another twelve. More than enough time to get the door open and find out what’s on the other side.
“Okay, Vivi. Time to go down the rabbit hole.” Assuming I can figure out how to get it open.
The door doesn’t have a knob or visible hinges. The groove on the floor proves it is functional—or used to be. “Please, please, let it still work.”
I gently press along the rectangle’s edges. Nothing.
I push harder. This time it depresses slightly, flakes of plaster dropping to the ground.
I scour my brain, digging through the plot of every book I read at the convent.
There weren’t a lot of options that weren’t either religious (which put me to sleep) or in Italian (which I can’t read), but there was a collection of old-fashioned mysteries.
Gothic, Victorian, that sort of thing. Witches and ghosts and hidden rooms. I must’ve read each one five times.
Somewhere in my memory there has to be a hint about how to open a concealed, pressure-fitted door.
Ear to the surface, hands on the left side, above the groove mark on the floor, I push the door again. Something creaks. More plaster falls. “Oh my gosh, this might actually work.”
Heart tripping, I press various points along the edge. With each push, it shifts a little more.
The wind outside is getting wilder, louder, muffling any noise the door might be making.
Which is great as far as the guard in the hall is concerned; there’s far less chance he’ll hear anything that makes him suspicious.
It’s less great for me, since I can’t use the subtle sounds to figure out if I’m getting close.
It also means I can’t hear the voice.
The one that, late at night, I swear calls out my name.
Clearly, I’m hearing things. My mind is playing tricks on me.
Some nights the voice seems to come from the other side of the wall. Other nights, I’d swear it’s drifting in on the breeze. Either way, it’s faint and unsettling. Inexplicable, and proof that if I stay in this room much longer, I might genuinely lose my mind.
On the next push, the line between the left side of the door and the wall shifts. The panel juts out ever so slightly, rising against the plaster.
If I press a little harder, it might spring its catch and open all the way. I flatten both palms against the surface, give a hefty shove.
A click reverberates beneath my skin. Tiny cracks erupt across the left side of the wall. The door springs open. Just a gap, but enough that I can get my fingers in and pull it the rest of the way, more plaster flaking to the ground as I haul the heavy thing wide.
There’s a grinding against the floor—the door deepening the groove just a little more—but I’m able to open it so there’s more than enough space to fit through.
My breathing is heavy, my palms sweaty. The gash on my hand closed up days ago, but the skin around it is still raw. I’ve kept it bandaged, and I glance at it now, making sure there’s no sign of blood before I step through to the other side.
I don’t know what’s over there. I assume it’s a room. It’s so dark it’s hard to tell.
I pause, thinking. Glance back into my room and locate the light switch by the door. There used to be a ceiling fixture in my bedroom; the mounting bracket is still there even though the light itself is gone.
If one room is wired for overhead lighting, maybe the other one is too.
Darkness envelops my arm as I reach inside, feeling blindly for anything like a switch.
I do a silent cheer when I find what I’m looking for. There’s a hum, a snap, and then a chandelier flickers dimly to life.
I’m in another bedroom.
It’s smaller than mine, but not as empty. And, unlike mine, this one has curtains. The heavy drapery is closed, the room stagnant and stale.
I cover my nose and mouth, stifling a sneeze.
Sheets have been used to protect the furniture from dust. I keep my face covered as I reach for one of the shapeless mounds around me. It explodes in puffs when I tug off a cloth, revealing a plush armchair upholstered in a soft, blush-colored velvet.
I touch it with one finger, flinching when it glides forward, then back, silent on runners hidden beneath its base.
An uncomfortable sensation simmers in my stomach. It’s a glider. The kind moms sit in when they feed their babies.
I step back and bump into something behind me.
A cold sweat covers the back of my neck as I catch the corner of the dust cover and tug it free.
Underneath is a crib.
A beautiful one, made from intricately carved wood painted white. There’s a canopy on one end, the yellow-and-white striped satin held up by a crown-shaped frame. The fabric cascades down in elegant folds to cocoon half of the mattress in shadow.
