Page 32 of Just for a Taste

Light flickered across Duca de’ Medici’s face, revealing an annoyed expression. He placed the notebook on the bench with a loud sigh. “What is it?”

What had I walked into? I took a deep breath and returned the lantern to its place on the table.

“Before today,” I said, “I thought you were mad at me.”

In response, the vampire tossed his head back and harrumphed. “Who says I’m not?” he replied with a glare as sharp as his tone. “Youcame into my parlor unannounced.”

I folded my arms tightly over my chest, feeling the glow of embarrassment and indignation wash over my cheeks. “It’s not like I could knock!”

I stepped outside of myself and saw the scene before me. Once again, Duca de’ Medici had me stomping around like a child. My face grew hot.

“Look, I just wanted to say thank you for the garden, okay?”

He didn’t reply. Instead, he stared at me. I pivoted and was about to retreat from this failure of a conversation when I saw him rise in my periphery.

“Wait,” he said, taking a step toward me. “I’m sorry. You caught me off guard. I’ve been meaning to show you this place. I just wasn’t expecting to do so today.”

He set the papers in his hand to the side, sat on one end of the sofa, and patted the spot next to him. I joined him but positioned myself as far away as humanly possible, practically hanging off the edge. I hugged a pillow to my chest and mumbled, “It’s okay. I hate being interrupted too. I’m sorry I didn’t ask.”

“It isn’t just that. I must admit, I’m sorry I wasn’t able to speak to you recently. I’m ashamed of my behavior when I saw you last. My hand—I got carried away. I won’t let that happen again.”

“N-no, it’s my fault! I’ll sit down next time and be quiet.”

He eyed the space between us. Then, with a small sigh, he said, “I see. If that is what you wish.”

I scooted a bit closer to him to return the pillow to its original spot in the corner. “Thank you for the garden. I can’t imagine how long it took you.”

“As an excellent host, who would I be to deny my guest her hobby? We need our passions, or we’d go mad. One must fill their life with beauty to forget the ugliness of the world, correct?”

I bit my lip to hold in a grin and gestured to the piano with my chin. “Is that yours, then? Your passion, I mean.”

“Yes. Her name is Eulalie.”

“Oh, after the poem?”

He smiled at me so warmly, it was a wonder I’d ever thought he hated me. “I thought you’d know.”

I fidgeted with my skirt, growing hot. It was hard to converse casually when it had been so long, when I had been so confused. Most of all, when such beautiful eyes were regarding me. I did my best anyway. “I didn’t realize you liked poetry,” I said. “I thought you didn’t.”

“I always have. Poe and Dante are favorites, as you’ve likely gathered, but I’ve become quite fond of Petrarch. Of the sonnets he wrote for Laura.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I have yet to say anything for your sake. I don’t have it in me to mindlessly flatter you. Anyway, I wanted to read Petrarch again, to see what you saw. And I get it now, I think.” He leaned forward and craned his head to the side to meet my eyes with an inquisitive look of his own. “Do you think Laura ever existed?”

“No.” Yet another question I had always wished someone would ask me, had always wanted to answer. “I don’t think she ever really did—at least, not entirely. I think she was originally based on someone he barely knew, but eventually . . .” I returned his gaze steadily, studying his reaction to see if he agreed. As I should have known, he offered no clues.

That was, until he continued my thought for me.

“Eventually, through all those years of obsession and worship, she became something else. A homunculus formed from love and a corpse. That was what I missed before, Signorina Bowling. In my eyes, having such love for someone who never existed is far more tragic than, say, Dante and Beatrice. And of course, tragedy and beauty are lovers in their own right.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think it’s tragic at all. I think Petrarch is lucky. How many people can say they’ve loved someone or something so deeply? I certainly can’t. I don’t pity him. I envy him.”

I was expecting a laugh, a riposte, some acute reaction—but there was none. Duca de’ Medici darkened and stared at the lantern on his table. After a long, painful silence, he finally said, “You shouldn’t. That sort of love devours everything around it.”

A chill snaked up my spine, crawling along my arms and legs, and conjuring goose bumps. I didn’t like this seriousness, this gravity threatening to suck in everything around it. I wanted to return to only moments ago, where we were talking so lightheartedly about his piano.

My eyes fell on the papers on the table beside us. “What’s that?” I asked.

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