• Chapter Eight

    A door opened. A candle illuminated the small attic room. A woman entered cradling a small bundle, neatly wrapped in fine, white cloth and sat down across from the figure in a bed.
    "Is he alright?" demanded a shaky male voice.
    "Yes, he's alright,"
    A sigh of relief.
    "May I see him?" asked the figure in the bed, and the woman stood slowly, crossing the room and placing the bundle in two pairs of outstretched arms.
    "Horatio..." said the figure in awe, "He looks exaclty like you"
    This delighted the other, and he excitedly asked what the name would be.
    Another figure, who had been quietly leaning against the wall silently left the room saying over his shoulder, "I'll be in the parlor"
    All three looked after him and after a lengthy silence, the figure in the bed responded to the question.
    "I think I'll call him..."


    "Fiorello..." Alberto said slowly, "Maybe this isn't the right thing"
    I didn't answer.
    We stood beneath a set of apartments, staring up into the great many balconies as if they would give us some answer. The printer had directed us to this exact place.
    This place where another Grosvenor lived. A nervous and excited feeling overtook me.
    "Lets just see," I replied, "Maybe he can help. I'm at such a loss Alberto, all I need is a good explanation"
    I knocked and stepped back holding my breath. It seemed I would surely faint when the door opened and a man, resembling my father greatly, eyed Alberto and I from underneath bushy white brows.
    "'Who are you?" he asked, looking from me to Alberto then back again.
    "Mr. Grosvenor?" I asked shakily, "It's me...er, your nephew. Fiorello"
    His expression turned from confusion, to glee and then horror in about a half of a second.
    "Horatio's son? Could it be?"
    "Yes, uncle. They...I--"
    "Wait," my uncle said, opening the door wider, "Come in"
    Alberto and I stepped through the threshold, entering a dark, small room cluttered with books and papers. The chairs were piled high with scrolls, the windows were completely shut. A small candle lit up a table, equally covered with things, and lifting them and placing them in an elegant box, my uncle ushered us to sit.
    "Fiorello, what bring's you here? Where's your father?"
    "Back in Florence, he thinks I'm dead"
    "Dead?" exclaimed my uncle, and shook his head, "Do I want to know?"
    "It's such a long story, but...I'm here because I must ask you something..."
    "Yes?"
    "It's about the family...''
    Duarte stood, crossing the room and unrolling a scroll. It was some time before he replied, but when he did, he replied in a slow even voice; annuciating each word carefully.
    "Fiorello," he said, "I knew this day would come. This day when you would want to know about your family. Of course, the circumstances that brought you here is....strange, but never mind that. I'll answer your question, and I will answer it truthfully, for there are many things I'm about to tell you, that I fear you may not believe me on.
    Long before you were born, in two cities, there were two people. One was a wealthy young man by the name of Horatio Grosvenor, the other, an equally wealthy young lady by the name of Ophelia Andalinas. They met one day, at a mutual friends wedding and fell in love. The married in the following year and do you know, Fiorello, what happened?"
    "They had a son," I replied slowly, "And they named him Fiorello"
    Duarte laughed, "There, you are wrong Fiorello. They did indeed have a son. But they didn't name him Fiorello. He was called, Parysse"
    "Parysse?" I demanded, leaping to my feet, "As in, Rousseau's nephew? My best friend, Parysse?"
    Duarte nodded, "Sit Fiorello, and listen. Now I said they had a son, I never say it was theirs specifically. Parysse was your mothers nephew, and she and her step-brother Adam had raised him since his mother died when he was born and his father killed himself. Your mother was only 17 when she and Adam took this responsibility and when Ophelia got married, Adam took full responsibility"
    "So...Parysse is my cousin?"
    Duarte nodded.
    "And Rousseau is...my uncle?"
    "Step Uncle"
    I slumped back into my seat, feeling every bone in my body turn to gel. "Go on,"
    "When Adam got the oppurtunity to study medicine back in his hometown of Paris, he took it immediatley, leaving Horatio and Ophelia to raise Parysse as their own, but at the time, Ophelia was expecting a child of her own and couldn't take care of Parysse well. Adam went anyway, promising to send money whenever he could but he never did. Horatio, ever since then, has hated him for his irresponsibility.
    When one day, Adam returned, his mother, your grandmother told him that if he wouldn't take Parysse, then he would be taken out of the will. She explained to him that Ophelia was expecting and he was only being selfish, leaving her with a baby that was more related to him than anyone. So..." Duarte paused here, to light a pipe, "Adam took Parysse away to secure his place in the will, but by persuasion from other parts of the family, he was removed nontheless. Ophelia took pity on him, seeing he had no money and begged Horatio to include him in their own will. Horatio replied that he would never do such a thing. Do you know what he told Adam?"
    I felt my head go to the left. Then to the right. Left. Right. Slowly...
    " 'Being a family tradition to have blood family in the will, my son will certainly, without doubt, be placed on it. If anything should happen to him, then I'll respect my wifes wishes, and go against my own will, and replace his name, with yours' "


