Page 55 of Just for a Taste

By the time we got home (much to the relief of Signora Rafia), the clouds had cleared, and the night sky glowed with thousands of stars. I paused in the garden with Zeno’s hand in mine. We stared at it in silence for what felt like hours, until I struggled to keep my eyes open.

He led me to my room, lingered at the door for a moment, then departed for his own.

Curled up beneath my sheets, I wondered how I would bear that week apart before ourritus sanguinous, and if I would ever have it in me to leave the abbey.

Book Two: Verismo

Chapter 26: Intermezzo

As much as every bit of me wanted to curse Catherine de’ Medici for popularizing the steel corset in the late sixteenth century, I had to admit I was gorgeous. My boxy frame had been transformed to fit perfectly along the contours and curves of the Renaissance-styled dress. The bodice pressed around me seamlessly, creating an hourglass figure topped in deep crimson and embroidered gold. The high neck and low sleeves of the dress acted as a ruffled line across my arms and made my square shoulders appear elegant. I didn’t even want to think of how much velvet and red dye had been used to create a billowing effect at my waist and fold into the individually embroidered panels that ran from my waist to the floor.

“Did Signora Carbone really make this?” I whispered sideways to Lucia, unable tear my gaze from the graceful figure in the mirror.

“Yes! Isn’t she so talented?”

I swiveled and watched as the layered skirts billowed. “How did she even come up with such a pattern? And make it in only a week?”

“Signora Carbone just does that. I’ve always felt so lucky she took me in. Signora Carbone has always been so kind to me. She’s firm, of course, but I owe her everything. I hope one day you two can be close.”

Though her demeanor was dreamy, Lucia’s deft pace continued on, lightly maneuvering me rather than giving me instructions. I still wasn’t used to being so casually touched, and I wasn’t sure I would ever be. Initially, I had wondered why on earth I was getting dressed at the venue, but now the reason was obvious: no matter how hard I tried, I wouldn’t be able to keep the train of the dress clean outdoors. Beyond that, I probably would have ruined my makeup by sleeping against the window; Noor had dragged me out of bed with a cocktail of anxiolytics that afternoon, with the rationale that I couldn’t panic about leaving the abbey if I wasn’t awake to do so. The room I woke up in for the second time—the one I was still in now—was unremarkable, with flagstone for walls and floors. It felt as though it could have been some unfinished room in my sanctum.

I turned to see what preoccupied Lucia now. A trio of golden, U-shaped pins shone between her fingers, with gem-encrusted lilies. I wondered if I would get the time to count the diamonds and rubies on each miniature petal, or if the pins would disappear wherever all my jewelry tended to after their one use. Lucia put them between her teeth, freeing up her hands to work on my hair. I tried not to wince every few seconds, reminding myself that the result would be some masterful updo.

Lucia plaited and tamed my curls into a crown braid tied into a low, looping bun. A few stray ringlets framed my face, with several strands hanging strategically out of my bun. The pins, though methodically placed, appeared like an afterthought.How paradoxical, I thought as I tried to ignore my stinging scalp,that endeavor and pain had given such an effortless appearance.

She took a step back and spun my chair to marvel at every angle of her work.

“How lovely!” she exclaimed in Italian, clasping her hands together. “Don’t you look like a treasure? Now . . .” She rushed to the other side of the room to grab the final accessory: a bracelet.

I took it from her and held it up to the light. The stones were cool and smooth between my fingers, silky beads formed from a dark red-and-brown mottled crystal.Tiger’s eye, I remembered from Emily’s book on crystals, but for the first time in months, I didn’t linger on her.

“Who gave you these?” I asked, trying to ignore the fluttering in my chest.

Lucia gave me a strange look. “Duca de’ Medici, of course. He chooses all of your clothing.”

“I see. Tell him I said thank you.”

I ran the bracelet through my fingers. The beads were the same thickness, the same weight, the same smoothness as the rosary on my nightstand. I would probably never feel ready for the onslaught I feared, but with my safety net literally in hand, this was the closest I would get.

Lucia helped me up and moved away with a small, sad smile. For whatever reason, I knew this meant she would not be at my side tonight. I wasn’t sure if that made me feel better or worse. I twirled in the mirror one more time, confidence bolstered once more by the majestic cascade of velvet.

Even if I was an imposter in this bourgeois world, the skin fit over me well enough. I gave one final glance at the beads in my hands—my hands, which Noor had correctly predicted would be smooth so long ago. I nodded at Lucia, whispered my thanks to her, then went to the doors to the main ballroom.

They were as heavy as the pit in my stomach. With a deep breath, I pushed both of them away.

Chapter 27: Se vuol ballare

The ballroom was massive, saturated in creams and lace, more magnificent than I could have painted. The floor was made of inlaid marble tile, with fine details embossed in gold leaf. The expansive walls were painted with ornate floral murals and draped in satin curtains. A colossal crystal chandelier bloomed overhead, filling the room with warm, brilliant candlelight. Long tables covered in hors d’oeuvres flanked the sides of the room in the distance, each surrounded by small crowds. Placed perfectly to take advantage of the acoustics was a full orchestra, complete with a grand piano, barely audible over the countless voices.

Just as majestic as the ballroom itself were the people who filled it. The vampires andbeniaminilooked straight out of a historical drama, with the women wearing billowing hourglass ball gowns over hidden corsets. Now surrounded by all these stiff collars and petticoats, my own skirts felt normal. The men were dressed a bit more modernly—from the 1800s, as opposed to the 1500s—and wore long waistcoats over frilled shirts with cravats. A colony of top hats perched on hangers at the entrance.

All the conversations and laughter that had filled the air quieted. As innumerable eyes fell on me, everyone’s voices hushed into whispers. I had never felt so naked.

I shut my eyes tightly and focused on the now-audible music. A song had just begun, presumably marking my entrance, and by now it was blossoming into an elegant piece. I recognized it as Rachmaninoff,Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, Opus 43, Variation 18. I could tell it was him because of the wide chords and the use of “Dies Irae.”

My stomach flipped and swirled with an inscrutable wash of feelings that mirrored the swell of the orchestra. I opened my eyes. These feelings were more overwhelming than all those eyes on me were. It was only when the murmur of voices grew louder and returned to their previous volume that I remembered none of these people knew the significance of this piece.

Keeping a watchful gaze on me, the crowd returned to their former conversations.

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