Beneath a Venetian Moon by Jessica Eissfeldt

Author:Jessica Eissfeldt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Historical
ISBN: 9781775147916
Publisher: J&J publishing
Published: 2017-10-24T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Four

Alessandra, prone on her bed, watched, listless, as the lone candle on her bedside table sputtered once, twice, and then went out. She wiped away a fresh trail of tears. She would never see him again. Never. Oh, how petty and trivial her concerns of last night had seemed, when she had simply wondered if he would come. How naïve.

A knife of pain sliced at her heart. Now he would die. Because of her. And she could do nothing for him. Nothing. Even less than nothing, now that Father had alerted the ministers, who had immediately sentenced his execution for the morrow’s dawn. And the conte had forbidden her exit from her chambers. She balled her hands into fists as helplessness washed through her.

Unable to lie down any longer, she sprang up, pacing back and forth by the window in her bare feet, unheeding the cold leaching into her bones as she wildly strode to and fro. There had to be something she could do, something. Anything. She scrubbed away more tears. They seemed to fall endlessly.

She wanted to scream, throw herself onto the cold ground. Wanted to hurt her father as much as he had hurt her. How could he betray her thus? She loved him. She crumpled to the ground as more sobs wracked her. And why was she forced to make a choice between the two men she loved? Why? What cruel fate had enacted this outcome?

She knew not how long she crouched on the flagstones, rending open her wounded soul with a frenzy of fresh pain.

But as the grey light of morning crept through the heavy velvet drapes, the seeds of a plan nudged at her heart. She slowly exhaled. Would that possibly work? She cocked her head, mulling it over. Perhaps. The tiniest particle of hope sprouted within her. She wiped her cheeks dry.

Getting up, she checked the door once more, giving it a firm rattle to ensure it was still locked. She stooped, pressing her ear to the keyhole and holding her breath. Nothing stirred.

Crossing to the armoire, she unlocked one of the walnut paneled doors with a deft flick of her wrist. Plucking out her oldest, plainest dress, she pulled it on. Tucking her hair up into a kerchief, she surveyed herself in the looking glass. She frowned. Not quite complete.

Bending over the ashes of the now-dead fire in the hearth, she smudged her forehead and cheeks with soot, running her soiled fingers across the front of her skirt and bodice. Turning back to the mirror, she smiled in satisfaction. A red-eyed serving girl looked back at her.

Heading to the casement, she flung open the shutters and secured them to the window ledge, then leaned out. Though her window was only one level above the street, she felt her resolve slipping. But the memory of Giovanni’s arms around her solidified her determination once more. She eased over the edge of the window.

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