Page 55 of In the Garden of Monsters

“Let’s get the day started, lazybones.”

My friend seemed utterly unaffected by the amount of wine she had consumed the night before. What miracle beverage had Ignazio been serving us that no one ever woke with a hangover? I pulled myself out of bed with the realization that it was the only night I had really slept since I had arrived at Palazzo Orsini.

“You sure are chipper this morning,” I observed.

“Why wouldn’t I be? We are in a beautiful castle, and we have an adventure ahead of us. Plus you are sitting for one of the most important artists in the world. And you just won a handsome sum last night.”

I rolled my eyes. “Right. A castle full of ghosts, with a host trying to kill me with pomegranate seeds, and an artist whose stingy bitch of a wife is running the show.”

She sobered and pulled me up by the hand. “Jules, we’ll figure this all out. I promise. Maybe Ignazio isn’t as terrible as you think. He seems like a nice enough guy.”

I stared at her, incredulous. “You don’t believe me?”

She hugged me. “I do! I promise I do. I just feel like there is so much we don’t know yet. Though you are right about one thing—Gala’s pretty awful.”

That got me to crack a smile. “She really is.”

“Let’s get going. I want to see this weird garden. And tonight, we’re definitely going down into that passage.” Her eyes were bright with anticipation.

“Now I see where this is going,” I teased. “You just want to spend some time with Paolo in the dark.”

“Ha! So what if I do?” She threw a pillow at me, and we made our way down to breakfast, laughing.

The day was beautiful, and despite the cool air, it was by far the best weather we had experienced since our arrival. Ignazio was absent for breakfast, so it was Minos who drove us to theboschetto.

“Where is Ignazio?” Gala inquired, a note of irritation in her voice. Minos merely shrugged and retreated to the cab of the truck.

“He’s clearly mute,” Gala scoffed, rolling her eyes as we started on our way. “No man is that silent.”

“None of the servants talk,” Paolo pointed out.

That wasn’t entirely true. Demetra had spoken to Lillian and me, but neither of us saw fit to challenge his assertion.

“They are well trained,” Dalí announced with a self-satisfied air, a hint of pleasure in his eyes. “Just as they should be. Seen and not heard.”

Lillian’s expression tightened, and I could almost feel her biting back a retort. She glanced at Gala, then looked away, her face betraying her distaste. Though outspoken, thankfully, she seemed to understand that challenging Dalí in that moment would be futile.

Jack carried a duffel bag I had never seen before over his shoulder, and he smirked when I asked him what was in it.

“This bag here is full of wonderful things. Something I suspect you might greatly appreciate today.” He snorted with laughter.

“What sort of things?”

“Towels.”

“Towels?” I parroted, not understanding.

He winked at me. “You’ll see.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of this.”

Jack only gave me a knowing smile and helped me into the back of the truck.

After entering theboschetto, Dalí forced us to make a quick detour to show off Proteus Glaucus and his wide toothy mouth to Lillian, who the artist seemed to have taken a liking to. Gala, visibly irritated, stomped off with Jack and Paolo to set up for the sitting.

Lillian immediately went up to the sea god and sat in his wide mouth on one of his bottom teeth. “So, who is this funny monster?”

“Proteus Glaucus—a tale of transformation, of becoming something other than what one was born to be.” Dalí waved his cane in the air as he talked.

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