This is what I tell myself whenever my conscience tries to plague me. Duchess Aurora is anything but cruel. Eccentric, no doubt; exotic, definitely. Her beauty spells defiance: eyes the color of an autumn's dusk; the darkest blue with a hint of golden sparkle. Her skin never surrendered to the Venetian sun, and after ten years at the palazzo, it still has the sheen of alabaster. 

The Duchess' husband doted on her, giving in to every whim. So much that, in the last decade, Venice has been dubbed la Cittá di due Carnivale, the city with two Carnivals. Besides the one carried on the Tuesday before lent, the Doche, Marco di Abruzzi, held a feast of masquerade in celebration of her darling signora's birthday. When Abruzzi died, we all expected it would stop, but like all things on this city surrounded by waters, it just... changed.

The Masquerade cannot be done with. It has become the staple of Fall Season, the curtain closing over those lengthy, lazy days; the welcoming of even longer nights. The music starts somewhere mid-afternoon, never quite stopping. Troubadours sing the graces of their host and noble guests, nodding towards her gracious, quiet beauty, hidden behind a golden mask.

I remember my first ball, two years ago. The Duchess' seat, granted by her dead husband, bestowed all honor. Garlands of exquisite hand crafted crystal orchids chimed above her, as if the loveliness of the natural world was not enough. She gleamed as delicate glass, reflecting candlelight, painted her skin a thousand shades. When she chose a partner for the dance, none could refuse her.

The fact that she picked me seemed a waking dream. I held my breath in anticipation of the warmth of her touch and the soft curve of her gentle lips as she curtsied and smiled, signaling the beginning of the dance. Every step was grace in form, poetry in motion. That until, with a twirl of her hand, the musicians slowed the tempo, giving way to a Pavana.

I've never been bothered with pressure before, but the measured step of the dance made me feel as if I had the weight of the world upon my shoulders. There was a sadness in her eyes, a dying down of her smile that made me think of her as a withering flower, trembling at the thought of an early frost. I felt compelled to comfort her, to take off that mask and kiss her brow, reminding her there is no need for sorrow, being a child of Fall herself and living in a city that adored her.

"There's nothing to fear about the arrival of November." I ventured whisper in her ear as we both turned.

"Oh, that I know," she answered. "Not when I still hear October's call."

Another turn, another step, and our brief moment came to a close. I bowed and smiled and thought that I was done. Upon escorting the young widow to her seat, Aurora Abruzzi casually commented: "A man of your knowledge might be of use for me. As I understand, Doctore Marchessi, your skills might render me good use. You have recently come back from Florence after completing your studies as a surgeon. Am I right?"

"Indeed, signora." I answered proudly. I was the first of my family to take on the robes of a medical practitioner. Somehow, I also added, in confidence, being an orphan taken under the tutelage of the Bishop of Florence.

"And so... does the good Bishop has a say on your choice of Venice?" She inquired.

"We had a lack in understanding, dear signora. Though I love the man as my own father, his concepts of sin and mine are at odds." I smiled, feeling that our conversation will soon take a turn towards the intimate and I might be right about all I thought on the sweet taste of things forbidden.

I won't be convinced otherwise. People might say she searched me out because I was alone in the world... but there's nothing farther from the truth. We made a connection that was to be put to the test that same night.

The bells of San Marco announced midnight and soon the last day of October was upon us. Those gathered in revelry raised their glasses to our gracious host and soon, the Duchess disappeared, leaving the nobles to entertain themselves until the break of dawn. None saw her again except for me. The circumstances of our meeting that first night were less than perfect.

A footman announced my summons to her private chambers. The man was discreet and so was I. When he poured wine for me, the carafe gave away his nervousness and glass hit glass upon my goblet. I drank eagerly and waited, until after a second cup the sweetness of the grape gave way to something bitter. I saw the Duchess come into the room. In a haze, the golden of her mask fused with that creamy soft skin. She confided needing a friend, and I swore her fealty.

