Page 69 of In the Garden of Monsters

I took Lillian and Paolo by their arms. “Will you walk me back to the tomb? I’m not hungry anymore.”

“Certo.”The cameraman grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “We can take some more photos while we wait for the others.”

“Excellent idea,” Dalí declared. He waved us off toward the path to the Etruscan hole in the stone, then stepped gingerly over the line of ants and headed back into the Mouth of Hell, Gala and Jack following behind.

“Hot damn. What happened back there?” Lillian exclaimed when we were far enough down the trail to be out of earshot.

“You ate another seed, Signorina Julia,” Paolo said, incredulous. “If you eat one more, you might—”

“—die,” I said, finishing the thought for him. “I know. But I wanted to make sure Ignazio had one too.”

“Wait, you wanthimto eat the seeds?” Lillian asked me.

I told them about the ghosts’ signs and Orpheus’s warnings. “I don’t know what else they could mean other than I should try to get him to eat three seeds. And when he has eaten them, wild things have happened.” I cited the birds hitting the window as evidence. “But I don’t know. I’m just guessing.” I was starting to question if finding out about my past was worth endangering my future. I looked to Lillian for guidance. “Maybe we should go back to Rome.”

Just then, Jack came crashing down the overgrown path, interrupting us. “Dalí wants you ready to go when he returns,” he said, throwing an arm around my shoulder as though we had been best friends forever. “Time to lose the coat.” He gave me a squeeze.

I chuckled awkwardly and pulled away. “I don’t know if I can model this afternoon,” I said. “I’m too on edge.” I raised a hand so they could see that I was still shaking.

“You’ll have the wrath of Gala on you if you don’t,” Jack cautioned. “She’s in one of her foulest moods.” He pointed toward theorco, where Dalí and Gala were in a heated conversation.

“Why is she so angry?” Lillian asked.

Jack shrugged. “She is the most mercurial creature I have ever met. When she’s in a good mood, she’s glorious. But when she’s in a bad one, stay out of her way.”

“She’s always in a bad mood when it comes to me,” I groused.

Lillian tried to bolster my spirits. “Only one more day. You can do this.” She smiled, then helped me undress and settle back into the grave, arranging my arms and legs, although I suspected Gala would do it again when she arrived. She was a woman who always had to put her mark on things.

“You do look beautiful,” Lillian said as she laid some of my hair across my shoulder.

“You’re just jealous. You wish it was you lying here, cold and naked for the whole world to view.”

“How did you guess?” She swatted my shoulder playfully, then made way for the Dalís, who both repositioned me several times before finally agreeing on a pose. Gala was most definitely in a mood, and she was particularly rough, pulling my hair so hard that I swatted her hand at one point. I expected her to retaliate, but instead, she backed off, spoke a few harsh words to Dalí, and departed, dragging Jack along with her. The tension flowed out of us like someone had released the air from a balloon.

“We have to come back here when everyone is asleep,” Lillian whispered, nudging me awake hours later. “I want to see this place at night.”

I no longer had any interest in traipsing around theboschettoin the dark but didn’t have the opportunity to say so.

Lillian sat next to Dalí on the drive back to the palazzo as he animatedly described one of his surreal visions, his hands gesturing wildly, moving closer and closer to Lillian’s face as he spoke.

“A rhinoceros horn curving into the infinite horizon, the perfect symmetry of an ant’s antennae in juxtaposition with the chaos of a crumbling world,” Dalí raved, his eyes alight with creative fervor. “Imagine a garden of flamingos, each bearing the face of a different philosopher, or a sea so tranquil that it reflects not the sky but the dreams of those who gaze upon it. That’s where art transcends reality, you see?”

Lillian, eyes widening as his hand came too close for comfort, instinctively reached out and took hold of his wrist, pulling his palm toward her to avoid being accidentally struck.

“You have a high Mount of Mars,” she said quickly, improvising a distraction. “This signals great ambition, and...”

“Genius,” Dalí exclaimed, momentarily forgetting his vision as he looked at his own palm, both fascinated and slightly confused by Lillian’s unexpected move.

“Yes, great genius,” Lillian agreed, smiling as she guided his hand back to his lap, seizing the opportunity to steer him away from his wild gesturing.

“You are amodelo, too,” he said, but it didn’t sound like a question.

“No, I sell coats and hats and shoes.”

“Ah, that is where women can truly excel, in fashion. My shoe hat? My collaboration with Elsa Schiaparelli?” He started to gesture again but seemed more mindful of Lillian’s space.

“I have seen it. Truly brilliant,” Lillian said, her eyes dancing with amusement.

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