The Chamber of Ten

IX

OUT OF breath, sweating, sitting in the shadowy interior of a popular tourist café in the square behind Palazzo Cavalli-Franchetti, Geena realized that she needed a plan. It was all very well abandoning herself to the ebb and flow of the city, but without knowing what to do next she was as lost as Nico. His presence still tingled at the base of her neck, but there was no true contact. Whatever happened next was up to her. And she had to think quickly.

She ordered a cappuccino simply because sitting there without drinking or eating would attract attention. Others were having lunch around her, and she knew she ought to do the same—get some food into her—but the idea of eating anything just then did not appeal to her at all.

Her arm still hurt, but the nurse had done a good job on the dressing. If only she had a clean blouse; the one she wore had blood spattered on the short left sleeve and down her side, and she could do little to hide it. Add to that the damp patches of sweat from her headlong run through the city, and the fact that she’d not had a shower for some time, and she was starting to feel as if everyone was looking at her.

But she had cash in her pocket, and she was deep in the most tourist-friendly area of Venice. A drink, shop for new clothes, and all the while she could try to figure out what the hell to do next.

Slowly she calmed, catching her breath, watching the tourists and other visitors to the city with a calm detachment. None of them had any real idea about the amazing place they were visiting. She had only been in Venice for a few years, but already she had come to learn that the city was an incredibly Byzantine place, whose various histories crossed paths, merged, and collided with stunning complexity. The city’s past was clouded in mystery, and part of her work was to try to delve beneath the present to discover these hidden histories. But sometimes the present was impenetrable. The people she saw here passed doorways behind which pivotal murders might have taken place, or important children have been conceived. They photographed canal bridges and gondoliers, little knowing that Venice’s true story lay in architecture rarely seen, in people untouched by the tourist dollar, or buried away below the oily waves. She’d never looked down on tourists, because she knew that they came here for enjoyment and learning, and did the city much good. But she had always believed that only a small percentage absorbed the true allure of Venice. Sometimes she thought it was because subconsciously they did not wish to. It was an old city, and anywhere with history this ancient and complex had unknown ghosts.

And they were happy. They laughed over their coffees and pastries, referring to guidebooks as they planned the rest of their afternoons and evenings. She felt detached, and filling the void between them was her burgeoning knowledge of this city’s shady past. If only she did not know this place so well.

“Another cappuccino?” the waitress asked, and Geena shook her head.

“No, I need to be somewhere, thanks.” The waitress nodded, glanced at Geena’s bloody blouse, then moved on to another table.

Geena stood and left a tip. Emerging once again into the late afternoon sunlight, she glanced around to make sure there was no one watching her. If Domenic found her now he’d be angry, but she was her own woman. He was a good friend, but she couldn’t afford to have him looking over her shoulder if she truly wanted to help Nico. He knew so little of what was going on, and though she had already considered telling him, she could not trust that he’d be willing to find out more.

“Where are you, Nico?” she muttered. Still without a plan, she went to buy something to wear that wouldn’t be so conspicuous.

The vision hit her as she was paying for the new clothes. She’d bought a plain white blouse that she could use afterward in meetings, and sensible trousers with deep pockets for carrying knickknacks… but when the image crashed in, such considerations—to do with normal life in the mundane world—felt foolish. She gripped the counter, waving away the shop attendant’s concerned flustering, and closed her eyes.

“Drink of water?” she managed to say, and was aware of the young woman dashing through curtains into the shop’s rear.

Geena gasped and leaned against the counter, hairs on the back of her neck bristling, because this was not Nico. Not entirely. It was him.

He has most of what he needs now, and the next item—the last—should be the easiest to procure. If only this fool would do as instructed without questioning … but really, he does not mind. It is good to be back and see what has changed. Much of it is incredible—boats that move without oars; carriages that shift without horses, on wheels that whisper rather than clatter; lamps without oil, flickering boxes casting images behind barely shut curtains; and strange devices casting smoke-trails across the sky. But what amazes him more are the many things that have all but remained the same. Such as this place …

He’s floating toward the rear of Venice’s old Town Hall, the Palazzo Cavalli, in a water taxi—in the vision, Geena recognizes it because she and Nico have made half jokes about getting married there. The canal is busy, and several people glance nervously his way, as if a chill has passed over them. He alights and approaches the building’s rear entrance. People in suits come and go, a group of attractive women sits on the steps being photographed, a gaggle of children shouts and cheers and their guardians look flustered and tired. He stops, looking up at the great building, and for a moment seeing it as it was back then. The façade’s colors are sharper, cleaner, newer. Gone are the tourists and those dreaming of marriage, and it is the Town Hall again, home to important decisions and policy making for the State … except that’s not quite the truth. Most of that takes place back at the Doge’s Palace, and this place is more a disseminator of decisions.