I'd say my intentions were noble but I wanted her. The swell of her breasts, the sweetness of her voice, that promise of her lips that never quite turned to a kiss... I obeyed her every command, bound to her by the poison in my drink, or so I thought at first. I remember a slight movement of the muscles of my face. Sometimes I want to think it was a grimace of disgust, but I know well I smiled, following the dance steps in my head granting every wish to the softness of a voice that might have been laced with opium.

Half hallucinating, I walked to the nearby chamber, the instrument of my office in hand. The innocent young man strapped to the wooden posts of the slab before me must have taken double the dose of that strange concoction in the wine. Either that, or where I wanted her, he simply loved the Duchess. He looked at her with eyes full of yearning even as I followed her instructions and cut the tender flesh underneath the collarbone down to his privates.

It seemed there was no blood at the beginning, so swift and precise was the cut. Though my other senses might have been blurred, my hand was ever steady. Then it smeared, running crimson from chest to sides, spreading with each troubled breath. Still alive, still calling out her name in all devotion.

I worked following steps, as a man possessed. Soon my eagerness to please hit a crescendo and forgetting the thin metal blades I took those grafts of skin tearing aside with my own hands, separating flesh from muscle. The man screamed, making her panic, and though he soon collapsed after I ripped the first cut of flesh, I couldn't help but wring my hands around his neck and squeeze in fury. No one should ever make her loose her peace.

Aurora cried, she begged for the dead man's skin, wanting me to save its warmth to comfort another. That is when I learned that neither the dead man on the table nor I held a claim to her heart. Not yet.

There was another, in the shadows; a deformed, rotten specter of a man who moaned for blood. The Duchess covered that living corpse with what once was her servant's flesh; kissing that torso on top of rot passionately, painting her lips ruby with what was left of red upon dead skin.

"We need more, surgeon... More!" She requested. I turned my subject on his back and cut straight on until my hands reached the first of two slippery kidneys. She sliced them dutifully in thin strips and fed them to her lover. I carved and flayed, until blood ran glutinous and black and a dry heart could be easily reached through the space below his ribs.

Eventually I came out of my trance, and found myself culpable of murder, held to her will. The first couple of times I protested, but then the Duchess showed me reasons to weight my life against those of my victims.

They are gutter rats, Venetian trash, most of the time. Please don't be offended, sometimes there's a certain... Je ne sais quoi that catches her eye. I'm quite convinced that is the case of late. In the meantime, I do not pretend to understand...I've grown used to my purpose and a promise.

You see, the Duke Abruzzi didn't die, he simply fell ill to a decease akin to plague. A fever ravaged the man from within and rendered him a corpse in all but the most basic instincts. His wife discovered that blood kept him alert at least, giving him enough strength to sustain life in that casing of decaying flesh his body has become. Drinking it. Sucking it raw from the marrow, chewing it off flesh.

He'll die, soon enough, and she has promised me that once she gets used to the idea of his leaving her for good, she'll marry me. Have you seen her? Such a fetching, vibrant woman. Have you tasted the scented salt of her skin? Lying beside her after making love even in this filth of blood stained sheets is the closest to heaven that I'll ever get. The Duchess is not cruel, not at all. She is just a woman devotedly in love and eventually I know, she'll keep her promises and love me even more for being true to her.

I hope you understand, because though sweet, your beauty can't compare. Your pleading did nothing to my ears other than making me incur in wrath. That's why I took your tongue my dear, and wrested those accusing eyes off your face with the caress of the blade. I'd take your ears too, razor to cartilage. You don't need them to hear, though there's something beautiful about their delicate curves I've grown to appreciate. So... Up! Dance with me, soon enough I'll separate yellowed tendon and lean muscle from your comely legs... But it's been so long in this chamber I hardly remember the sun and I wish to work on a less gruesome skill. Do you know what day it is? All Hallows Eve, Aurora's birthday. You have served her right, and I will too. After all, she promised me a dance. Let's say farewell to the flesh, a cut of scalpel at a time. Hush. Tonight is our secret, haunted meeting; the lesser Carnivale.