Page 45 of Just for a Taste

Birdie.

With that thought, my chest tightened. I knew the burning feeling between my breasts wasn’t mere anxiety but rather the start of an episode. I took in a sharp breath in a slightly successful effort to delay that feeling of imminent doom for a few seconds, to stave away that loud ringing.I need beads. Everything will be fine if I have beads, just like it was last time. Unfortunately, my room was on the other side of the abbey, and I knew that by the time I reached it, I would be reduced to a hyperventilating wreck. I would need to look closer.

I ran into a building I had never entered before: the church itself.

Darkness was closing in on my vision, and I relied on instinct alone to navigate the new place. I focused on putting one foot in front of the other and pressed my hand against my chest. A wooden table emerged before me, and to my relief, so did a rosary. After shoving past a curtain, I fell to my knees and began my ritual.

One-two-three-four, inhale. One-two-three-four, exhale. One-two-three-four, hold my breath, rotate a bead.

After one full rotation, everything came back into view—more specifically, a lattice appeared before my face. Great. Not only had I been using a rosary in a literally unorthodox manner, but I had also been doing so in a confessional. If I believed in God, I would have apologized to Him, but I relegated myself to trying to find my way back.

The confessional gave way to a small hallway, which gave way to another. It was astonishing that I had wound through this labyrinthine place amid a panic attack, and more astonishing still that I was struggling to return to the entrance. Left, right, right, left. I turned in random directions at the end of each hallway until finally, I entered a novel area.

It took me a moment to realize that the beautiful white figure kneeling at the altar was not a ghost or a statue, but Duca de’ Medici. Blue moonlight poured through the stained-glass window above and candlelight from below, giving his face a strange, ethereal glow and highlighting every delicate feature. The sight stole my breath away.

“What are you doing here?”

The rosary fell to the ground. I didn’t realize I was still holding it.

“Sorry!” I blurted out. “I didn’t realize anyone else was here.”

He sighed. “I didn’t say it was a problem.” Through his veneer of exasperation, I detected warmth. “Please, sit.”

As he requested, I chose a nearby bench. Duca de’ Medici resumed his previous position, hands folded and head facing the wall. But rather than praying, he spoke to me.

“I came here with my father once as a child, long ago. Some young, ambitious local priest asked him to bequeath a massive donation to the town to reconstruct this abbey. I’m sure my father knew he would never fund such a venture. What good would repairing a place no one could see be? After the priest gave us a tour, my father laughed in his face and told him the favor of the church couldn’t be won with money, especially someone else’s. At that point, he cited some obscurelatae sententiaesuspension to censure the priest. My father made a teaching moment of this—I think he had planned that all along. In bringing me here, he meant to show me that idealistic fools would reach for my pockets all my life. But that wasn’t what I got out of it. I knew, ever since that day, that I wanted this to be my casket. At the end of the day, that priest fulfilled his wish, and the Abbazia di Santa Dymphna was restored.”

Maybe it was the remnants of adrenaline clouding my mind, but I couldn’t force the puzzle pieces together, not when I had so few.

“Why here?” I finally asked. “Why not somewhere closer to your home?”

He chuckled, and the sound sent a chill down my spine. It lacked any warmth. “Since the moment I understood shame, I knew it was attached to me. I have no home, Signorina Bowling, not even now. That’s why I chose this place.”

At that moment, I wondered why I had ever mistaken him for an angel. Then again, the look in his eyes right now did not seem earthly. Something in me felt the need to claw at his skin until a drop of humanity bled out.

“Do you ever get lonely?” I pressed.

“Yes. I’m never not.”

For as quick as his answer had come, nothing followed it. I was unsure how to respond, and a palpable pause held in the air. The irregular rattling of branches against the windows and the distant calls of an owl seemed loud.

“You said something when we first met—something about why music was beautiful.” His gaze flickered over to me. “Do you remember what it was?”

My heartbeat doubled with a mixture of feelings I couldn’t fully identify. He remembered that conversation? Truthfully, I did too. Something about it had stuck with me—something about every word we shared had. I didn’t reply.

“About how its beauty lies in its ability to cross time? I don’t know if that’s what you meant, but there’s something like that to these places.” He pressed his hand against the lava-stone wall and traced his pointer finger along the intricate embossments, leaving only the sound of my heartbeat in my ears. Then, suddenly: “Do you believe in ghosts?”

Even if I told myself I was used to the tricks of the abbey, the sights and sounds I had experienced here were engraved in my mind. The rosary sat on the ground, taunting me. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t either. I just know I feel them all around me when I’m here. I feel them in the stones and the altar and the rosaries and the Bibles. That doesn’t sound stupid, does it?”

Since when did he care what anyonethought of what he said?

“No, not at all,” I answered. “I think I get what you mean.”

“The ghosts that live here feel more real than the other nobility I talk to. Yes, I get lonely here, but it’s less lonely than out there.”

I held out a hand to him. “Duca de’ Medici, I—”

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