Be good, the man thinks, and then the feeling is so much more familiar, because this is Nico. He’s scared and tired, confused and muddled, and she cannot for a moment believe that he is letting her see this on purpose. This is spillage, his signal leaking because his emotions and consciousness are shredded, and she must take advantage of every moment that he cannot hold himself in.

He walks toward Palazzo Cavalli looking down at his feet, and for the first time she notices the bags he’s carrying. She has never noticed them before. One has a string-tied top, and looks heavy. The other is a briefcase, and inside—

The tools I don’t know how to use, the keys I’ve never tried, and that knife, that knife—

She gasps and the vision blurs. He looks up at the building again and starts climbing the five steps, and then like the sun slowly setting, the vision fades out until there is nothing.

“Madam?” the shop assistant says, and Geena can tell from her tone that she’s tried several times before.

“I’m fine, fine,” she says. “Just the heat, you know? And I cut my arm building shelving at home, and …”

“Well, take a drink. Come through here and sit down.”

Geena drank the proffered water gratefully, and followed the woman behind the counter and into a large storage area.

I need to get to Palazzo Cavalli!

“Actually,” Geena said, “if I could change into my new clothes back here, I’d be grateful.”

“Of course,” the young woman said, a moment of suspicion and doubt raising her tone. “I’ll be behind the counter.”

And maybe she’ll call the cops just because of that bloody blouse. Geena knew she didn’t have much time. An urgency pressed her, a hot ball in her chest, and it wasn’t only the woman’s reaction. She thought perhaps she had a very real chance of finding Nico … but she had to move.

Geena changed quickly and thought of what she’d just seen. Her skin was crawling. It had never been like that before. She had been looking through Nico’s eyes but with Volpe’s thoughts, and it had felt like invading and being invaded at the same time, a grotesque contrast to the beautiful sensation of when they made love. She felt dirty, and after stripping her blouse and trousers she rolled them up, tipped some water from the glass, and used them to wash herself as best she could. The nurse had cleaned away most of the blood, but the harder she rubbed the more she seemed to remove the traces of Volpe from her.

“Stupid!” she said, but it didn’t feel stupid.

Nico had Volpe inside him, controlling him, and though she had spent a long time immersed in the past, she had never believed in ghosts.

“It’s no ghost,” she said. Preposterous. He’d banged his head and now he was suffering from delusions. Maybe his psychic gift made him susceptible to such flights of fancy. And perhaps in his delusion, it also made it possible to construct an alternate personality that would fool even her. She’d only known him for two years; who knew what he’d been through before they met?

At least now she knew one important thing: where he was. Palazzo Cavalli was less than a mile away, close to the Rialto Bridge, and if she hurried she might reach it before he left.

Or before he did whatever he had planned with those things in his bags. The tools, the keys … the knife.

Time seemed to press in around her, and Geena hurried from the shop through the rear door, opening and closing it as softly as possible. The terrible idea was growing that, unless she found him soon, Nico would end up hurting or killing someone else, or himself.

On her journey along the Grand Canal to Palazzo Cavalli, with the mid-afternoon sun a bright splash over the mainland, Geena kept her mind and heart open. The idea of seeing things through the eyes of Volpe again was abhorrent, but she had to accept that if she was to listen for Nico. Her distaste must be only a fraction of what he was going through, and her discomfort was nothing compared to his. That he was suffering badly was not in question. She only hoped that he could be brought back.

And just how does someone rid themselves of a ghost? she thought, but the idea was too obscure to conceive of any realistic answers. Maybe there were people who might be able to help. Or perhaps once she found him, she and Nico could resolve things together.

As the water taxi powered along she checked her cell phone. Five missed calls from Domenic, but nothing from Nico. Ramus had called as well and left a voice mail. She listened.

Hey Geena, hope you’re feeling better. Er … Howard Finch was wondering what happens now. He’s got his team out here and … er … well, Tonio was wondering, too. I guess today’s out, but let one of us know if you’ll be well enough to come back tomorrow. There was the sound of shuffling, then Ramus’ voice again, quieter this time. Sorry to bother you with this, really, but it’s that fucking Finch. Sleep well. Another pause, awkward and loaded. He’ll be fine.

