Page 28 of Just for a Taste

Rather than the usual mixture of milk and honey, my bath was filled with a fragrant mixture of frankincense and hyssop, and Lucia scrubbed me more aggressively than ever before. Though the oils burned, what came after was far more uncomfortable.

Signora Carbone was ruthless in her efforts to fit my dress. She tied measuring tapes taut, pricked pins through fabric with little consideration to the flesh beneath it, and ripped ribbons every which way. On and off the dress came, with such minute alterations that I could not discern them, no matter how hard I looked. But by the time she finished, Signora Carbone’s skills were undeniable. Everything fit perfectly, and once Lucia added all the accessories and a touch of makeup, a doll was staring back at me in the mirror.

For the first time, I saw myself as beautiful as my mother had.

“Thank you,” I said to them both.

Both women beheld me with such reverence, they didn’t need to respond. I wondered who had been the one to choose these clothes, and how they had known which colors complimented my eyes, or how the dress would render my boyish frame into something elegant.

For some reason, I didn’t think I wanted the answer.

Signora Carbone led me to the room I had spent the first night in. How shockingly small it seemed now, how utterly plain. When had I gotten so used to luxury? The bed had been stripped clean, and the only inhabitant of the room was a single plate, which held a single piece of bread and a glass of grape juice, meant for sacrament. The door shut behind me quietly.

Now, left alone, I was dumbfounded. I had prayed in this abbey out of fear the first time I ate, but this was different. I wanted to honor this tradition, but I certainly wasn’t Catholic; I had long forgotten how to pray. After teetering from foot to foot a bit, I decided to kneel at the altar, which proved to be an immense challenge, considering the dress, but I committed to it, nonetheless.

“Hello, God—or Jesus, I guess?” I whispered, pressing my forehead against my clasped hands. “I don’t know. I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to say when I talk to you all by myself like this. I guess . . . thank you for the flesh and blood? It looks tasty, and I appreciate it not being alcoholic.” Where were crickets when you needed them? The silence was painful, so I cleared my throat.

“Um, anyway, hopefully this drinking goes well. Wish me luck?”

I inhaled and exhaled sharply, whispered the Lord’s Prayer as I could think of no other, and ate the cracker and juice. A stray droplet of juice ran down the side of the glass and onto the back of my hand. I quickly licked it off before it could roll off and stain the unfinished wood.

I wonder,I thought,if my blood will be so red, or taste so sweet.

There were three soft raps at the door and a soft, “Are you ready, signorina?”

“Y-yes!” I jumped to my feet.

Duca de’ Medici’s room was exactly as I remembered from that first day. Like before, darkness blanketed the room almost entirely, staved off only by the dim light of a few candles. The sweet scent of leather and wood wafted throughout the room, and Duca de’ Medici sat in his usual spot.

There were differences too. Instead of Tchaikovsky, some aria I could not place filled the air. Instead of truffles, there was a plate of shortbread cookies on the table. What was most different of all, however, was Duca de’ Medici.

When I entered, he was sitting with both feet on the ground, his elbows on his thighs, and his head in his hands. His hair was visibly parted from having run his fingers through them so much. At the sound of my footsteps, he lifted his face so that his chin rested on his thumbs, and his fingertips pressed against the bridge of his nose.

Our eyes widened in synchronization.

“Wow,” he said, sitting up slowly.

Feeling my face flush, I folded my arms tightly and bit my lower lip. “Yes?”

A smile spread across his face. “I chose your clothes well.”

Duca de’ Medici was looking at me just like he had on that day in the aviary, just like when we walked to the hill—with warmth, and something else I couldn’t decipher. When the slender man rose to his feet and stalked gracefully toward me, I froze.

He knelt on one knee as if to propose and looked up at me with a sincere expression.

“May I?”

“Yes.” The answer sprang from me automatically, despite not knowing what he was asking permission for. Half of me would have said yes to almost anything, and the other half cowered.

Duca de’ Medici’s slender fingers slid beneath mine. He turned my arm palm up, exposing my wrist. My veins pulsed prominently beneath my chestnut skin. His cool thumb, contrasting with mine in temperature and tone, rested lightly along my radial artery, and the pointer finger of his other hand traced along my artery. Duca de’ Medici's breath was hot against my wrist, and as poised as he was, his body radiated eagerness.

“Relax, I’ll be gentle.”

He must have felt the uptick in my heart rate when I realized what was happening. I didn’t know if I should watch or look away, but I didn’t have a choice either way. My body was frozen.

Duca de’ Medici looked up at me with those coral eyes, filled with emotions intense yet indiscernible, and plunged his teeth into me.

My body went hot, then cold. I closed my eyes. I felt his tongue gently caressing the flesh of my inner wrist, his long eyelashes fluttering dreamily against me, his soft lips pressing into me. For all this tenderness, his grip on me was strong and he drank in greedy gulps.

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