Page 49 of In the Garden of Monsters

Ignazio cleared his throat, drawing all our attention in his direction. “Miss Parker, I am pleased that my driver has delivered you to Bomarzo without issue. I have arranged a room for you next to Julia’s.” He turned to Gala. “Ms. Dalí, I am taking care of Miss Parker’s expenses, so please do not concern yourself about that.”

Gala huffed but didn’t say anything.

Lillian stared at Ignazio, and I knew she recognized him from the brief description I had given her over the phone. “You must be Ignazio. Thank you for putting me up. Julia has told me much about you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“It is,” she said matter-of-factly, linking her arm in mine, a protective gesture.

I thought I saw the hint of a smirk on his face, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

In any case, Dalí had already managed to shift the conversation, rattling on about our impending dinner, and for that, I was grateful. He waved his hand at our host. “I require snails tonight, Ignazio. Snails and armadillos, under the stars, with bats in the sky and monsters in the valley below. Fig-stuffed armadillos. And jasmine for my Gravida.”

“Surely, you realize there are no armadillos in Italy,” Lillian exclaimed, squeezing my arm. It was the first “Dalínian” thing she’d witnessed.

Dalí guffawed. “There are, but you must know where to look.”

“You’ll get used to him soon enough,” Jack said.

I didn’t think it was possible for anyone, save perhaps Gala, to get used to Salvador Dalí, but I laughed as if Jack had just cracked a joke, and as if there was nothing unusual or off-putting about our ringleader. Then I took my friend by the arm and led her away from my strange companions. By the time we reached the top of the staircase my emotions burst forth.

Lillian pulled me into a hug. “Oh, dear heart, stop your tears. It can’t be as bad as all that, can it? They don’t seem completely terrible.”

“Seem! That is the deception here,” I cried. “Nothing is as it seems.”

As if on cue, Demetra emerged from the library and strode toward us, her eyes fixed upon Lillian. “You.” She spit the word as though it were poison.

Lillian tilted her head. “Me? I’m a friend of Julia’s.”

“You should not be here. You weren’t invited.”

I stepped forward a pace, placing myself partly in front of my friend. I had an overwhelming desire to protect Lillian. “I invited her.”

The old woman shook her head. “That will only end in regret.” She pointed down the stairs. “Go. Now. While you still can,” she said to Lillian.

I took Lillian’s hand and led her past Demetra to my room. When I looked back, the maid had vanished. I pulled Lillian inside and locked the door.

“What an oddball,” she said, plopping down on my bed. “She reminds me of the driver that brought me from Attigliano. Maybe they are related. They both have the same strange coldness.”

I shrugged. “The servants here are all like that. But that’s not even the weirdest thing about this place.”

“This placeisweird. Why would she tell me that I should not be here?”

“She’s said other weird things to me too.”

I gave Lillian the lowdown. “And Gala is also always telling me that I’m somehow ‘not right,’ that I’m ‘out of place,’ that something is wrong with me, and that they shouldn’t have brought me here.”

Lillian’s eyes grew wide. “That makes no sense.”

“I know. But that’s not even that strange. Not compared to everything else that’s been happening since I got here.”

“Dimmi,”she said. “Tell me everything.”

I drew her to the love seat in the corner of the room, a rush of relief washing over me. As we sat, I began to unravel the intricacies of the past few days: the ghosts, the eerie green glow emanating from the garden, the moving statues, and the peculiar dinners. I told her a little bit about Dalí’s odd fixation on feeding me pomegranate seeds and briefly mentioned the mysterious diary I’d unearthed. I also armed her with information about the artist’s generally bizarre mannerisms and Gala’s bitchiness so she wouldn’t be caught too off guard.

Then, with a hesitant breath, I broached the topic I’d long avoided—my lack of a past. “I’ve always let you believe I was a New Yorker, through and through,” I confessed. “I wish I’d been brave enough to tell you the truth.”

Lillian’s expression softened. “You know I am always here for you. So tell me, what is the truth?”

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