Damn it, she felt tears threatening. Ramus was a bright kid, and the fact that he could see past the obvious—understand that there might be something more to Nico slashing her than first appeared—comforted her. Geena glanced at her text messages. They were all from Domenic, and all said roughly the same thing: Call me. I want to help. Amazing that he wasn’t ready to give up on her after she had ditched him at the hospital. At the moment, she felt as though she did not deserve such friends. She pocketed her phone before the temptation to call grew too great.

Palazzo Cavalli was a popular place for weddings, Venice’s old Town Hall now converted to little more than a tourist trap. Remarkably romantic—and with the Grand Canal and Rialto Bridge close by, it was busy all year round. So what the hell did Nico have to do there?

As the taxi bobbed against the jetty, she let herself wonder what she would do when she faced Nico again. She had never been afraid of him, and she could not entertain that idea now. But when Volpe was driving him … who knew what else he might do?

Maybe that old ghost would want to finish the job started at the Biblioteca.

She alighted from the taxi and felt solid ground beneath her feet once again. The sun glittered on the waterways, even as the afternoon shadows grew longer. The smell of cooking food hung heavy in the air, and from elsewhere on the Grand Canal she heard the excited chattering of travelers.

Even before she pressed against one of the main doors, she knew that she was too late. He had been here, but she had no sense of his presence at all. But then she pushed and found that the doors were locked, and her brow furrowed in confusion and concern. It couldn’t be much later than three o’clock, but the office was closed, without even a scrawled message taped to the door to indicate a reason. Had Nico done something here that caused them to lock up tight?

And just what the hell would Nico want here? she thought. She sat for a while, looking out across the Grand Canal, trying to avoid the despair that threatened to well up within her. She had to help Nico—she might be the only one who could—and if that meant walking the city day and night until she found him, that was exactly what she’d do.

She felt her cell vibrate, checked the screen, saw that it was Domenic again, and turned it off. The only person she wanted to hear from right now was Nico. And he didn’t need a phone.

Volpe took charge once they were away from Palazzo Cavalli, but he let Nico see. It was as if he was taunting him with the ability to take over control of his body and functions at will, but if that was the case Nico could accept it. He’d rather that than be thrust down out of sight, deep into his own subconscious, where his thoughts did not even feel as real as dreams. Those blackouts were the worst, and he knew that so long as he did not fight too hard, Volpe would leave him be. He’d already used them to exert his authority.

Besides, Nico knew that there was no way he could escape. To begin with he’d been thinking of it as having an invasive presence in his own body, but now that had changed. Now he was a prisoner in his own body, and the invader was triumphant.

Zanco Volpe obviously had some definite goal in mind. He strode with purpose, the drawstring bag clasped tight in his right hand. He’d left the briefcase back in the building, its contents scattered across the floor of one of the old offices now that he had what he’d come for. He’d also left a hole in one of the plastered walls, and a space where something had been hidden away for so long. The office had closed early today for some reason, but that had made his job much simpler. No need to be quiet when the building was empty. He had broken in through a side door and managed to slip in and out without being seen. Volpe had admitted that there was magic in his ability to remain inconspicuous, a spell that caused people to look away or even change direction in order to avoid encountering him. It was subtle magic, he had explained, and not infallible—the monk on San Marco had proven that—but when he wished to go unnoticed, it aided his efforts.

The bag in Nico’s hand contained The Book of the Nameless, the soldier’s hand from the shattered ossuary on San Marco, the blade—still stained with Geena’s blood—and now the old seal of the city: an ivory stamp once used by the Mayor to stamp his authority into the wax seals of official city documents. It had been mainly ceremonial even back then, used on official certificates and state documents that would either go on show, or which were ruled more by tradition and ritual than by current laws. Yet it seemed important, and when Nico had first laid his hands on it—after hacking at the plaster and digging once again—Volpe’s sigh had been almost audible. He’d spun around in the room, searching the shadows for the shape he was certain must be there, thinking, He’s come out, he’s manifested, and maybe that means I’m rid of him.

But then Volpe had chuckled and touched him inside, needing no words to urge caution.

He boarded a water taxi, and Volpe told him where to go.

“Chiesa di San Rocco,” Nico said, offering the driver an initial payment. “We need to be quick.”

“I follow speed limits,” the driver said.

Volpe leaned Nico forward, his voice low and filled with threat. “We need … to be … quick.”

