Page 67 of In the Garden of Monsters

After quite some time, I was startled by a rustle and a soft coo at the edge of the grave. I opened my eyes and saw a turtledove looking down at me, its head cocked in curiosity. A moment later, five more joined, the orange of their wings shining bright in the sunlight.

“Magnificent. How very Dalínian,” Dalí whispered so as not to scare them away.

I lifted my head slightly to look at him. A glare and a fast motion of his hand made clear that I was to remain in position. Then his brush began flying across the canvas again.

I laid my head back down, but I didn’t want to close my eyes for fear one of the birds might land on me. I tried to soothe myself by listening to the sound of Dalí’s brush flying across the canvas again. Still, all I could think about were the birds at thetempiettoon the day we first came, and the turtledoves that flew into the window the night of theHypnerotomachiadinner. Their presence at the grave wasn’t coincidental, of that I was sure. My mind went to Ceres and the immense flock that had surrounded her the day before. Each of the deities had birds they called their own. And while I didn’t have myBullfinch’s Mythologyor a copy of Ovid’sMetamorphosesto verify this idea, I was confident turtledoves were beloved of the goddess.

I watched the birds through half-closed eyes. They did not leave but continued to stare down into the grave, occasionally pecking at the moss on the edge of the opening. What would happen if they decided to descend upon me? These dark imaginings were worse than what Dalí had suggested. Instead of worms, I pictured the doves ripping out my hair, pecking at my skin, and poking out my eyeballs. Finally, I could take it no more. Sitting up, I waved my arms at the birds, and thankfully, they flew off without incident.

“I need a break,” I told Dalí.

“Yes, yes, fine.”

“Ignazio is setting up lunch,” Jack said from his camp chair nearby. His eyes alighted upon my bare chest.

I pulled Lillian’s coat around me and scrambled out of the grave. After I’d dressed, I went to look at Dalí’s work. He grunted but sat back to let me see the canvas. It was a sketch in oil and not nearly finished, with half of my body missing, but the heart of it was already there. It was a stark painting, with a dark background and the open grave in its center, my body aglow in the recess of the Etruscan tomb. The pomegranate in my hands had split and the jeweled seeds were ruby bright. I had never imagined myself looking quite so beautiful. But it was me—Dalí hadn’t embellished my features with his wild imagination. He had omitted the turtledoves.

“We’ll bring the final back to Paris,” Gala said to Dalí as she looked over my shoulder. “Rouchard will buy it for a small fortune.” I had no idea who Rouchard was, nor did I care, but I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d keep it in his private collection or loan it to a museum. Letting my imagination run wild for just a moment, I imagined myself standing before it in a gallery, people milling around, wholly unaware it was me glowing in that grave.

Gala took both her husband and Jack by their arms and led them the short distance to theorco, leaving me to follow. But the path they took went past the statue of Ceres, and I wasn’t keen on being anywhere near it if I could avoid it. Glancing around, I spotted Paolo and Lillian descending the stairs near Proserpina’s bench.

I headed in their direction, though it meant passing the vase where I’d first heard the ghostly whispers. I’d happily subject myself to those over the imposing statue of Ceres, though I was relieved the only audible sound that caught my ear was of Paolo and Lillian chattering away. Lillian’s parents had died in an accident when she was a teen in Seattle, and she had come to live in Rome with an aunt. Her Italian was far superior to mine.

“Oh, Jules, Paolo told me all about the diary,” she explained when they reached me.

I motioned to her to lower her voice. We could see theorcofrom where we stood, and who knew how the sound might travel. “The acoustics in theboschettoare weird,” I explained.

But she waved me off and wrapped her arms around me in a bear hug. “The cook that Giulia Orsini mentions... Aid...o...” She looked at Paolo.

“Aidoneus,” he said.

“At first, I thought Ignazio might be a descendant of Aidoneus or maybe a reincarnation of him. But what if...?” She paused for dramatic effect.

“What if?” I nodded at her to get on with her thought.

“What if Aidoneus and Ignazio were the same person?”

I had already thought of this, of course, when Paolo had first told me about the mysterious cook. I’d never met anyone like Ignazio, with his mesmerizing eyes, electrifying heat, heady scent, and it gave me the distinct impression he was more than what he appeared to be.

But before I could admit that perhaps my friend was on to something, Dalí interrupted us. “Come! Eat!” He was standing in the Hell mouth, waving to us.

“We don’t pay you to dawdle,” Gala chimed in.

Lillian rolled her eyes at me but was the first to step in that direction. “This is truly the most incredible thing,” she exclaimed as she went up the stairs and into the Mouth of Hell. “To dine inside such a creature—how many can say they have done such a thing?”

I wished I had the same sort of excitement my friend had. But I dreaded every step I took toward the monster. Every time I entered it, something terrible had happened. I hadn’t seen Ignazio since the staring contest, and the memory of our encounter lingered in my mind, leaving me unsettled yet yearning, trapped in a whirlwind of emotions I couldn’t fully understand and wasn’t sure I wanted to. Yet he greeted me with a broad smile, as though nothing had transpired between us.

“Julia, welcome.”

I hated myself for the way my body responded to his presence, every fiber gravitating toward him while my mind told me I was utterly foolish for harboring such desire.

“Thanks,” I said nervously. The previous night’s reprieve from the seeds was unlikely to continue. I wondered what he would do when I refused another pomegranate seed, and what might happen to me if I ate them all. I was damned no matter what I did.

“Mmm, heaven,” Lillian murmured as Ignazio described the decadent meal before us: saffron risotto with white truffles, baked scallops in a rich béarnaise sauce, warm pheasant pâté, and fresh oysters, each dotted with a dreaded pomegranate seed. She bit into one of the gold-dusted arancini and, while raving on and on about the succulent flavors, positioned her half-eaten rice ball quite purposefully, so that I could see a single pomegranate seed embedded within.

I stared at my plate, fuming.

Julia...

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