The Invitation(40)

It is an absurdity, this thing that has taken control of me. It is like a fever of the mind and body. I am trying to scorch it from myself.

And yet, perhaps if I could make her mine, this thing would leave me free …

THE CAPTAIN’S LIEUTENANTS are worried about him. They have never seen him so distracted. They discuss in secret what is to be done. The bravest among them offers to go and speak with him.

The man finds his captain, as expected, jealously guarding the closed curtains that conceal the place where the woman resides. When the lieutenant asks if they may go somewhere else on the galleon – somewhere where she will not be able to overhear – he refuses. So the lieutenant is forced to whisper, hoping that the woman cannot hear him. It is not precisely that he believes she has dark powers, as some of the men do. But it would not do to throw caution to the wind entirely.

‘It’s the woman,’ he murmurs, nodding towards the drapes. ‘The men don’t like it, Captain.’ He lowers his voice further. ‘They are scared of her.’

‘Of her? That helpless creature? Don’t make me laugh.’

‘They don’t think she is helpless, though. They think …’

‘What?’

‘They think she is responsible for the storm.’

The captain scoffs. ‘These are grown men, and yet they are acting like children, worse – old women, with their superstitions. It’s so ridiculous that I cannot credit it. And what has convinced them of this?’

The lieutenant shrugs. ‘Well, sir, some of the men …’

‘Yes?’

‘Some of the men have noticed the marks around her ankles. They say – I’m not sure this is true, I don’t know about such things – but they say that one who had been meant for burning would bear such marks. They have decided that she is a witch.’

‘The Genoese do not engage in such practices.’

‘No, sire,’ says the lieutenant slowly, ‘but we are not in Genoese waters yet.’

‘And do you believe any of this?’

A pause.

‘Well?’

The man sighs. ‘It has to be said that a few strange things have happened since she came on board. I have never seen a storm simply appear in the way that one did. It was … unnatural. And where we found her, so far out to sea. A normal person – especially not a woman – wouldn’t have swum so far and survived.’

The captain shakes his head. ‘And so you condemn her, for being brave? What sort of barbaric notion is that? We live in a modern, enlightened society. The Pisans or the Venetians might believe such nonsense, but never us.’

The lieutenant tries again. ‘And she wasn’t—’ he coughs, ‘wearing any clothing. That, surely, cannot be normal in a woman of decency.’

But herein lies his mistake. He watches as his captain’s eyes glaze over at the memory of that pale nude flesh, and his gaze travels, inevitably, towards the curtains once more.

The lieutenant knows there is one more thing he might try. ‘Sire,’ he says, carefully. ‘There is also the matter of your fiancée.’

It was the wrong thing to say. The captain explodes. ‘How dare you speak to me in that way?’ He rises to his full – and not inconsiderable – height. ‘How dare you insinuate that I am in some way lax in my duty to her? My care for this helpless woman in no way affects my deep and long-lasting love in that regard.’

The lieutenant takes his leave, apologizing all the way.





When Hal looks up from the page the light has assumed the bluish quality of early evening. The trees about him are ink impressions, the air is cooler. He is also certain that he is not alone. He looks about, and then sees her emerging from the shadowy gardens below. She looks otherworldly in the strange light: her skin paler, her hair brighter.

She has not seen him yet, he realizes: he is hidden in shadow. He moves forward.

She stops. ‘Oh.’

‘Hello.’

‘I didn’t realize you had come up here.’

No, he thinks – undoubtedly if she had she would not be here.

‘I wanted to find a quiet spot.’

She nods. ‘So did I. And I wanted to see what the view was like.’ They look together in silence, and he sees that lights are beginning to come on along the darkening stretch of coast. Then she glances at the journal in his lap. ‘What were you doing? Reading?’

‘Yes.’

Hal can tell she is curious, in spite of herself.

‘What is it?’

‘Oh,’ he says, ‘just an old book.’

He sees that she is frustrated by his reticence, that she wants to know more.

‘Can I take a look?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ he says. ‘It was given to me in confidence.’

‘Oh.’ He sees that she is stung, a little embarrassed. For a second, this knowledge gives him a kind of cruel pleasure. And then he takes pity on her. ‘It’s a journal,’ he says.

‘Whose?’

‘Someone long dead.’

‘Your friend?’

He stares at her. ‘What?’

‘You told me about him, in Rome. You told me he wrote.’

Did he? He must have done so. Yes: now he remembers. It was when he felt at liberty to share it with her, because he assumed he would never see her again. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘this isn’t his, though.’