They were. Like the driver on their way out to San Marco, this man seemed keen to get Nico out of his taxi as fast as possible. The boat bumped against the jetty and Nico stepped lightly off, and almost before his feet were on dry ground the taxi was powering away, the driver’s hair flying about like a nest of upset snakes.

Almost there, Volpe said in his mind, and Nico knew he was being spoken to. When we arrive there’s a ritual, and you will perform while I conduct. There’s no alternative. I’ll guide you, and you will obey, and they will be excluded from the city once more.

“What if I don’t want to help?” Nico said out loud, and a sunburnt couple glanced at him warily as they approached the water taxi jetty.

You keep testing me, Nico? Volpe asked. He kept walking, looking at the ground before him, and he was being steered. You provoke me? It’ll do you well not to. I have done ugly things when they were required, but I am not a cruel man. I don’t want to hurt you—

“Like you didn’t want to hurt that man in the apartment?” Nico whispered. “Or that monk? What happened to him? I have no memory, but my hands are bruised and cut, and I feel sick to the stomach every time I think of him.”

Not your concern, Volpe said impatiently. What is your concern is the health of your own self, yes? The well-being of this body that your Geena loves so much?

“Geena is—”

My insurance, if other persuasions are not compelling enough. Don’t force my hand. Neither of us will benefit from that. And besides, all of this is your fault.

“I’m an archaeologist,” he said. Other people glanced at him, but perhaps they thought he was speaking to someone on Bluetooth. He almost laughed. Maybe this was the Bluetooth of the future, contacting the past.

You’re a meddling fool. Fate compelled you, I know, but it relied upon your bumbling—

“What do you mean fate compelled me?”

Venice has chosen my successor, as she always does. But they have all lived and died without inheriting the legacy, because my essence remains.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Nothing and everything. Fate or not, it wouldn’t have come to this if you’d left the Chamber alone … Volpe trailed off, as if what he’d been about to say was too much.

“Your rancid heart was so powerful?” Nico asked, wincing as he feared Volpe’s rage.

Only because I made it so, the old ghost said. Now walk on, Nico. This way … that way …

Soon they reached the church of San Rocco. Nico felt control slowly return to him, and he came to a standstill.

The fools, Volpe said. Oh the fools …

“What is it?” Nico asked. He had been here several times before, examining the relics of Saint Roch and trying to develop a time line for the church’s construction and alterations. It was unremarkable, as churches in Venice went.

The heart of the city, Volpe said. But like the bell, they have changed this also. It’s a wonder the Exclusion did not fail long before now. No matter. The ritual will still work, only differently. Walk on. Inside. If they haven’t torn the guts from the place, I know where there’s somewhere quiet.

Nico entered the church, sorry to be leaving the sunlight behind. He moved through to the nave and glanced around at the noted Tintoretto paintings that attracted more visitors than the building’s relatively recent architecture. St. Roch taken to Prison was his favorite—an atmospheric piece exuding repression and unfairness.

Almost there, Volpe said, and Nico felt the urge to look down at his feet. The old flagstone floor was worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, and such sights never ceased to fascinate him. He wondered how many people had stepped where he now stood—thousands? millions?—and who they had been, and what their stories were. Places like this had power, and myriad ghosts.

He caught a glimpse of an old priest walking through an arched doorway into the back of the church, perhaps heading for the sacristy. A pair of old women were kneeling in prayer in the front pew, but otherwise the church was quiet and empty as Nico moved around a velvet rope—careful to avoid being seen—and through a side door, closing it behind him. Beyond the door were stairs that he imagined led up to a choir loft, and a tiny chapel area. In centuries past, the Venetian ruling class had once been provided private services here, but now this narrow wing of the church was mostly abandoned. For the moment, he was by himself.

Nico was walked to the dark corner beneath the stairs. He knelt when Volpe urged him to, wondering what he would find in the old bookcase before him. Then Volpe took gentle charge, pulling out a pile of old books and stacking them on the floor in a shower of dust. When there was room he pressed sideways on one of the shelves, exerting pressure until the old wood creaked, then cracked. The shelf upright broke away. Books fell. Nico worried that someone would hear and come to investigate, but then recalled that there were only the two old women in the front of the church, and any sound from this forgotten corner of the building’s history would be muffled, if it was audible to them at all.

Quietly, now, he thought.

And the efforts of his hands did grow more cautious. He felt Volpe eager and frantic in his mind, holding back and yet watching with glee. Soon many of the books were strewn across the floor behind the shelves, and Nico could see the gray stone of the church’s bare walls.