    ♦ ♦ ♦

    "Adam, what business have you here?"
    The dark figure brushed past quickly, not replying. He went into a brightly lit room where a woman sat: an aged yellow paper before her.
    "If it will please you," he spat, "Then I'll take the boy from Ophelia,"
    "You're selfish, Adam," the woman said standing, "The only reason you are doing this is because you desperately want a fortune that's you refuse to share!"
    "Before my father married you he was doing just fine with me and my sister," the figure said, "If anyone is being selfish it's you...'mother'. You knew very well he was ten times more wealthier than you. All you wanted was more money in your pockets. Who are you to pick and choose who gets my money?"
    "It was your sisters money too..."
    The figure, who had been on the edge of the seat the entire time suddenly jumped to its feet, nearly causing the chair to topple over.
    "It's mine now," he said, "I am the only living one left on the will to inherit the money"
    "You're siblings are still alive and they are entitled to some of the money"
    "Your children are nothing to me," the figure said coldly, and turning, left the room and shut the door.


    "Your highness,"
    I looked up, squinting as a bright lantern tossed a bright light into my eyes. Alberto was its holder, and he kneeled, bowing his head low and the lantern followed.
    I turned my head slightly, looking at our audience. They watched expectantly at me, and swallowing, I stood.
    "Yes, my servant?"
    "Your prisoner has escaped!" Alberto cried, "But he's left you a note!"
    "A note?"
    Alberto dug in his pockets and handed me the folded paper. The prop we had been using last time for I recognized the smudge from when I spilled a drop of ink.
    I stood before my audience, unfolding the letter with false-eagerness and before it met my eyes, swung to face Alberto.
    "Read it for me," I said.
    He took it and proceeded to read out loud when his mouth suddenly dropped and his face distorted.
    "What does it say, my servant?" I asked returning to my throne.
    No reply.
    "Alberto," I whispered and I could just make out Galen's confused face on the other side of the stage.
    "It says..." Alberto replied slowly, "It says ' I've gone to Venice where your kingdom doesn't extend ' "
    I frowned.
    The note didn't say that.



    Chapter Nine

    I buried my face in my pillow and tried again to go to sleep. The night was cold, Alberto was long since asleep. I felt alone and restless.
    I turned and faced the wall of the caravan, and stared at the fine grains in the wood. I didn't intend for the sigh that escaped my mouth to be as loud as it was, but it turned out that way and before my palm could clamp my mouth, a voice rose out from the darkness behind me.
    "You're wondering about that note"
    I rolled over. "Was that a question?"
    A beat of silence, and a flutter of wings from somewhere outside the caravan.
    "You pulled it off well," I continued, "Whatever the note said, I don't think I really want to know"
    "It's important"
    "Is it?" I asked, "I doubt that. I doubt all this. I always think if maybe I pinch myself, I'll awake in my bed at home. Safe. My mother and father by my side telling me it was all just a sick nightmare..."
    Alberto didn't respond and I pinched myself nonetheless: Hard.
    "You want to know what that note says, just admit it"
    "...What did the note say?"
    "It was from ananymous," Alberto said, "It said that your mother has family up in Venice. He thinks you should talk to them, they'll tell you more about Adam....Rousseau"
    "But I aim to just go to Mantua, and return and live the rest of my life in peace" I said, propping myself on my elbows, "It's the only thing I wanted from the start"
    "But don't you want to know about your family? There is so many secrets"
    "I agree. And so many mysteries too"
    "Mysteries?"
    "Don't you want to know who planted the note there?"


