Read The Visitant: A Venetian Ghost Story for Free Online

was open; within were barrels and small wine kegs, hanging garlic and onions, a few pumpkins. The smell of fish was strong; no doubt one of the barrels held anchovies or some fermenting something. There, in the corner, was the bathtub I’d been searching for.
    I had no expectation that I would be able to lift it, but this wasn’t like the heavy tubs at Glen Echo. This had been made to move about, and so it was lighter. Not liftable by me, but with a combination of pushing and shoving, I could move it. I pushed and tugged it, scraping over the floor, down the hall, and into the courtyard. I had to pause now and then to move the fallen stones out of the way; it was astonishing that no one had done this before now. At the bottom of the stairs, I paused to catch my breath. I saw movement at a window on the second floor—Madame Basilio—and felt a wash of relief. No doubt she would see my difficulty and summon help. But as I raised my hand to wave to her, she disappeared.
    I waited a moment, expecting her to come out, but as the minutes passed, and she didn’t, I began to wonder if seeing her had only been wishful thinking. Or perhaps she had merely been heeding my request for no interference. Resignedly, I looked up the stairs. They looked too narrow, the cast-iron railing in the way. And even if I managed it, there would be the water to bring. Buckets and buckets of it.
    I cursed Giulia, Zuan, Samuel Farber, and the rest of the world as I lugged that miserable, godforsaken tub up those stairs. It fell upon my foot, cracked my shin, pinched my fingers between it and the cast-iron rail. Bits of plaster came off as the tub smashed into the wall—just let them try to complain about it! It would serve them all right if I destroyed the entire palazzo. And then, as if to emphasize the point, I lost my grip and the tub smacked hard enough on a step to crack it before I got hold of it again.
    I never thought I would get it to the top, and when I did, I stood there disbelieving. And sore. With swollen fingers and a throbbing shin, and sweating so hard my bodice was sticking to me. But I had done it.
    I scraped it over the floor to the middle of the sala, out of the way of a rat-bitten settee scattered with fraying pillows and a chair whose upholstery had split in the damp.
    I heard a pattering sound from the doorway, and turned to see Samuel Farber standing there, holding on to the white marble pillar of the entry as if it were keeping him upright. He was barefoot, wearing only his nightshirt. “What the hell?”
    I straightened. “I am fetching you a bath.”
    “So I heard. Probably all of Cannaregio heard as well.”
    “Your lovely Giulia declined to help.”
    “You brought that up by yourself?” He looked vaguely impressed when I nodded. “You’re stronger than you look.”
    “You’ll catch your death, standing barefoot on this floor.” It radiated cold; I felt it even through the soles of my boots. I moved past him to the hall. “It might take me a while to bring the water.”
    He nodded, limping to the settee, where he sank as if the journey had exhausted him. I left him there, irritated all over again that he hadn’t offered his help either, though of course he was weak as a babe and just as incapable of hauling water up those stairs.
    It took me another hour to draw water from the well and bring it up, two barrels at a time. Samuel Farber only watched impassively as I poured it into the bathtub. When it was nearly full, I brought up hot water from the kitchen—there was plenty of it, as I’d suspected—so the water was cool, but not cold. Then I stood back, took a deep breath, and gestured at it.
    He eyed it dubiously. “It’s not steaming.”
    “No. It’s supposed to be cool.”
    “Cool?” Incredulously. “There’s no heat in here.”
    “I’m not cold at all.”
    “You’ve just lugged a bathtub and buckets of water up three flights,” he pointed out.
    “Get in.”
    “I’ll