The hole needs to be wider, Volpe commanded, and Nico could only do as he was told. As he prised the shelves away, Volpe was whispering, They can’t have changed this as well. Can’t have. They wouldn’t have been so stupid.

And then Nico saw the first seam in the stonework, filled with crumbling mortar that powdered away at his touch, and Volpe said, I hid it so well.

He dug his fingers into the chalky mortar, quickly loosening one of the stone blocks. When he managed to shove the first block back into darkness—where it landed with a dull thump—Nico caught a whiff of something stale that inspired a rush of strange nostalgia, and he turned his face away trying to find clean air.

Volpe turned his head back and breathed in deeply. “Old air, and the smell of Venice as it should always be,” he said aloud, sighing and breathing in again. Then he pulled back and returned Nico’s body to him, saying, I need to rest, and you need to get inside. I’ll be watching. Light the braziers, but don’t touch anything. This is a special place.

“Special how?” Nico asked.

I told you … the heart of Venice.

Nico glanced over his shoulder at the arched doorway he had come through. The door was closed, but he still worried about being discovered. The priest would not remain in the sacristy all afternoon.

“What if someone comes while I’m in there?” he whispered in the gloom.

He could feel Volpe’s exhaustion and his impatience, but then the old magician surged up inside of him again. Nico felt himself set adrift inside his own body, but he fought to remain aware, to continue to see out of his own eyes, and perhaps because Volpe was tired, he succeeded. His hands came up and clawed at the air, fingers contorted as if he were conducting some cruel symphony. He spit three times onto the dusty flagstones and used the toe of his shoe to scrape odd sigils in the dust.

The air in the room grew dense for a moment, the way it did just before a storm, and in that instant he blinked in surprise. The wall and bookcase looked exactly as it had when he had entered the room, intact and undisturbed. But then he inhaled deeply and the illusion vanished, so that he could see the opening in the wall clearly once again.

What have you done? Nico asked, though he spoke only in his mind.

A simple concealment, Volpe explained. If anyone passes by, perhaps to ascend to the choir loft, they will see nothing out of order.

And now I rest, Volpe added, but his words were only thoughts, as he retreated, fading back into Nico’s mind. Nico could still feel his presence behind his eyes, like a parent overseeing its child’s explorations. He started pushing at the next block.

No one disturbed him in his work, for which Nico was glad. If someone had come, he feared what might have happened. He would black out again for a while, and when he came to his fists would be bruised some more, his clothes more spattered with blood.

At last the hole was large enough to crawl inside. It took a nudge from Volpe to get him going, and he wormed his way through the hole and dropped to the floor. It was scattered with dust and grit and the crumbling remains of rat shit. He pulled the bag behind him, then the memory popped into his head that he’d bought matches the previous night as well as food and water. He had never smoked, but he knew whose idea it had been.

There were four metal braziers scattered around the room, filled with scraps of wood so dry that they ignited at the first touch of a match. Soon the room was illuminated, and Nico took a good look. He stepped back to the hole in the wall and sat on the pile of fallen blocks, enjoying being in control of his own body again—

But am I really in control? He’s only leaving me alone because I’m doing what he wants. If I turned and tried climbing back through the hole with the bag—

You cannot! Volpe screamed in his mind, and Nico winced and clapped his hands over his ears. This is important. This is urgent. Now do as I say, if you value your safety and sanity, and perhaps after that there may be chances to negotiate your freedom.

Nico gasped and stood, swaying slightly as Volpe slipped away once again. When Volpe was to the fore it was like having terrible cramps, his muscles twisted and under the volition of someone else, and when control returned his limbs suffered from tingling pins and needles. Freedom, Nico thought, but he had no way at all of telling how sincere Volpe could be.

The chamber was unremarkable. Square, ten paces wide, the only items it contained were the burning braziers, the only architectural features the slightly vaulted ceiling and the hatchway he had just forced himself through. So what was there not to touch?

“The heart of Venice,” Nico said, hoping for something from the spirit inside. But for now Volpe was silent, and Nico sat and waited for whatever came next.

This is important. This is urgent.

She had heard those words clear as day, drawled in the same not-Nico voice that had told her, Come here, sweetness, just before he’d slashed her shoulder. And whispered into the ear of her mind, they made the Venetian night more threatening, more dangerous, and a place where she knew Nico was once again being driven to do things he did not wish to or could not understand.

