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.Her wet robe clung to her legs and belly.The string ran out at the last stake she had planted, on the water’s edge directly below her cottage.She let go of the twine and stepped gingerly down the bank, where she squatted to rinse her hands in the freezing water.Then she stood and walked the few paces to her house by memory.She awoke to a gentle touch on her cheek.It rested there for a moment, then began to trace the curve of her face to the corner of her eye.Smiling, she raised her hand to push it away.Her fingers fumbled against the heavy wings of a moth, which went frantic with terror.For a moment, the insect’s strange body beat against her eyelid before it came to its senses and rose out of reach.Too late, Carolina hid her face among the velvets, but fear drained quickly from her heart as the familiar room took shape around her in her mind: the fireplace still black with Christmas fire, the wooden chair at the small table, the square of light she could feel clearly, falling on her bare shoulder.But a window must be broken, if the moth had flown in.Carolina rose on her knees, located the windowsill—and found her investigation stopped short by one of her scarves, which had been pinned neatly into place.Not only that, but the window beyond the scrap of silk was open: she could hear the woods chatter and breathe beyond, and feel some small wind, more like a sigh than a breeze.It was impossible that her father hadn’t shut the house for the winter.Who had opened it?Toying with this mystery, she twisted back amid the velvets.At the foot of the couch, something crashed to the floor: a bowl, maybe, filled with marbles or shells, which skittered over the wooden floor all the way to the far corners.Outside, from the lakeshore, a sharp voice called, “Who’s there?”Carolina laughed out loud.Then she pulled her blanket up over her bare chest.“Turri?” she said.Moments later, steps rang on the cottage stairs.The door rattled.“Have you been staying here all winter?” Carolina asked.“I wish,” Turri said.He was the first person she had spoken to outside her home since she lost her sight.For a moment, shyness paralyzed her.Then she raised her eyes to what she guessed must be his face.“I’m much taller than you think,” Turri said.“That’s the third button of my shirt.”Carolina lifted her eyes higher.“My Roman nose,” he said.She smiled, and tried again.“There,” he said.He fell silent.A chair scraped along the floor.“Is this what the string and sticks were for, then?” he asked.She nodded.Again, silence.Nothing could tell her if he was staring into her blind eyes, or gazing out at the lake.She frowned.“Your sight has gone?” he asked gently.“It’s like light,” she said.“Moving beyond a heavy curtain.When it’s dark, nothing.”“I thought so when you didn’t come to the lake,” Turri said.The chair creaked as he leaned forward, or back.“I wanted to send you something, but I couldn’t think what to send.”“Liza has been telling me lies about the pictures in your books,” Carolina told him.“That’s wonderful,” Turri said.“You should have her tell you as many lies as she can.I, for instance, have been building a flying machine.So as not to alarm our neighbors, I only use it after dark.Since the snow melted, I have spent the night in half a dozen trees.”“I wish you would take me,” Carolina said.“It only seats one,” Turri said.Then he relented: “But I could teach you how to fly it yourself.”Carolina shook her head and flattened her palms on the soft velvet.Outside, perhaps from the other side of the lake, someone called her name.Pietro.She realized again that she was naked.Turri had already risen.“I’ll be gone before he sees,” he said, speaking low.Then, silence.No step on the stairs, no click of the door, betrayed him, as if he really had risen through the roof in the grip of a flying machine.“Carolina!” Pietro shouted again, closer now.Hurried, solid footsteps crossed the damp grass and mounted the stairs.Pietro threw the door open.In a moment, his arms enveloped her, his hands cold, his breath hot, his chest and forehead wet.As he gathered her up, something smooth and round pressed into her ribs.Carolina reached for it and touched satin.“You left your shoes,” he said in explanation.“I brought them for you.”Without releasing her, he dropped the slippers on the floor beside the bed, then spread his hands wide over her bare flesh.He kissed both her cheeks and pressed her face to his neck.“A maid found them, but I came for you myself,” he said.“Thank you,” Carolina murmured.His breathing slowed and became deep.His hand tightened in her hair.He kissed the side of her face, her bare shoulders, the dust and salt in the hollow of her neck, and pushed her back into the pillows of her couch.Before she and Pietro even emerged from the pines, Carolina could hear that all the servants had spilled out into the front yard.Children laughed and shrieked in the throes of some game.Women murmured to one another.Men barked orders and others refused them with equal force.When the two of them stepped out of the forest, a great cry rose up and the crowd rushed close.Little hands pulled at her torn robe.Grown ones reached for her arms and waist and elbow.Like a stubborn horse, Carolina drew to a halt and turned her face against Pietro’s chest.Pietro laughed.“All right,” he said.“Stand back.Nothing is wrong.We’ve just come from a walk.”The babble of voices around them rose with questions and protests, but the hands fell away, leaving only Pietro’s.He had half carried her all the way from the lake, since her punished feet couldn’t support her weight without pain [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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