Strangers in Venice by A.W. Hartoin

Author:A.W. Hartoin [Hartoin, A.W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: A.W. Hartoin

Chapter Thirteen

NICKY SLEPT ON, breathing deeply without being bothered at all by grey morning light coming in from the window. It still wasn’t “domani” and Stella looked out at the rain, aching for home like she hadn’t since they’d gotten back to Venice. She had to get out and go, but it was the last thing she wanted to do. She longed to call out for her mother and be answered. To have someone come in and take over. Mother and Florence were so good at illness, even Mavis knew her way around a sickbed, but Stella didn’t.

When she’d gotten back from seeing Daniel, Stella had felt sure things were about to go better, but then she’d seen Nicky, ghostly pale and moaning with pain. Stella couldn’t soothe him and the aspirin wasn’t helping since he couldn’t hold it down. She read to him from The Jungle Book in a vain attempt to distract him until Sofia brought them dinner in their room, but he’d eaten almost nothing and then thrown it up. Around midnight, Sofia brought in a tin of something called Brioschi. She mixed a spoonful in a glass of water and insisted he drink the bubbly mixture.

It soothed his stomach and he only threw up once more when she’d insisted on changing his bandage, angering him into a rage when she had to roll him over. His buttock was insanely swollen, but he didn’t want to sleep on his front. The battle had gone on all night with him insisting he couldn’t sleep on his face and her saying he obviously couldn’t sleep on his back.

Finally, in the early morning hours, he consented to roll over and fallen into a sleep that bordered on comatose. Stella didn’t know what time it was, but now was her chance to get out, go back to the hotel, and see if the money had materialized, but she was so tired she could barely find the strength to stand at the window, looking out at the dismal rain. They were running out of time, if they hadn’t already. Only the thought of the Sorkines ending up in Peiper’s hateful hands could motivate her to move.

“Get dressed,” she said to herself and she picked her skirt and Father Girotti’s socks from the radiator. They’d finished drying, but her coat was still damp and her poor hat would never be the same. It’s lovely swooping feather had been totally destroyed by the last rain with no hope of recovery. It was silly to mourn a hat when there were so many other things to worry about, but Stella was sad. Amelie Boulard gave her that hat and she felt guilty for wrecking it along with her nice, red suit. She was getting good at loss and that wasn’t something a person should be good at.

She forced herself to put on Father Girotti’s socks. Her feet were better again, but it was only a matter of time and the thought depressed her more than the hat.

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