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When he opened the door, my expectations were dashed entirely. The room was practically swimming in light, and it seemed so organically warm, I feared Duca de’ Medici’s skin would blister. The room, which was about six meters long and wide, was fashioned into a cageless aviary. In its center was a massive driftwood stand with food, water, and fruit hanging from each branch. Birds flew freely around the room, flitting from perch to perch. Some chirped cheerfully from the entrance of nests, others foraged for seeds among hay scattered around the ground, and a few bathed in large stone fountains.

I didn’t know what these birds were, but they certainly weren’t Sicilian. The birds honed in on me, curious but not anxious.

I gripped my skirt with my hands, which had now become cold with sweat. I didn’t do birds. Not this close, anyway. But of course, I couldn’t escape for what Iknewsounded like a silly reason.

“This room used to be another scriptorium,” Duca de’ Medici explained, after gently closing the door behind us. “Noor threw a fit when I turned it into a room for my finches. She said this used to be the most beautiful room in the abbey. She wasn’t wrong.”

“Then why this room? Why not one of the plainer bedrooms with windows?”

He darkened visibly at the suggestion. “No. Here they are safe from any pests or predators, and I can visit them at all times of the day.”

One of the braver birds, a member of the species of vibrant, bright green birds with purple breasts, red heads, and yellow stomachs that dominated the aviary, hopped closer to him. Duca de’ Medici grasped a spray of millet gingerly, and the bird flew to his finger and began pecking away without an ounce of hesitation or fear. Meanwhile, I had backed up against the wall.

I forced myself to speak as casually as possible. “Well, itisbeautiful. Are these really all finches? I’ve never seen anything like them.”

He nodded and said softly, “This one is a Lady Gouldian finch. His mate is waiting for him in that nest back there.” A red bird with white speckles landed on his shoulder and hopped down along his arm toward the millet. “This one is a strawberry finch. It’s probably what you heard last night. And those foraging on the ground over there are double-barred finches and society finches.”

It took me a moment to reply. I was taken aback by the lovely aviary, the happy little birds, and most of all, the warmth emanating from the man in front of me. I would have to paint this later.

An expectant look spurred me to talk. “They’re lovely,” I quickly noted.

“Yes. They’re my treasures.” By this point, the millet had been stripped clean, and the two birds—now quite content with themselves—flew back to their mates. The vampire turned back to me with a child-like grin and held out a spray to me. “Would you like to try?”

No,was my immediate thought.No way in hell.I took it from him, anyway, but immediately clutched the millet to my chest.

Duca de’ Medici gave me a strange look and pulled another spray from his pocket. “Here. I can do it with you.”

“No, it’s okay.” I made my voice stern. “I can do it myself.”

I held out my arm, squeezed my eyes shut, and focused on the pounding in my ears instead of the rush of wind around me. When I opened my eyes, a representative of each species had already claimed their spot at the buffet and was chowing down. They didn’t seem to be bothered by my trembling. Less than a minute later, the birds flew off.

My arm fell limp to my side. My cheeks felt moist.

“S-sorry,” I stammered, roughly wiping my sleeve across my face. “I didn’t mean to cry.”

He gave me only silence. I rushed to fill it as tears fell more quickly than I could wipe them away.

“I’m sorry, I’m grateful, I promise!”

Words tumbled out, made worse when I couldn’t see the vampire’s reaction through the blur of my tears. I had no idea if he was glowering, or laughing, or something worse. All I could do was vomit out words in my native tongue and accent.

“It’s just that when I was little, I gardened a lot, and I got attacked by one of my ma’s roosters ’cause I went too close to the coop one day. I know what you’re thinking—‘How bad could a chicken attack be?’ But it was actually bad. I needed seven stitches on my face, an’ my granny made chicken an’ dumplin’ soup that night, but she called it Robert an’ dumplin’ soup, since the rooster was named Robert, an—”

“It’s fine,” he cut in. “Truly. You did well, Signorina Bowling.”

The world was still blurry, so I had to rely on touch to realize he had put a silk handkerchief in my hand.

“Use this, please. Your sleeve is too rough, and I don’t want you to scratch your face.”

With newfound caution, I blotted at my eyes until I could see again, and my crying had reduced to sniffles. He was sitting on one end of a bench. I joined him.

“Sorry,” I repeated as a few more tears rolled down. I buried my face in the handkerchief. “I’m just embarrassed now. Again.”

The vampire shook his head with a frown and a furrowed brow. “Don’t be. It’s a waste.”

“Huh?”

“Sadness is like absinthe. It stings and burns and yet somehow brings comfort. Happiness is sweet, and anger has an exhilarating spice, but shame? It’s a useless emotion. It sullies every other.”