Page 83 of Just for a Taste

“Ah, brilliant, just what I love to hear!” he purred. “Now, to what do I owe this immense pleasure?”

The strange lightness of his voice irked me, and I didn’t bother to hide it in my reply. “I’m tired of waiting for things to get better.”

The answer came quickly. “Of course! I, too, tire of this game of cat and mouse, especially since my dear cousin has mistakenly assumedheis the cat.”

I wished he could see me roll my eyes. “Can we talk in person, then? And figure something out?”

“As nostalgic as a visit to the old Medici summer home sounds, I must admit I’m not in the mood to travel to whatever pile of leaves you’re hiding in. Why don’t we have a helicopter fly you to—”

“No,” I snapped. “I’m not flying again, least of all in your helicopter. You’ve been waiting to talk to me for months. You can wait until I’ve walked to the nearest city. I should be at Cisternino by sunrise if I keep up this pace. If you must be picky, I can catch a bus to Fasano, then a train to—”

“No, no, Cisternino works perfectly! There’s an utterly delightful little cafe where we can grab some coffee. It’s a date!”

I grunted in acknowledgment, then hung up the phone, pocketing it before I even got the chance to see it shut off. I had estimated that I’d be at Cisternino at sunrise, but sunrise was in four hours. I took a few gulps of water and a small snack—sour grape candies—before starting the first leg of what I knew would be a long day.

Chapter 45: Segue

Just as the sun was emerging from the horizon, the small city of Cisternino came into view over the steady incline I had been traveling along.

The small town, surrounded by scenic dairy farms and olive groves, was an island of whitewashed stone. Narrow brick streets were sandwiched between angular buildings stacked beside one another and joined with steep staircases. Greenery interspersed the structures, massive trees marking the corners of various town squares. Every inch of the city was lovingly decorated, with each house surrounded by tropical plants, brightly painted doors, and windows against the walls of white. It would have resembled a cute pastoral diorama if not for the rare scooter skittering in and out of the streets. Old-fashioned streetlights had just flickered off, bringing my focus to the way the sun twinkled on the surface of the distant ocean.

Dirt road transitioned to gravel, and in the distance, I could even see paved sidewalk. With how quickly my legs gave out when I sat on a pedestrian bench, it was a wonder I had even remained upright so long. Now in cellular range, I retrieved my phone again.

To my relief, the only message was from Basilio. No rebukes from Noor, and none of the hundreds of messages I knew I’d get from Zeno when he finally woke up. Just the same old photo of a rose that had been my companion for months, with a single notification from Basilio covering its surface:

Here’s the address to the cafe. They aren’t open yet, but tell them that Basilio de’ Medici will be dining with you at eight and they’ll let you in. Sorry I’m late! Looking forward to our date~

I rolled my eyes at the message but plugged the address in. The cafe was on the very edge of town, on the corner of its street.

In any other context, the little restaurant would have charmed me, with its traditional decor and the fresh flowers on every wrought-iron table. But now I wondered how on earth I was supposed to even have a sip of water with the turmoil in my stomach. I grimaced at the chiuso sign hanging against the window and knocked on the door a few times.

It took a minute or two for the owner to open the door. He was a young, handsome man with an apron tied loosely around his waist and flour covering his hands. He looked confused, then annoyed, then something else entirely.

“Oh!” he said, his full lips curling into a tinyOto match. “Are you the one sent by—”

“—Barone de’ Medici,” I finished his sentence for him, trying not to show how bitter the name was on my tongue. “Yes. I am.”

He pulled a seat out for me immediately, skittering about in that same desperate-to-please manner I had seen from the shopkeeper of the plant shop months ago. The man rambled to me at length, but with how preoccupied I was, I only caught the bare skeleton of his explanation—something about how he was the youngest son of some noble family that was closely allied with the Medici, how he had opened a store in this quaint little town with the blessing of his parents, and so on. I didn’t even latch on to his name. It was only when I saw he was looking at me expectantly that I realized he had asked a question.

“Sorry, what was that?”

He frowned for a split second, then forced a smile. “It’s all right, Signorina Bowling! Basilio told me he is about fifteen minutes away. Please let me know what you would like to drink in the meantime. My treat.” He rattled off various options, but once again, my mind was elsewhere. Had I introduced myself? Would Basilio have told him who I was by name?

Once the man’s voice lilted in that way that foretold the end of my options, I made deliberate eye contact. “I’ll take that last one, thank you.”

“Of course. I’ll make that for you right now.”

When he retreated into the kitchen, I relaxed the tiniest bit. My shoulders were still midway to my ears, but at least I didn’t have to worry about making small talk at a time like this. What good would being this tense do for the creation of a peace treaty?

Just enjoy yourself and forget about the enemy, Cora, I told myself, closing my eyes.For the next fifteen minutes, it’s a normal morning at a normal cafe.

The drink that materialized in front of me when I opened my eyes certainly helped with the illusion. I had apparently ordered an affogato, and the smell of vanilla ice cream drowned in hot espresso was delightful. I turned the drink from side to side, marveling. Despite the speed at which the man had made my drink, his attention to detail was remarkable. Elegant curls of chocolate shavings were just beginning to melt, save those shielded from the heat atop a fresh leaf of mint.

“I made the whipped cream this morning,” the man said, gesturing to the generous dollop on top of the ice cream. “The milk is from one of the local dairy cows.”

I picked up a straw and a spoon, eager to dissect the meal, but before I could dig in, he stopped me.

“Wait!” the man cried, holding a hand up.

---