Page 23 of In the Garden of Monsters

“I am not a queen,” I managed, though the notion did give me the strangest thrill. I brushed the seed aside and bit into one of the sweets. “Oh, heavens.” I determined they were made from dates, pistachios, rosewater, and perhaps a healthy dose of magic. I took another bite. If I thought I could have died happy from the sweet wine, I was even more convinced I could from this treat. I glanced up at our host to share my appreciation, but he was looking in Dalí’s direction.

“Proserpina,” Dalí admonished me. “You have not eaten the pomegranate seed.” He pointed at my plate, the discarded aril glinting in the candlelight.

“Why do you care?” I asked him, unamused. “And you realize my name is Julia, don’t you?” I said it teasingly, hoping not to offend, but then I wished I had put more force into those words, because he seemed to miss my point.

“Yes! Julia of the Julii,” he cried out, raising his hands toward the heavens.

I didn’t understand what he meant, but at least he seemed to acknowledge I had an actual name, though he wouldn’t let up on my eating the pomegranate aril.

“Now, Proserpina, you must eat the seed,” he begged me. “How else will you return to your Pluto?”

“I don’t have a Pluto,” I said, exasperated.

Ignazio cleared his throat. “While you may not believe in Pluto, you’re missing out on the true delight of this confection, Julia. The chef prides himself on creating the best possible combinations of flavor, and without the pomegranate seed, you will not understand the true measure of his genius.” He nodded at the remaining candies on my plate. “Please, try it as the chef intended.”

At least he had the courtesy of getting my name right, I thought as I considered the dessert before me.

“Don’t eat it if you don’t want to,” Jack said in an exaggerated whisper. “But you know you want to.”

Don’t...Another whisper echoed in my ear, the same whisper I had heard in the garden and the library.

All eyes were upon me. Iwantedto eat the sweets—the first had been delicious—but not under such duress and not with the seed on top.

“I can’t possibly eat them all,” I finally said. I offered a compromise to our host. “I will have one if you will help me eat one.”

Ignazio eyed me hesitantly.

“I will help you, Proserpina.” Dalí reached for the candy.

“Perfect. I’ll have one, you have one, and Ignazio can have the other.” I looked back at our handsome host, daring him to defy this wish of mine.

“I have already eaten my fill tonight,” Ignazio said with a slight shake of his head.

“Very well.” I lifted the plate to pass the confections to Dalí.

“Fine, fine.” Ignazio stopped me with a note of concern. “I’ll eat one.”

I smugly took one of the sweets, and after Dalí had taken up his morsel, I tipped the plate toward Ignazio. He gingerly accepted the remaining candy.

“Together,” I said, lifting the morsel to my mouth.

A brief emotion akin to fear flashed in Ignazio’s eyes, but then it was gone, and I wondered if I had been mistaken. In unison we ate the candy. When he closed his eyes to savor it, I shut mine.

As the sweetness melted on my tongue, an intense, warm darkness enveloped me. I found myself in a shadowy, labyrinthine garden where the scent of roses and night-blooming jasmine was intoxicating. I sensed rather than saw a presence, a formidable figure lurking just beyond my vision. Though the feeling of love and passion overwhelmed me, there was also an unsettling undercurrent, like the rumble of distant thunder. Whispers seemed to dance around me, seductive yet laced with something I couldn’t quite place—danger, perhaps, or even betrayal. A voice called out, deep and resonant, uttering words I couldn’t understand but felt I should. Just as I was about to turn, to glimpse who—or what—was behind me, the vision shattered.

A massive crash against one of the windows caused Gala to scream. When I opened my eyes, Dalí had jumped to his feet and was staring wildly in its direction. Paolo and Jack ran to the window, yanking open the velvet drapes, but Ignazio didn’t move or even open his eyes. He stood as if locked in a spell.

“Well, will you look at that,” Jack said, pointing to the detailed dust marks of five birds that must have slammed up against the panes.

“My lord,” Gala exclaimed, her hand upon her chest as if to protect it.

“They must have hit at the exact same time,” Paolo observed.

Jack shook his head. “How could they do that?”

There was a brief silence as we stared at the impressions on the window. Ignazio stood next to me, his fists clenched, his normally calm demeanor replaced by a visible tension in his body and an angry fire in his eyes. “Poor doves,” he said finally.

I wondered why he assumed they were doves.

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