Not your concern, Volpe said impatiently. What is your concern is the health of your own self, yes? The well-being of this body that your Geena loves so much?
“Geena is—”
My insurance, if other persuasions are not compelling enough. Don’t force my hand. Neither of us will benefit from that. And besides, all of this is your fault.
“I’m an archaeologist,” he said. Other people glanced at him, but perhaps they thought he was speaking to someone on Bluetooth. He almost laughed. Maybe this was the Bluetooth of the future, contacting the past.
You’re a meddling fool. Fate compelled you, I know, but it relied upon your bumbling—
“What do you mean fate compelled me?”
Venice has chosen my successor, as she always does. But they have all lived and died without inheriting the legacy, because my essence remains.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
Nothing and everything. Fate or not, it wouldn’t have come to this if you’d left the Chamber alone … Volpe trailed off, as if what he’d been about to say was too much.
“Your rancid heart was so powerful?” Nico asked, wincing as he feared Volpe’s rage.
Only because I made it so, the old ghost said. Now walk on, Nico. This way … that way …
Soon they reached the church of San Rocco. Nico felt control slowly return to him, and he came to a standstill.
The fools, Volpe said. Oh the fools …
“What is it?” Nico asked. He had been here several times before, examining the relics of Saint Roch and trying to develop a time line for the church’s construction and alterations. It was unremarkable, as churches in Venice went.
The heart of the city, Volpe said. But like the bell, they have changed this also. It’s a wonder the Exclusion did not fail long before now. No matter. The ritual will still work, only differently. Walk on. Inside. If they haven’t torn the guts from the place, I know where there’s somewhere quiet.
Nico entered the church, sorry to be leaving the sunlight behind. He moved through to the nave and glanced around at the noted Tintoretto paintings that attracted more visitors than the building’s relatively recent architecture. St. Roch taken to Prison was his favorite—an atmospheric piece exuding repression and unfairness.
Almost there, Volpe said, and Nico felt the urge to look down at his feet. The old flagstone floor was worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, and such sights never ceased to fascinate him. He wondered how many people had stepped where he now stood—thousands? millions?—and who they had been, and what their stories were. Places like this had power, and myriad ghosts.
He caught a glimpse of an old priest walking through an arched doorway into the back of the church, perhaps heading for the sacristy. A pair of old women were kneeling in prayer in the front pew, but otherwise the church was quiet and empty as Nico moved around a velvet rope—careful to avoid being seen—and through a side door, closing it behind him. Beyond the door were stairs that he imagined led up to a choir loft, and a tiny chapel area. In centuries past, the Venetian ruling class had once been provided private services here, but now this narrow wing of the church was mostly abandoned. For the moment, he was by himself.
Nico was walked to the dark corner beneath the stairs. He knelt when Volpe urged him to, wondering what he would find in the old bookcase before him. Then Volpe took gentle charge, pulling out a pile of old books and stacking them on the floor in a shower of dust. When there was room he pressed sideways on one of the shelves, exerting pressure until the old wood creaked, then cracked. The shelf upright broke away. Books fell. Nico worried that someone would hear and come to investigate, but then recalled that there were only the two old women in the front of the church, and any sound from this forgotten corner of the building’s history would be muffled, if it was audible to them at all.
Quietly, now, he thought.
And the efforts of his hands did grow more cautious. He felt Volpe eager and frantic in his mind, holding back and yet watching with glee. Soon many of the books were strewn across the floor behind the shelves, and Nico could see the gray stone of the church’s bare walls.
The hole needs to be wider, Volpe commanded, and Nico could only do as he was told. As he prised the shelves away, Volpe was whispering, They can’t have changed this as well. Can’t have. They wouldn’t have been so stupid.
And then Nico saw the first seam in the stonework, filled with crumbling mortar that powdered away at his touch, and Volpe said, I hid it so well.
He dug his fingers into the chalky mortar, quickly loosening one of the stone blocks. When he managed to shove the first block back into darkness—where it landed with a dull thump—Nico caught a whiff of something stale that inspired a rush of strange nostalgia, and he turned his face away trying to find clean air.
Volpe turned his head back and breathed in deeply. “Old air, and the smell of Venice as it should always be,” he said aloud, sighing and breathing in again. Then he pulled back and returned Nico’s body to him, saying, I need to rest, and you need to get inside. I’ll be watching. Light the braziers, but don’t touch anything. This is a special place.
“Special how?” Nico asked.
I told you … the heart of Venice.
Nico glanced over his shoulder at the arched doorway he had come through. The door was closed, but he still worried about being discovered. The priest would not remain in the sacristy all afternoon.
“What if someone comes while I’m in there?” he whispered in the gloom.
He could feel Volpe’s exhaustion and his impatience, but then the old magician surged up inside of him again. Nico felt himself set adrift inside his own body, but he fought to remain aware, to continue to see out of his own eyes, and perhaps because Volpe was tired, he succeeded. His hands came up and clawed at the air, fingers contorted as if he were conducting some cruel symphony. He spit three times onto the dusty flagstones and used the toe of his shoe to scrape odd sigils in the dust.
The air in the room grew dense for a moment, the way it did just before a storm, and in that instant he blinked in surprise. The wall and bookcase looked exactly as it had when he had entered the room, intact and undisturbed. But then he inhaled deeply and the illusion vanished, so that he could see the opening in the wall clearly once again.
What have you done? Nico asked, though he spoke only in his mind.
A simple concealment, Volpe explained. If anyone passes by, perhaps to ascend to the choir loft, they will see nothing out of order.
And now I rest, Volpe added, but his words were only thoughts, as he retreated, fading back into Nico’s mind. Nico could still feel his presence behind his eyes, like a parent overseeing its child’s explorations. He started pushing at the next block.
No one disturbed him in his work, for which Nico was glad. If someone had come, he feared what might have happened. He would black out again for a while, and when he came to his fists would be bruised some more, his clothes more spattered with blood.
At last the hole was large enough to crawl inside. It took a nudge from Volpe to get him going, and he wormed his way through the hole and dropped to the floor. It was scattered with dust and grit and the crumbling remains of rat shit. He pulled the bag behind him, then the memory popped into his head that he’d bought matches the previous night as well as food and water. He had never smoked, but he knew whose idea it had been.