She had no idea where Nico was now. She’d left the Palazzo Cavalli soon after realizing she’d missed him, heading across the Grand Canal in the vain hope that she could pick up his trail again. She felt so lost in the city she had quickly grown to love, and several times around midnight she had tapped Domenic’s number into her cell and hovered her finger over the call button. But she had resisted every time. She’d cast herself after Nico now, and this could only end when she found him. After that would come the investigation, the police interviews, Nico’s assessment and possibly prosecution … but that was something to worry about in the future.

So she wandered, waiting for another flash that might tell her where Nico was now. She’d turned her cell off, but every now and then she switched it on again to check whether Nico had, by some miracle, tried to contact her. But the messages were all from Domenic, and the texts were also from him, along with one more from Ramus, and three from Finch. In his third text, Finch asked if she’d like to join him for dinner, and for an appalled moment she thought he was making a move on her. But her tiredness and worry were skewing her perception; it was a business meeting he requested, of course, though one carried out over a friendly dinner. Finch could feign concern for her and her wayward boyfriend—and in truth she thought he really did care, beneath that producer’s veneer and distinctly British bluster—but for him, this visit to Venice was still very much a business concern.

She answered no messages, but she did send one to Domenic. I’m fine, Dom. Thank you, and I’m sorry I ditched you. But I have to find Nico. She knew how worried he’d be at that, and seconds after she’d sent it she realized how unfair it was putting him in such a position. But she thought she owed him some contact. And she wasn’t about to lie.

She knew that Domenic would be looking, and he knew this city well. But she had the advantage of being truly lost.

Just after four o’clock, her wounded arm aching more now than ever before, she was sitting at a table toward the back of a great pizzeria she’d been to with Nico several times before. She had skipped lunch and needed to refuel. She’d eaten, and was making short work of a strong cup of coffee when someone passed by the window.

Many people had passed the restaurant window in the half hour she’d been inside, but something about this one had snagged her attention like a hook in her cheek. She felt drawn to it, standing and knocking her table so that coffee slopped over the lip of her cup. The figure was already gone.

Not for a moment did she think it was Nico. This person moved quickly, yet with a slight stoop, and there was nothing about the fleeting silhouette that she recognized. Yet she was drawn to the restaurant’s front door, opening it and staring after whoever had passed. The street was empty, the canal running alongside silent for now but for the gentle lap of water against stone.

Looking into the emptiness, she shivered and knocked her wounded arm against the doorjamb.

“Would you like the bill?” the little waitress who’d been serving her asked. She was standing at Geena’s elbow, perhaps afraid that Geena was about to leave without paying, or maybe just concerned.

“Yes, please,” Geena said, still peering out the door. “The city’s quiet today.”

“It’s a dreadful day,” the waitress said.

Geena let the door close, keeping the air-conditioning inside, and turned to look at the waitress. “What do you mean?”

The young woman’s eyes widened. “You haven’t heard? Terrible stuff. An old building collapsed in Dorsoduro, just fell into the canal. Seven people were killed. They’re saying there’s some kind of tomb underneath.”

“A tomb? What are you talking about?” Geena asked, more sharply than she’d intended.

The waitress shrugged. “All I know is what my customers tell me. I wish I could go home and watch the news.”

Geena stared at her for a few seconds before the waitress shrugged again and went to fetch her bill, leaving her to wonder. Her archaeologist’s mind went into overdrive. She wanted to know what building this was, how its foundations had been undermined enough for it to crumble into the canal, and—more than anything—if there really had been some kind of tomb revealed by its collapse. With her team busy at the Biblioteca, Tonio would send someone else on the university’s behalf. The city council would want someone from the department there, especially if there was some kind of archaeological value to the site. But if people had been killed, such concerns would hardly be the first things on anyone’s mind.

And they can’t be your concerns, she told herself. It has to be someone else’s job.

Unless it was related to the madness that had begun when Nico had shattered the stone jar at the center of the Chamber of Ten. Could it really be coincidence that an ancient tomb had been discovered buried beneath a building in Venice only days after they had found the Chamber of Ten and had its wall give way? She supposed it might be possible, but it didn’t seem likely.

But if it was all connected, then how?

It occurred to her that Nico might be responsible for the building collapse, but she forced the thought away. How could one man accomplish such a feat? She was letting her anxiety get the best of her. The only way to get the answers she wanted, to find the truth, was to track him down. Until she managed to do that, all of her questions would have to be put on hold, along with whatever crisis might be unfolding in Venice.