Page 77 of Just for a Taste

That night, I dreamed of her. The dream itself was vague, more abstract than a full experience. Flickers of light combined with the scent of flowers and sweet tea in some unknown time. She and Zeno were both vivid, though—every feather, every pore, like I could touch them. In my dream, she was together, alive, and breathing. It was like those early days in the aviary, when she startled at my every movement and watched me closely. But no matter how wary, Leonore was happy. And holding her in his hands, so was Zeno.

Beside me, across the veil of sleep, the real Zeno shifted beside me in bed. I tried desperately to go back to that place and could for a few wonderful minutes. Then my mind drifted across the events of the past few days and lingered momentarily on the carvings in the bookshelf.

Festina lente.The words entered my mind the minute I opened my eyes.

I was able to restrain myself enough to sit up slowly in bed. I immediately shielded my eyes, as the bed was covered in sunlight, the curtains having been opened. The smell of slightly burned pancakes wafted into the room, but it was faint and old.

Squinting, I leaned over to peer out the window and saw the light had taken on the orange hue of dawn.

Zeno must have left a while ago, and given the sun protection he would have had to wear to open the curtains, he would be gone a while longer.

When I brushed against a piece of paper, all of my sleuthing became irrelevant. It was covered in the unmistakable flowery script of Zeno—one of his morning love letters that kept me company when he left for a day trip.

Cora,

I mourned not being able to share the day with you, or see the look in your eyes this morning when you awoke. I curse that I cannot see you shine as you speak about our books. I may have departed, but my heart remains with you. I will come back to you soon to fetch it in exchange for kisses. Please keep it safe, and smile while I am gone.

I love you.

—Zeno

P.S. Sorry I burned the pancakes. I tried my best.

If not for the enthusiasm coursing within me, I would have probably taken the letter with me and eaten pancakes. Instead, I roughly pulled a dress over my nightgown and raced to the archive.

The stool wobbled and threatened to overturn when I leaped onto it, but the risk of toppling over was one I was willing to take. I grabbed the box and pulled it into my chest, and the movement was enough to stabilize me. I let out a breath and slowly climbed down with my treasure.

I rushed to the living room, placed it on the rug, and sat cross-legged before it. The dials resisted against my fingers initially, but each one slowly turned.

F-E-S-T-I-N-A

I moved onto the next set, which was equally stubborn, but similarly gave in.

L-E-N-T-E

Click.

“Holy shit,” I whispered. “It actually worked.”

Slowly, gingerly, I slid my finger into the crevice of the lid. Though the hinges were slightly rusted, it opened all too easily.

As I had suspected, the old box was full of photographs and papers. I dumped them on the floor and rifled through. Photographs, dozens of them, from different time periods.

Even at a glance, a pit fell into my stomach. These photos featured harsh lighting, askew subjects, and blurred focus. They were clearly candid, to put it nicely. I held one up to the light.

It was a moonlit portrait photo of a woman smiling over her shoulder beneath a large willow tree. The woman was beautiful, pale and delicate as a porcelain doll, with wavy, white-blonde hair and crimson, doelike eyes. Her stomach was strangely bulbous on her slender frame. Upon her full lips was a crooked smile, showing a single fang.

I did not know this woman, but I knew her smile. It was one I saw every day.

I flipped it over and discovered the photograph was dated from early September, almost three decades back.Dolores with child.

I recognized that name, but it took me a bit to register from where. Dolores d’Orléans, a famous theater actress who had faded into obscurity after a few plays. But I knew her mostly as a member of the Medici family—and half sister to the current head of the family.

The photo slipped through my fingers and fluttered to the ground.

I quickly grabbed another one, which showed a face I knew very well. A school-aged Zeno was beside his cousin in some sort of fancy Italian building. Zeno sat on a piano bench with a trophy almost as large as himself in his lap. He was blank and unsmiling, as icy and stony-faced as I had seen him. Next to him was Basilio, grinning broadly despite the much smaller trophy in his arms. Behind both, staring with watchful eyes, lingered Signore Urbino.Cousins in competition,read the caption on the back, in that small, square handwriting I assumed belonged to Zeno’s father.

I pulled yet another one from the pile. This one featured no caption, only a date from a decade and a half ago. Signora Carbone, with a toddler Lucia waddling toward her. I had never seen her smile like that before. With a similar smile finally gracing my lips, I looked at another photograph.

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