    A full one and a half weeks went by and Alberto and I found nothing about who left the note, though I had a faint idea of who it could be. After Genova, Galen came to me with wonderful news saying that our next stop would be Mantua. I flood of relief came over me, and I thanked him and Alberto.
    In an ironic sense, they saved my life.
    Before we left Genova, I pay one final visit to my uncle, whom I had grown to have a great respect for. He was growing terribly ill, but let me see him nonetheless.
    "My dear nephew," he said with tears in his eyes, "Be safe. Promise me if Horatio will be so stubborn as to reject you again, you will come stay with me"
    "I promise" I said and was caught up in the tightest embrace I ever had for awhile.
    Now, rolling up to the city of Mantua, a big feeling overtook me. This is it, my goal. My ticket back to becoming Fiorello Grosvenor and not The Dead Heir. I was excited, and nervous. Tired, but to restless to sleep. When the caravans stopped on the outskirts of the city, I was the first to leap out the door and inhale the lovely smell of the city.
    "Well," Alberto said from behind me, "I suppose this is it"
    I turned, "What do you mean?"
    "After you get the letter from the doctor, you're leaving back to Florence"
    I lowered my eyes, "But won't you be back?"
    Alberto shrugged, "Galen is considering travelling outside of Italy"
    "But Alberto! I'll miss you both terribly!"
    "Write me" Alberto said scribbling something on a piece of paper and pressing it in my hand, "Don't lose this. Because I'll miss you too. You were like a little brother"
    I could feel my throat closing up. That strange sensation before crying but I nodded slowly.
    "Good bye, Alberto"
    "Good bye, Fiorello..."
    I turned and went across to Galen's caravan, knocking on the door and stepping back. I put the note in my pocket, patting it to secure it and waited.
    "Fiorello?" Galen asked, his usually jovial face now solemn as he looked from around the door, "Are you ready?"
    "Yes..."
    He nodded, his mouth a rigid line as he pulled on a jacket and led me outside into the cool gray morning. The camp was empty as we walked quietly across it towards Mantua. It was silent too, the only sound being our footsteps on the dirt and my light breathing.
    "Fiorello, are you really ready?"
    "Yes"
    Galen sighed, "We'll miss you. Alberto especially"
    A wet drop slid down my cheek but I quickly brushed it away with the back of my hand.
    "I'll miss you all too," I said, as we stopped outside a small building, "Both you and Alberto"
    "And you are sure you won't want to come to Venice"
    I shook my head, "I'm needed back in Florence,"
    Galen opened the door to the pharmacy and I entered, looking around the dark little room for any signs of life.
    "Who goes there?"
    "A customer," Galen responded as I stood before a great shelf, examining an array of charts and diagrams. Some were simply built, others very detailed. I reached out to touch the corner of one and was met by a sheet of brittle paper that seemed to tear at my slightest touch.
    It was in a way, symbolic of how I was feeling right now.
    "What can I do for you today?" the doctors voice rose from the back room.
    "I need to be checked over," I replied, "And a letter written with your signature, sir"
    "Come to the back"
    I drug my feet across the floorboards and found myself in a room, similar to the one I narrowly escaped back in Florence. The doctor was at a small desk in a corner bent over some papers, and crossing the room, I seated myself atop the table.
    "Are you ill?" he asked.
    "No. It's quite a long story...and it's not a good one"
    The doctor stood, inspecting my face and tapping my head and cheeks with icy hands. He looked down my throat and into my eyes and other things which to me had no specific point at all. When he was finished, he set to writing the letter, signed it, and handed it to me.
    "Thank you," I said, gripping the letter tight in my hands. I handed him the money and returned to Galen in the front room.
    "Thank you again, Galen. For everything"
    "Anytime, Fiorello. Perhaps one day, we'll cross paths again"
    I nodded. "Some day"
    I watched him walk down the steps of the pharmacy and disappear around the corner.
    He was gone forever. He and Alberto. The tears I had been holding back since the beginning, the tears I was too ashamed to let show, came gushing out in torrents.

    ♦ ♦ ♦


    I stood on the stone steps of Grosvenor's Estate.
    It seemed decades since I last stepped here, wearing Death Attire and very much confused. Now I was fully dressed, the velvety red jacket Alberto gave me as a going-away gift making me look more "Fiorello" like, instead of "Dead".
    I knocked on the door, reading the letter from the doctor for the thousandth time. This was real. This wasn't a dream...
    The door opened and Marianna peeked out. Seeing me, she gasped.
    "Marianna wait, please let me in, I'm not dead"
    She opened the door wider, letting me in, and bowed, "Oh Mr. Grosvenor, forgive me please, I didn't know--"
    I wasn't listening. There was a great racket coming from upstairs and the pungent smell of herbs that drew my attention to the mahogany stair case, which obviously hadn't been glossed in awhile.
    "Where's father and mother?"
    "Upstairs in their room, your father is ill however,"
    I spun around, "What do you mean?"
    "He's caught the plague while you were away and out of desperation, your mother has called Dr. Rousseau..."
    I climbed at once up stairs in a daze that seemed to push me back a step for every one I took. When I reached the top, I ran down the hall, past the gazing portraits and stopped outside my parents room. One hand on the eleborate handle, the other on the letter.
    Do it, now! Quick, before Rousseau's name gets on the will! a small voice demanded, but I was frozen to the spot. My mind took control, my hand mechanically twisted the handle and the door opened.
    Two beaked masks looked up from an operating table.
    "Fiorello!"
    I jumped slightly as one of the masked figures rushed to my side blocking my view.
    "Where's my mother?" I asked shakily.
    "She's about here somewhere, she couldn't stand to see...."
    "See what?" I demanded.
    The figure took off the mask and I nearly threw up. After all I went through, after all I did...
    "Your fathers dead" Rousseau said calmly, "And his fortune is mine"


    Time is such an odd thing. It's powers are immense and deep and mysterious.
    It can take everything and give everything. And I suppose, I just never had enough of it.
    With Father dead, Rousseau wealthier than ever, and mother somewhere around, I haven't the least idea why I am here. This dream I've been exploring is turning into a nightmare. And maybe something more powerful than a pinch will take me out of it...

    Fiorello Grosvenor - September 16th, 1411