Page 19 of In the Garden of Monsters

“Sì, I did. So did Jack, but the others said they did not feel it. I don’t know how—it was quite strong.”

“I felt it too.”

I looked at him, shocked. “You did? But the others didn’t.”

He gave me a dark, sly smile. “I am more accustomed to the unusual nature of the garden than they are. Where were you when it happened?”

“In front of the statue of the woman with the mossy legs and the vase of flowers on her head.” I didn’t want to tell him I knew her name.

He nodded. It seemed to be the answer he expected.

“I regret that theboschettowasn’t kind to you today. I imagine fainting in the mouth of theorco, then feeling an earthquake so shortly after must have left you unnerved.”

He sounded truly sympathetic, and despite my better judgment, I warmed to him a little.

“You haven’t eaten much today. You must be famished,” he said.

My belly rumbled then, and I hoped he couldn’t hear it. “I am.”

“There will be a big feast tonight. Partridge, pheasant, perhaps a littlepollo alla diavola.”

The devil’s chicken.My breath caught, although I shouldn’t have been as taken off guard as I was. It was a common Italian dish I had eaten many times before. It derived its name from its spicy nature and because it was traditionally cooked over coals, not because of any sinister association.

“Are you the devil?” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. I didn’t know what provoked me to be so coy and I could only hope it came out as a joke. I dared a glance at him.

“Only if you want me to be, Julia,” he replied with a wink.

My jaw dropped a little and I paused, unsure what to make of such a clear, brazen suggestion.

“Julia, are you all right?” Jack asked me as we entered the palazzo. “You look like you’ve seen another ghost.”

I shut my mouth and strengthened my resolve. “I’m swell. Really.”

Ignazio informed us that dinner would be served in two hours and that we were free to roam the premises if we desired.

“Perhaps you could give me another tour,” Gala purred. “I was so tired when we first arrived.”

“I would be delighted to answer any questions you have,” Ignazio responded, quashing any hope of her getting a private tour from him. He ignored her pout and turned on a heel to head down the corridor.

“Jack can give you a special tour, Galachuka,” Dalí offered in an attempt to appease his wife. “I will go with you—for inspiration,” he added, giving me a little jab in the ribs with his elbow. “Perhaps you need inspiration, too, little goddess. Come back with us.” His eyes roamed to my chest, then flitted over to Jack.

“I think I’m inspired enough,” I said. There was something about Dalí and Gala, with their peculiar aura and unsettling demeanor, that made the idea of any closer encounter with them deeply unappealing. I could embrace the unconventional, but the thought of entangling with them churned my stomach in a way that no adventurous spirit could overcome.

I excused myself and went to my chamber, which I was relieved to see was just as I had left it. I half expected to find some new surprise under my pillow, but it was crisp and smooth. Throwing myself onto the bed, I stared at the frescoed ceiling, unable to believe the events of the day—theboschetto, the doves in thetempietto, fainting, the earthquake—it was all too unbelievable to be true. I thought about Ignazio’s words—he regretted that theboschettohadn’t been kind to me, as if a garden had a choice in how much kindness it imparted on someone. As ifhecould control it. Who was this man?

Realizing it would do me no good to lie there letting my thoughts run rampant, that I was only ratcheting myself up, I decided to freshen up and to take the opportunity to explore the palazzo on my own. I started with the library we’d passed when Ignazio was showing us to our chambers. The shelves had beckoned me with the delicious odor of old books and the tantalizing thought of discovering something about this unnatural place.

It was just as you might imagine an old library in a castle would be. The walls were lined with thousands of books from floor to ceiling, with two ladders on wheels and a track to reach the highest shelves. A massive globe stood in an alcove near the window where a large desk and chair were positioned for easy viewing of the garden below. When I flipped the switch, the lights gave the room a cozy orange glow. Déjà vu ripped through me again, the sight of the library infusing a familiar sense of belonging within me, as though I had spent many an hour in this very room. I tried to tell myself that I had just been in a similar library in one of the many palazzi I had toured in Rome, but I knew that wasn’t true. It wasthislibrary that was familiar, and it bothered me that I couldn’t remember why.

Wandering along the shelves, I admired the dusty volumes, mostly written in Italian, though I did notice some Latin, Greek, and French titles too. I was astounded to see that many were hundreds of years old. Just as I was about to pull a volume of Dante’s poetry off the shelf, the sound of a book falling to the floor on the other side of the room startled me. I whirled around, expecting to find Dalí or someone else touring the palazzo. But there was no one else in the room. My heart in my throat, I went over to investigate the fallen volume.

It was a simple, black, leather-bound book, a little bigger than those Pocket paperbacks that were so popular. I picked it up and was surprised to find it was a journal written in crisp, clear Italian. A woman’s hand. Flipping to the inside front cover of the book, I found both a date and a name.Giulia Farnese, 1560.

I looked around the library, suddenly terrified. What spirit wanted me to find the journal of Vicino Orsini’s wife? For there was no other explanation—someone or something had pulled this book off the shelf. It didn’t fall on its own. There were thousands of volumes in the library. Why the one penned by a woman who shared my name and was buried in thetempiettoin the garden of monsters below? What message was I being sent? From whom?

“Who are you?” I whispered to the empty room. When there was no response, I calmed myself with a few deep breaths, then took the book to the plush couch on the other side of the library, one of the few items in the room that wasn’t a relic of the past but a modern addition. I sank down into the cushions and opened the journal. The writing was clean, but my Italian was intermediate at best, and many of the words were archaic, having been written so long ago.

I could understand the basic gist of the text but felt like there was more to it than I was grasping. Why else was I supposed to see it? The first few pages were full of anecdotes about Giulia’s seven children—Corradino, Marzio, Alessandro, Scipione, Orazio, Ottavia, and Faustina—and spotting the wordincinta, I gathered that she was pregnant again. I tried my best to scan through the journal, to see what could be so vital for me to know, but it was hard.

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