Page 76 of Just for a Taste

Just as I settled into my mind, I heard a noise I hadn’t in weeks: a knock on the door.

The mug in my hands suddenly felt searing, and every other noise felt loud, including my own irregular breathing. The mere act of standing felt as though I were breaking out of my skin. Everything about this felt strange and wrong. I knew each door of this place had copious locks for a reason, that we were in the absolute middle of nowhere. And yet with how calm the knocking had been—barely audible, from where I sat—I couldn’t help but hope it was Lucia or Noor.

I considered waiting for Zeno, but the siren’s song had grown too powerful. I didn’t think I had it in me to wait for Zeno to put on his sun-protective gear. Setting aside my drink and caution, I crept into the hallway and climbed up the ladder. The trapdoor opened and shut silently when I emerged, and my own footfalls were inaudible. If I wanted to, I could go back without being detected.

You should just go back anyway. Someone being out here is ridiculous. Nothing good can come of it.

I sighed to myself and reached for the trapdoor again but froze immediately. Behind me—three more raps, softer than the first.

No matter how conflicted I was, I felt compelled to answer. “Hello?” I called, approaching.

No response.

I cupped shaking hands around my face and repeated, “Hello?”

I was met with a further trio of wraps. I tiptoed closer, pressing my ear against the door and holding my breath.

I could hear heavy breathing on the other side. I braced myself for another knock but instead met something entirely different: footsteps fading into the distance.

I listened for several moments longer, and none returned. My shaking hand rested on the doorknob.

I opened the door and screamed at the top of my lungs.

In front of me was a dove, cleanly decapitated. Blood still fresh across white feathers, wings folded neatly across its breast and tied with a ribbon. Her head—for I knew this bird—was at her side atop a silver platter, a fan of rose petals beneath her. Her feet were still twitching, and as I discovered upon collapsing to my knees and picking her up, her body was still lithe and warm.

“What the fuck?” I repeated in alternating whispers and screams. “What the fuck?”

I pressed Leonore’s head against her body. They fit together perfectly. She looked so at peace, eyes closed loosely, beak slightly ajar, feet curled into her. But when I let go, everything fell apart again.

At the sight of her head tumbling onto the ground, I broke into hoarse, painful sobs.

“Cora?!” Zeno bellowed from the bedroom. Footsteps thundered behind me.

I dropped her body on the ground, staggered back, and slammed the door shut to protect Zeno from the light, then I fell onto my back.

At the sight of me lying supine with semicoagulated blood covering the front of my chest, Zeno grew even paler than I knew possible. He gaped at me, and we were both frozen.

“It’s not—” I had to force the words out of my trembling lips and pointed to where I knew the body was. “It’s not my blood.”

Each of his muscles loosened, though only slightly. “Are you hurt?”

“N-no.” A flashbulb memory of Leonore’s head as it rolled away struck me, and I brought my hands to my face. It was already sticky with tears and snot, and now grime and blood joined it. “I’m not.”

It felt like a lie and the truth all at once. I smeared away what little I could with my sleeve, and when I looked back at Zeno, I was horrified to see him staring at the door with a look of resolve. He was going to go outside in the middle of the day in cloudless Florence without a shred of protection. If I didn’t stop Zeno, he would burn irreparably within seconds. He looked composed, utterly at peace as he spoke with a gentle smile to the door.

“I’m going to rip his fucking throat out.”

My shoes squeaked against the floor as I tried and failed to scramble to my feet. I gasped in a mouthful of air, just enough to scream out, “Zeno, no!”

To my relief, he faltered, but his hand remained glued to the doorknob. I crawled on my knees toward him and pulled desperately at his clothes.

“Zeno,” I said, doing my best impression of him that night in the church. “Please stay.”

He joined me on the ground and wrapped me in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the top of my head. “I’m so sorry.”

Chapter 41: Soggetto cavato

---