The Carnivale of Shadows

The envelope arrived on the anniversary of my sister's death, which should have been my first warning.

It was black, sealed with crimson wax bearing no recognizable crest—only a symbol that looked like a violin crossed with a scythe. Inside, cream-colored parchment bore an invitation written in silver ink that seemed to shimmer in the lamplight of my London flat.

Signorina Thea Blackwood,

You are cordially invited to perform at Il Carnivale delle Ombre—The Carnivale of Shadows—to be held on the night of Samhain at the Palazzo Mori, Venice. Your particular gifts have not gone unnoticed. We require a violinist who understands that music is the language of the dead.

Should you accept, arrive at the palazzo before midnight on the thirty-first of October. Wear a mask. Bring your instrument. Come alone.

The compensation will exceed your wildest dreams.

Il Maestro

There was no signature, no return address, no indication of how the sender had found me or why they believed I possessed "particular gifts." I should have burned it. Should have laughed at the melodramatic nonsense and returned to my normal life of teaching bored society girls their scales.

But I didn't have a normal life anymore. Not since Ophelia died.

Not since I'd spent the last year trying every occult ritual, every séance, every whispered spell I could find in the darkest corners of London's esoteric bookshops, desperate to hear my twin sister's voice one more time.

I turned the invitation over. On the back, in the same shimmering script, was a single line that made my heart stop:

She will be there. They are all there. The dead dance with us on that night, Thea. Come, and you will see her again.

My hand trembled. This was madness. A cruel joke or an elaborate con.

And yet, three weeks later, I found myself on a train to Venice, my violin case clutched in my lap, watching the Italian countryside blur past as I traveled toward either salvation or damnation.

I no longer cared which.

Venice in late October was a city of mist and shadow, the canals reflecting a sky the color of old bruises. I arrived as the sun was setting, painting the crumbling facades of ancient palazzos in shades of blood and gold. My gondolier was a silent man with a face like weathered stone, who navigated the narrow waterways with the certainty of one who'd made this journey many times before.

"The Palazzo Mori," I said, showing him the address on the invitation. "Do you know it?"

His eyes flicked to the card, and something crossed his face—fear, perhaps, or recognition. He nodded once and pushed off from the dock without a word.

We glided through increasingly narrow canals, away from the tourist routes and deeper into Venice's decaying heart. The buildings here were older, their wa...