Three Stories About Ghosts by Matthew Marchitto

Author:Matthew Marchitto
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
Publisher: Rebellion Publishing Ltd

Chapter Five

“IDIOT.” MY OWN lips curled in a sneer as I stalked across the courtyard, collar pulled high against the rain. “Young stupid lovesick fool.”

Per’Secosa had been spitting insults at me with my own tongue ever since I had returned home and donned the mask. I had let him in—let him see my whole night. I held none of it back, kept no secrets for myself. After what I had seen, what I had heard in the Roscovi’s halls, I doubted that I had the strength to hold him back.

I had wept as he dug through my betrayal, his scrutiny scraping against the raw aching of my new, sickening pain. When he examined my unmasked meeting earlier that day, it took all I had to keep my agreement in Perro’s scheme from him—I would never be myself again if he thought for even a moment that I had wanted to see his empty dark-lacquered eyes cast into the flames. If he feared even the hint of such fatal insubordination, he would wear me until I died, allowing me to draw only my last breath as myself before he passed himself over to his chosen heir.

Per’Secosa had plotted through the night until morning in absolute secrecy, pacing back and forth in my bedroom as he cursed and spat at me. My body was numb with exhaustion, and hidden deep inside myself I was beyond fatigued. Per’Secosa saw none of that, choosing to pass on the pain to me along with his bitter, terrible anger. Too suspicious of the Verocci to call an attendant, summon a relative, or rouse a guard, he schemed in silence until sunrise brought an ugly wash of grey rain creeping through the city’s streets.

As thick raindrops spattered against the window, he settled on a method of dealing with his enemies that best pleased him, donning a heavy oiled cloak to make the journey through the grounds to the family vault. Still in silk slippers I was dragged exhausted over the quiet dawn-grey lawns and through orchards that whispered with the tap of rain on leaves until, masked and scowling, Per’Secosa reached the thick iron-shod doors of the family’s shrine to our undeparted ancestors. The building sat unassuming and grand all at once, a heavy and severe mausoleum of dark stone that held within it the most revered and priceless treasures of the Vetruvi—the heart of our wealth—that nevertheless stood unguarded among our gardens. It was always there, the vault, yet always at the edge of our vision. I knew of none of the family—none of my playmates as a child—who cared to walk in the rose garden that grew near to the vault, or to tarry too long in its shadow.

Still muttering curses, Per’Secosa fumbled a key from my pocket with cold, wet fingers and slowly began to unbind the locks. A misapplication of pressure and I would be poisoned by the darts that hid deep inside the heavy door. I could feel the temptation to rush

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