Blood and Gold - Anne Rice [132]
“Yes, like Botticelli,” she said, smiling as if I’d spoken it.
Again, I could say nothing. I was the one who read minds, and yet this child, this woman of nineteen or twenty years seemed to have read mine. But did she know how much I loved Botticelli? That she could not know.
She went on gaily, reaching out for my hand with both of hers.
“Everyone says it,” she said, “and I’m honored. You might say I dress my hair this way on account of Botticelli. You know I was born in Florence, but that’s not worth talking about here in Venice, is it? You’re Marius de Romanus. I was wondering how long it would be before you came.”
“Thank you for receiving me,” I said. “I fear I come with nothing.” I was still shocked by her beauty, shocked by the sound of her voice. “What have I to offer you?” I asked. “I have no poems, nor clever stories about the state of things. Tomorrow, I shall have my servants bring you the best wine I have in my house. But what is that to you?”
“Wine?” she repeated. “I don’t want gifts of wine from you, Marius. Paint my picture. Paint the pearls interwound in my hair, I should love it.”
There was soft laughter all around the room. I gazed musingly at the others. The candlelight was dim even for me. How rich it all seemed, these naive poets and students of the classics, this indescribably beautiful woman, and the room itself with all the usual splendid trappings, and time passing slowly as though the moments had some meaning and were not a sentence of penitence and grief.
I was in my glory. I realized it quite suddenly and then something else struck me.
This young woman was in her glory too.
Something sordid and evil lay behind her recent fortunes here, yet she displayed nothing of the desperation she must surely feel.
I tried to read her mind and then I chose not to do it! I didn’t want anything but this moment.
I wanted to see this woman as she wanted me to see her—young, infinitely kind, yet utterly well defended—a companion for the night’s cheerful gatherings, mysterious mistress of her own house.
Indeed, I saw another great drawing room adjacent to this one, and beyond it a marvelously decorated bedroom with a bed made of golden swans and gold-threaded silk.
Why this display if not to tell everyone that in that bed, this woman slept alone? No one was ever to presume to cross that threshold, but all might see where the maiden retired of her own accord.
“Why do you stare at me?” she asked me. “Why do you look about yourself as if this is a strange place to you when surely it’s not?”
“All of Venice is lovely to me,” I answered, making my voice soft and confidential so that it would not be for the whole room.
“Yes, isn’t it?” she said, smiling exquisitely. “I too love it. I’ll never return to Florence. But will you paint a picture of me?”
“Perhaps I will,” I answered. “I don’t know your name.”
“You’re not serious,” she said, smiling again. I realized suddenly how very worldly she was. “You didn’t come here not knowing my name. How could you want me to believe such a thing?”
“Oh, but I don’t know it,” I said, because I had never asked her name, and had learnt of her through vague images and impressions and fragments of conversation overheard by me as a blood drinker, and I stood at a loss because I wouldn’t read her mind.
“Bianca,” she said. “And my rooms are always open to you. And if you paint my picture, I’ll be in your debt.”
There were more guests coming. I knew that she meant to receive them. I backed away from her and took a station, so to speak, in the shadows well away from the candles, and from there I watched her, watched her infallibly graceful movements and heard her clever, ringing voice.
Over the years, I had beheld a thousand mortals who meant nothing to me, and now, gazing at this one creature I felt my heart tripping as it had when I had entered Botticelli’s