The perfect place for a tiny Marchetti Prince or Princess to snuggle down to sleep.
I trace a finger across the edge of the wooden frame, heart pounding, my head a mess of questions.
Whose room is this? Whose crib?
Where is the child who belongs here?
Why was the door sealed behind a wall?
The room feels desolate, eerie. The shadows holding secrets I’m not supposed to see.
I shiver, aware of a hollow feeling that’s trying to push itself to the surface. Something has happened here, something that has caused Giovanni and his family grief.
I know something about grief. I should feel empathy for him, but I can’t. Don’t want to.
There’s a weight on my abdomen. I look down to find my hand pressed against my midsection. I didn’t realize I’d even moved. A subconscious reveal of another secret. One I’ve never told a soul.
One I’ve never had a soul to tell.
That of all the reasons I wanted to marry Tino, the most deeply guarded one is that I want a baby of my own.
I want to be a mother. I have for as long as I can remember. And now the man who should’ve been my child’s father is gone.
Outside, the storm is raging. The windows are rattling in their casings, the antique glass no match for the wind. The curtains have started billowing. Back in my room, sketches are blowing all over the floor.
I’m about to go back, grab them before they start making a noticeable amount of noise, when a horrible crack fills the air, followed by the sound of glass shattering. I whip toward the windows. From behind the curtains comes a screech, a thud, a wild beating of wings.
When I pull back the heavy fabric, a terrified bird is hopping around on the floor. Its feathers are speckled with glass, and one of its wings is sticking out at an odd angle. Blood trails along the feathers in visible drops.
“Oh, crap.” I crouch closer.
It spots me, its tiny body vibrating in panic and pain.
“Shhh, shhh,” I murmur, as if it can understand me. “Try to calm down, little guy. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Unconvinced, it flaps its wings, squawking pitifully when it can’t get airborne.
“Shhh,” I repeat. “Stop, you’ve got a broken wing. You’re going to hurt yourself even more.”
The bird cocks its head, tiny eyes latching onto mine. We stare at each other, neither of us sure what to do.
Damnit. I don’t know anything about birds. I definitely don’t know what to do when one has a broken wing. If it’s anything like a broken bone in a human, I doubt it can recover all on its own. It’s going to need help of some kind.
I huff out a breath. The poor thing chirps again, not at all pleased I’ve ruffled its feathers. “Sorry, sorry. It’s okay. We’re going to figure out what to do.”
I glance around, spot one of the sheets on the floor. Grabbing it, I fold it over several times until it’s the size of a small blanket. I hold it up, slowly leaning in. “Okay, little bird. Just hang tight.”
The rattle-chirp is louder. Its entire body is shaking now.
“I know you’re scared.” I keep my voice low, even. “I get it. You don’t belong in here. But if you can be still, I might just be able to help you get better and get back outside…”
With every word I lean a little bit closer until I’ve got the blanket a hairbreadth from its body. My angle is off; the fabric almost brushes the bird’s beak.
I expect it to freak out. It doesn’t.
Instead, the proximity of the cloth seems to make it calmer. A good thing? I’m about to find out.
My thighs are burning, and my arms are shaking, but I’m able to hover the fabric around the bird long enough that it goes still. Then, heart in my throat, I lunge, wrap it in the blanket and pull the whole bundle to my chest.
The action drops me on my bum, and I sit dazed for a solid second.
I can feel the bird trembling against my fingers. The fabric is loose around its head, its face covered but with enough room to breathe. I keep my grip as light as I can without letting it squirm away. The last thing I want to do is damage the wing more.
Once I’ve caught my breath, I push to my feet. “Okay, little bird. Step one is done. Now we just have to figure out what the heck step two is.”
A growl comes from behind me, making me jerk. The bird squeals.
Slowly, very slowly, I turn around. In the opening between the two rooms stands Giovanni. His entire countenance cold. “Step two in what, Viviana?”