standing or bent over?”
“My tastes are more complicated than that.”
She scowled at the three copper coins as if working out how complicated she was prepared for his tastes to be. Tycho tossed her a fourth and a fifth and watched her decide they must be very complicated indeed.
“What exactly do you want?”
“I want you to fill that.” The pewter bowl he handed her once held ink in the print room beyond his house. It was cheap and anonymous, without monograms, crests, patera or family marks. The kind of bowl anybody might own.
“You want to watch me while I…?” She looked almost comically relieved as she decided she knew exactly what he wanted.
“I want blood.”
When Tycho slashed open her hand he got to see her piss anyway. Only by then she was shaking too much to notice.
“Too deep,” she said. “You cut too deep.”
Blood frothed from her palm into the bowl and Tycho could smell it and imagine it sliding down his throat. Turning away to hide the teeth that descended, he bit his own finger, drawing blood.
“Who did that?” he asked
A livid wound crossed half her face.
“Whip slash. Got in the way of a carter.”
Yes, he thought he recognised it. The wound was deep in the way of whip cuts, ragged at the ends, too. Leaning forward, he pulled the cut open, her sudden scream stopping footsteps in astreet behind. He ran his finger down the side of her face before she could pull free and smeared his blood on her palm.
“Both will heal cleanly.”
“They will?”
“Go now,” Tycho ordered, his voice hoarse.
The girl scrambled to her feet and her ragged dog hurtled after her.
Crouched in her deserted doorway in a squalid part of town, squatting on her rancid blanket, Tycho drank from the frothing bowl and felt the streets and night sky come into focus around him. Her blood carried fear and sadness, loneliness and hidden hopes but no memories. Maybe for memories he needed a death. Drinking her blood was like tasting his childhood, and he hoped, without expecting it to be true, that she could fight free from her misery, too.
The next night he let it be known his house was permanently closed to friends and guests and would remain so. He suggested everyone make other arrangements for losing their money.
17
Tycho dreamt of late afternoon daylight darkening with the arrival of high-banked cloud over the edge of the lagoon. An early July storm as fierce as a flash flood washing the island city and soaking its inhabitants, falling so hard that stalls closed in the Rialto market and those selling food from trays on the Riva degli Schiavoni took any shelter they could find to protect themselves and their wares.
The rain bounced on herringbone brick in Piazza San Marco, poured in pulsing streams from the stone arsehole of a gargoyle on San Pietro di Castello, splashed from the lead roof of the ducal palace, and ran like a glaze down the copper domes of the basilica. It fell fiercely and for longer than normal.
Until the sun began to set and the skies darkened and what should have been a summer shower still fell. What Tycho could see of Venice altered as the lagoon swivelled beneath him and he found himself above a small island to the north-east of the city. Wild roses bloomed in bloody abundance over grave pits. Without being told, he knew hundreds of bodies were buried in each.
As he watched, a girl half crawled from beneath the newlysodden earth. She hesitated, then ducked down. A minute or so later, she emerged into the twilight, shielding her eyes against a last blood-red ribbon of sun.
For a moment, he thought it was the beggar girl he’d fed on the previous week. Dreams were such a rarity in the dreamless blackness he called sleep that this one had snapped him into a fugue state halfway between walking and not.
The girl’s hair was mud-slicked and filthy.
Her mouth was clogged with earth she scooped and spat free. An instantly sodden grave shroud stuck to her body. Standing
“My tastes are more complicated than that.”
She scowled at the three copper coins as if working out how complicated she was prepared for his tastes to be. Tycho tossed her a fourth and a fifth and watched her decide they must be very complicated indeed.
“What exactly do you want?”
“I want you to fill that.” The pewter bowl he handed her once held ink in the print room beyond his house. It was cheap and anonymous, without monograms, crests, patera or family marks. The kind of bowl anybody might own.
“You want to watch me while I…?” She looked almost comically relieved as she decided she knew exactly what he wanted.
“I want blood.”
When Tycho slashed open her hand he got to see her piss anyway. Only by then she was shaking too much to notice.
“Too deep,” she said. “You cut too deep.”
Blood frothed from her palm into the bowl and Tycho could smell it and imagine it sliding down his throat. Turning away to hide the teeth that descended, he bit his own finger, drawing blood.
“Who did that?” he asked
A livid wound crossed half her face.
“Whip slash. Got in the way of a carter.”
Yes, he thought he recognised it. The wound was deep in the way of whip cuts, ragged at the ends, too. Leaning forward, he pulled the cut open, her sudden scream stopping footsteps in astreet behind. He ran his finger down the side of her face before she could pull free and smeared his blood on her palm.
“Both will heal cleanly.”
“They will?”
“Go now,” Tycho ordered, his voice hoarse.
The girl scrambled to her feet and her ragged dog hurtled after her.
Crouched in her deserted doorway in a squalid part of town, squatting on her rancid blanket, Tycho drank from the frothing bowl and felt the streets and night sky come into focus around him. Her blood carried fear and sadness, loneliness and hidden hopes but no memories. Maybe for memories he needed a death. Drinking her blood was like tasting his childhood, and he hoped, without expecting it to be true, that she could fight free from her misery, too.
The next night he let it be known his house was permanently closed to friends and guests and would remain so. He suggested everyone make other arrangements for losing their money.
17
Tycho dreamt of late afternoon daylight darkening with the arrival of high-banked cloud over the edge of the lagoon. An early July storm as fierce as a flash flood washing the island city and soaking its inhabitants, falling so hard that stalls closed in the Rialto market and those selling food from trays on the Riva degli Schiavoni took any shelter they could find to protect themselves and their wares.
The rain bounced on herringbone brick in Piazza San Marco, poured in pulsing streams from the stone arsehole of a gargoyle on San Pietro di Castello, splashed from the lead roof of the ducal palace, and ran like a glaze down the copper domes of the basilica. It fell fiercely and for longer than normal.
Until the sun began to set and the skies darkened and what should have been a summer shower still fell. What Tycho could see of Venice altered as the lagoon swivelled beneath him and he found himself above a small island to the north-east of the city. Wild roses bloomed in bloody abundance over grave pits. Without being told, he knew hundreds of bodies were buried in each.
As he watched, a girl half crawled from beneath the newlysodden earth. She hesitated, then ducked down. A minute or so later, she emerged into the twilight, shielding her eyes against a last blood-red ribbon of sun.
For a moment, he thought it was the beggar girl he’d fed on the previous week. Dreams were such a rarity in the dreamless blackness he called sleep that this one had snapped him into a fugue state halfway between walking and not.
The girl’s hair was mud-slicked and filthy.
Her mouth was clogged with earth she scooped and spat free. An instantly sodden grave shroud stuck to her body. Standing
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