Page 32 of In the Garden of Monsters

“Yes, I know what is written, but the myth is wrong,” I said, adamant, my voice filled with an emotion I couldn’t quite place. “That’s not what happened. I’m telling you, Ceres is not her mother.”

Dalí raised an eyebrow at me.

“You disagree with centuries of this known myth? And with the great Dalí?” Gala’s glare was sharp, and I remembered how she was wont to slap people, and how quickly she had snatched away a chunk of the sum that had been promised me. I shook my head and turned away, even though I knew in my heart Dalí was wrong. That the mythology was false.

“Andiamo,”I said to Paolo, who was standing next to me. He nodded and walked with me in pursuit of Orpheus, who had trotted off down the trail.

“Who is Ceres, if not the mother of Proserpina?” he asked me once we were out of earshot.

I answered instinctively, this truth welling up from someplace hidden inside me. “Ceres and Proserpina were lovers.”

Paolo chuckled. “Now, that,amica mia, was not what I expected you to say.”

I could tell from his voice that he didn’t believe me. I hadn’t expected him to. Many centuries of mythology stood against me, and I had no proof beyond a deep internal certainty, nothing that would ever give anyone pause to rethink the ancient stories.

Theorcowas a short distance away, its eyes and mouth lit by fire. Servants came and went from its mouth, dark shadows against the wild brightness. We started to head in that direction, but Dalí redirected us.

“Come, I want to see where this trail leads!”

I groaned but dutifully followed him to a dark clearing, where we found a massive rock embedded in the ground. A rectangle carved out of the rock’s center looked awfully like a hole for a grave. The light from the torches on the path made the scene look even more sinister, but Dalí stepped up and lay down in it, unfazed. Paolo snapped photo after photo, his flash blindingly bright.

“Now you.” Dalí waved his walking stick at me.

I hesitated, but Jack gave me a little push at the small of my back. I stepped forward a pace.

Julia...I stopped in my tracks.Julia...do not. Julia...I thought of the woman I saw in the flames that morning, the woman who wore my face, and suddenly felt short of breath yet again.

“No, no,” I managed, my voice sounding more strangled than I would have liked. “I don’t want to dirty my dress.”

Dalí couldn’t disagree; he was brushing dirt and leaves off the back of his suit. Besides, the servant leading us along the path, devoid of any emotion or spoken word, simply extended a rigid, unyielding arm toward the path ahead, a clear, mechanical indication that we mustn’t dally. Not wanting to argue with Dalí about lying in that creepy tomb, I immediately turned and followed our guide.

“We will return here to paint,” Dalí said behind me.

I cursed under my breath but didn’t pause. I was ready to be out of the dark woods.

9

We came upon the massive vase I had seen with Jack that first day, the one that signified Bacchus’s entry into hell, and there was Orpheus again, rubbing up against its base. He looked at me and cocked his head.

Julia...

My heart sped up and I hurried past the vase, frustrated by the voice. I didn’t understand what it wanted from me. Orpheus howled as I passed him, a horrible, sad, haunting noise. I picked him up and he calmed.

“Orpheus clearly doesn’t want you to return to the Underworld,” Dalí said, as he pointed with his walking stick at the stairs to theorcoahead. We had, it seemed, walked in a little circle.

The glow emanating from the Mouth of Hell was bright but sinister, highlighting theorco’steeth. A red cloth covered the stone table, and from my vantage point, it truly did look like a tongue. The torches on the path highlighted the statues of Hannibal and his elephant and the dragon fighting off the lions beyond.

As I glanced between the statues, and back toward Ceres, I could swear that the figuresshifted. There is no better word for it—the movements were so subtle, and caught out of the corner of my eye. If I stared at them straight on, the movement seemed to be just a figment of my imagination, yet the pomegranate bushes near them stirred in a way that the foliage beyond did not. It was a scene from a nightmare, one that made me agree with Orpheus—I didn’t want to return to theorcoeither. My previous experience in the Mouth of Hell wasn’t a pleasant one, and its visage at night was rather terrifying.

Jack moved to my side. “Don’t worry, baby doll. I’ll be there to catch you if you faint again,” he said in a voice too low for Gala to hear.

I smiled at him, glad for his attention and his reassurance. He held out an arm, and I took it. Gala immediately came and took his other arm. Her possessiveness was annoying, particularly in the presence of her husband, though he did not seem perturbed. No, he forged ahead to theorco, paused briefly to look inside, then turned to cut a compelling silhouette in the darkness as Paolo took photo after photo. To my surprise, Gala left Jack’s side to go to Dalí.

“She loves the limelight as much as he does,” Jack explained. He shifted so that his body was against mine. “Your nearness is beyond distracting,” he whispered. “Let me come to you tonight. I’ll keep the monsters away.”

I looked up at him. My word, he was dreamy. To have him in my bed would not be a hardship. And I was sure there were monsters in thecastello. The idea of having this huge man to keep me safe in the dark was suddenly very appealing. Throwing caution to the wind, I said, “I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

Not a moment later, the touch of a hot hand on my shoulder made me jump. A strangled noise escaped my throat as I realized it was Ignazio. I unhooked my arm from Jack’s. Had Ignazio heard that I was going to leave my door unlocked? For a fleeting moment, memories of his perplexing kiss in the heat of the cellar fire had me imagining him being the one to climb into my bed and bring me immense pleasure.

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