Page 18 of Just for a Taste

I narrowed my eyes. First this man had forced a large plate onto me, then pried into my past, accused me of trying to kiss his ass in the most pretentious way, and above all, had the gall to scoff at something personal I had been terrified to share?

“For your information, I chose it because I’ve never been able to get my hands on the original, just translations. What I wanted to read had nothingto do with you. And what exactly was your point in coming here if you didn’t want to talk about books? You know, other than just to eat a bunch of sugar and brag about all your fancy desserts?”

Once the last sentence left my lips, immediate regret set in.Shit. Not again. While he wasn’t my employer directly, Duca de’ Medici’s opinion of me was still imperative to my being here. Besides, getting angry over something so stupid was just . . . embarrassing.

I felt a lump in my throat, an abomination of chocolate and cookies and sweets threatening to break through. I stuffed another cookie in my mouth and swallowed it without chewing. It was dry, like swallowing sandpaper. I coughed. Crumbs flew from my mouth, soaring all the way across the table—and, I wagered, right in Duca de’ Medici’s face.

My eyes were watering from the coughing, so that I couldn’t see his reaction, but I couldn’t imagine it was anything good.

The door was screaming my name. I stood and shoved the table away from me, the plates and cups clattering. I didn’t wait to see how many chocolates I had overturned, how much tea was dripping down the table.

“I’m sorry! Thanks for the cookies! I think it’s time for dinner now, actually!”

With a pained expression, Duca de’ Medici stood and held out a hand. “Signorina Bowling, I—”

I didn’t hear the end of the sentence. I had already run off.

Chapter 9: Bisbigliando

Even if I didn’t feel sick with regret, my stomach was so full of chocolate, I couldn’t eat a bite of dinner. And, of all days, my favorite dishes were being served: a delicate, fragrant risotto alongside eggplant parmesan and butter chicken.

“Stupid Medici,” I grumbled to no one in particular. Complaining to the air felt better than scolding myself internally for the umpteenth time.

I tried to force myself to eat, but it soon became apparent that doing so would be a graver sin than having my meal cold. By the time I finished rolling around bites, the sun had set entirely. With an unfortunate amount of food remaining on my plate, I left the dining hall.

The second the door behind me shut, fear kicked in. Because of the shift in seasons, walking through the abbey at night now felt as if I had been transported to another world entirely. Moonlight reflected coolly against the statues in the courtyard, and the darkness surrounding me made it seem like I was trespassing. A weak breeze whistled through the air, stirring piles of dried leaves and making strange scratching noises that reminded me of mice scurrying. I had to look past plumes of my breath to see the stars. A sudden, powerful gust felt like it was eating through my clothes and burrowing into my bones. Since when did Sicily get so cold?

I relied on memory alone to navigate through the gardens and jog into the main building. It took only a slight push for the main door to rush open, inviting the chill of the night inside with me. The air got no warmer even after I made it to the end of the hall. As I took turn after turn down the halls, I rubbed my hands against my forearms in a futile attempt to warm myself.

In the distance, I heard a chorus of chirps, as jangling and melodically irregular as wind chimes. It sounded like there was a flock of songbirds just outside the building. I looked for the nearest window, then remembered this hallway was in the middle of the abbey, that there was no passage to the outside for several minutes.

And yet the birds continued singing as if separated from me only by a single wall.

Or as if they were flitting around in the recesses of my mind. My stomach turned at the thought. How many novels had I read about widows or governesses or whatever I was going crazy in these types of places? This wasn’t just a few avian stowaways hiding out in a nest in the rafters; I could pick out at least a dozen chirps and multiple different species. I had to find the source.

For all the curiosity burning within me, an ounce of hesitation still lingered. Some part of me felt like I would step onto forbidden ground if I went any further. Like anything living and jovial inside this dead abbey was too good to be true.

But I had to know. I jogged toward the song but was quickly cut short.

“Birdie.”

The word echoed through the hall and snaked down my spine. Goose bumps pricked my arms and the back of my neck.

I searched the darkness for signs of life. There was nothing, nobody. By all indications I was completely alone in this hallway, but IknewI wasn’t.

“Birdie,” the voice whispered again, sounding further and closer at the same time. It was soft and sad as it echoed around me, and it was—Opaline.

“Peachy?” I called out, taking a step forward.

I could’ve sworn the air around me was growing colder by the second. My hands shook. Silence engulfed me. Even the birds had hushed.

I stood still for a beat. Then another. Out of nowhere, a gust of wind rushed in from the end of the hall. Rows of sconces shut off in a wave toward me.

“Birdie!”

My mother’s voice.

I spun on my heels and ran, but before I made it to the end of the hall, I crashed into someone.

---