Page 7 of Just for a Taste

My true curiosity waswhyDuca de’ Medici was here. Plenty of Medici lived outside of Florence, but to go somewhere with no company, no internet, and no interaction with the outside world was entirely contrary to the Medici goal of subtly influencing the church and state. The implication that one of the most important heirs of such a family had cast aside the political life he and all his forefathers had been groomed for since infancy was one of many puzzles that had drawn me to the Abbazia di Santa Dymphna. I theorized insidious documents might linger among the imported inventory, from wherever the heirs had been living before. It seemed silly now, but I had pinned my entire future on the vague suspicion that this haunted place held the secrets I had been searching for. After all, how could you research the underbelly of a family by keeping your head above-board?

But after such a long day, with my head a mess of unfinished thoughts, replayed scenes, and imagined futures, I just wanted to enjoy what remained of the night. The window creaked open in a greeting I found welcoming. I knelt on the bench, folded my arms, and rested my chin on my hands, breathing in the fresh Sicilian air.

Time passed at a bizarre rate. My thoughts gradually morphed into the sorts of daydreams that had kept me company since childhood. I imagined what it would have been like to be in this place back in its prime, that I was some abbess who had overcome her gender limitations to reign over the hills stretching endlessly beyond my window. Conversely, I imagined I was a lost damsel in distress, tucked away in the corner of a strange, haunted land.

Just as I shifted to another daydream, an icy, nearly imperceptible drizzle struck my fingertips like pins and needles and shook me from my reverie. By now, the moon had now reached its epoch in the sky, my forearms were covered in goose bumps, and my knees were aching. I didn’t need to glance at my watch to know I needed to get to sleep now.

It was surprisingly easy for me to go to sleep that night—despite the cold, despite the stiff bed, and above all, despite all the millions of questions swirling around my head.

Chapter 3: Da Capo Aria

No matter how long I stared at them, those changeling shoes weren’t mine.

Last night, I’d left my cheap Mary Janes by the door, two little brown mice standing watch by the closed curtain. But when the alarm on my nightstand rang in the morning, the curtain was slightly ajar, and my tiny guards were missing entirely. In their place was a pair of designer Mary Janes, exactly my size: six wide.

Something about all of this—the strange, cold nature of the butler, the way the abbey had enveloped me overnight, the bizarre nightmares that wracked me last night—struck me as oddly predatory. On the other hand, I had never been to such a beautiful place. Both the Sicilian mountains and the abbey were jaw-droppingly gorgeous, and I had the feeling the Abbazia di Santa Dymphna held something for me. It was probably a good idea to ignore my anxiety for once and throw myself into the opportunity.

But what really got me was those damn shoes.

“Good afternoon, Signorina Bowling,” a deep voice said from behind the curtain. “I’m here to escort you to breakfast.”

I grimaced at the butler’s voice and momentarily considered retreating under the covers.

“Signorina Bowling?” he repeated.

I closed my eyes and let out a small exhale. My bag and its contents were seemingly untouched.Iwas untouched. If anyone wanted to kill or hurt me, I reminded myself, they would have done so by now.

I quickly changed, slid the shoes on, and stepped out to meet the butler in the hall. The moment I was in sight, he began to depart.

“Please follow me to the refectory,” he said over his shoulder. “We’ll be cutting through the garden to the west wing.”

The afternoon sun made the already dramatic sight of the western courtyard garden seem even more fantastical. Elongated shadows stretched askew from the statues amongst the flowers. As much as I wanted to stop and explore the scenery, I had to focus on the broken stone path weaving through the garden. The butler, whose name I still did not know, walked at a swift, long-legged pace. Maybe he was not used to short-legged guests like me, or maybe he was not used to guests at all.

In a contrastingly considerate gesture, he held the door open for me once we reached the refectory.

As I entered, the ancient, musty smell that permeated throughout the abbey intermingled with the scent of something rich, hearty, and utterly delicious. I was in the largest room I had seen so far, with two long tables spaced generously apart and many chairs stationed around.

Light poured through the stained-glass windows that practically took up the entire wall, casting intricate patterns onto the richly colored rug. To my surprise, dozens of candles were lit on an altar, surrounded by scripts and other religious paraphernalia. On one table was an absurd amount of food: bowls overflowing with fresh grapes and other fruit, steaming bread next to herbed olive oil, a bottle of cider, and a full charcuterie board. Given all of this magnificent food, seeing a solitary set of china and polished silverware seemed bizarre. I turned around for guidance, but my chaperone had already departed.

It was hard to fathom such an exquisite setting was just forme.I was on a stage with no lines to read, and I had never been great at improvising.

Then, as soon as I raised my fork to eat—creek. Creeeeek.

My eyes darted to the door. Still closed. The sound had come from the stained glass beside it.

Bony fingers rattled against the window and dragged their claws across the other.

Panic erupted in me. I wanted to scream and run away, but nothing came out. My legs didn’t move. I stared at the beast before me, frozen in fear as it clawed harder and rattled faster.

But then, just as soon as it came, the illusion dissipated: it was not a pair of skeleton hands clawing at the windows, but branches.

And yet the horror lingered within me.

For most of my life, I hadn’t been particularly superstitious. Sure, I avoided walking under ladders and ate my share of black beans on New Year, but it wasn’t until I entered my mid-twenties that my mother’s folkish nature began to emerge in me. For years, I had tried to view religion through an academic lens, as the man-made catalyst of all the papal revolts and social revolutions I was so drawn to learning about. I had battled to see the church as my colleague, and superstition as a relic of the past.That God claimed Eve was sinning for eating the apple is the reason I cannot believe in Him, I told my heartbroken mother one night.

But now, in such a haunted yet holy place, my intuition won.

I put my fork down and keyed in on my surroundings properly. The enormous feast in front of me, combined with the long table, conjured up the image ofThe Last Supperin my mind. I felt compelled to say something to the silence. But should I say grace in Latin, as the monks who sat here would have? Or should I speak the English Protestant prayer taught to me by my pa?

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