Page 11 of Just for a Taste

T hat night, my sleep was shaky and fragmented, with vague nightmares broken up by even vaguer moments of lucidity. I remembered waking up at one point bound in my own sheets, and startling myself awake at another by kicking the wall. By the time something other than myself woke me up, I sensed it was early evening. At first, I mistook the gentle knock for ethereal footsteps, but then the sequence repeated.

“Hello?” The hesitation of whoever was on the other side of the door was palpable.

I sat up and fluffed up a pillow beneath me. “Come in.”

Duca de’ Medici opened the door and took a tentative step into my room, then another. Then he froze and turned beet red.

I followed his line of sight to a pair of freshly folded panties and a bralette, frilly and lacy and riding the fine line between nice undergarments and lingerie proper. I had worn them to my interview to increase my confidence. I was now also acutely aware of how my shirt was drooping off my shoulder.

In a movement I hoped wasn’t too conspicuous, I shrugged the sheets around me a bit tighter.

“Good evening,” Duca de’ Medici said after gathering himself again.

This was the first time, I thought, that the vampire’s flamboyant visage had reduced to something more somber. No—I had seen this expression last night as he led me to my room. Pity, worry, and something else I couldn’t name.

Suddenly, the events of last night turned back from a distant nightmare to a concrete memory. I shoved them down and focused on the present.

“Good evening,” I replied. “Can I help you?”

“No. Rather, I’d like to help you.”

I tried my best to suppress my doubt but still felt myself grimace slightly. For a moment, Duca de’ Medici appeared as if he might call me out or otherwise comment on it—he had helped me last night, I realized—but pressed on with his original point.

“I feel in part to blame for what happened last night.”

My doubt had not receded. Unless you can do a spot-on impression of my sister, I’m not too sure of that.

He turned his head to the side and folded an arm across himself. “The birds you heard—they’re mine. I feel at fault for what happened last night, and I would like you to see them, at least.”

“Okay?”

“Carbone will bring you to the aviary for tea.” His usual grin reemerged. “I’m sure Noor won’t miss you too much.”

Despite its strange beginning, the first part of the day slipped back into its usual machinations; breakfast, morning bath, being dressed by the maids, time in the library, and a small lunch. Out of habit, I started toward my usual afternoon tea spot, but when I walked out the door, I crashed into a seemingly impenetrable barrier.

“Eep!” I let out a pathetic, high-pitched squeak and recoiled.

In front of me stood Duca de’ Medici, biting his lip to suppress a smirk.

I flushed, folded my arms, and glared at the corner of the room. “If you’re going to laugh,” I grumbled, “just do it.”

The vampire released a torrent of laughter, and despite myself, the melodic noise made me feel better. Even his laughter is pretty , I thought, taking advantage of his head being thrown back to examine the man. He wore black dress pants and dress shoes with a simple white button-down. Tossed over his shoulder in a distinctly aristocratic manner was a beige overcoat. His sleeves were bunched up past his forearms, and his shirt was unbuttoned midway to his sternum.

What elegant collarbones , I noted. But what was that between them? A gold chain of some sort? Before I got to see what was on its end, he had turned away and walked off. I got a whiff of his cologne, musky but slightly fruity, like a cask of well-aged mulberry wine.

I jogged a few steps to catch up to his long-legged pace and trailed closely behind as he returned to where we had been last night. It was as if the door he was leading me to had appeared overnight. How had I not noticed it before? Sure as day, I could hear birdsong on the other side.

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 I knew sounded 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, it is beautiful. 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.”

“I see. I’m not sure what to say anymore, then.”

He sat further back on the bench, a clear sign there was no plan to leave soon. “Then tell me about your garden.”

“I’ve had a lot of gardens. The one when I was a kid was a vegetable garden. Originally, it was because my pa told me I wasn’t allowed to read new books until I started going outside more, but I started finding it relaxing and rewarding. After the chicken attack, I was too scared to go close to the hens that ate around the garden, so I moved areas and changed the type of garden.”

For a moment, I became acutely aware I was rambling and was afraid I would bore Duca de’ Medici. Instead, his gaze upon me was intense. He seemed genuinely curious, latching onto every word.

“What other types of gardens did you have?” he prompted gently.

“In college, I actually had a rock garden. When I first moved to London for college—” I paused, unsure whether to go on. But then I remembered last night and pressed forward. “When I first moved there and left my family, my panic attacks started getting really bad. My therapist was the one who suggested the rock garden, but it didn’t feel alive enough for me. I added some bonsai, but their upkeep actually made the panic attacks worse.”

I watched Duca de’ Medici carefully. His reaction at this moment would be pivotal. Mental illness was a taboo subject, and I didn’t know if it was one I could trust him with.

To my shock and relief, he casually responded, “Oh, so that’s what happened last night. I’m sorry you’ve experienced that kind of fear.”

I shook my head quickly. “No, it’s okay! Ever since I got diagnosed with panic disorder, it’s become a lot easier to get through. And, um, thank you for helping me through it. I didn’t think you would do something like that.”

The vampire chuckled and gave me a small, lopsided smile. “I was afraid I’d given you that impression. Despite how I come off, I’m not that wicked.”

My face grew warm, and my eyes widened. “N-no, I didn’t mean that! Well, I guess I did think you were an ass, but—”

Duca de’ Medici threw back his head and laughed. “I knew you were interesting.”

Though I was still a bit flustered, I couldn’t help but smile. “Anyway, I also had a stint with microgreens, but that didn’t last long. Turns out they taste pretty gross.”

His tone softening again, he asked, “Do you miss gardening?”

“Yes. It’s funny—even though it’s associated with one of the worst parts of my life, I miss my rose garden the most. I felt almost close to those flowers, since I really didn’t have anyone else at that point.”

Although he had just laughed at me, Duca de’ Medici had no clever quip, no sarcastic remark for me. He just tilted his head toward me and flickered his eyes across my face until I felt hot. Then, finally: “I see. Why not?”

I was grateful then, for the curtain of hair that fell out of place from being tucked behind my ear, for the shield away from his piercing gaze. It was because of that protection alone that I could speak normally.

“My pa had just passed, and Ma stayed in bed all day. Well, in bed or at the kitchen table with the moonshine our pa used to make. My older sister Peachy—er, Opaline—kind of became my ma, even though she was only two years older. She was too busy with cooking and cleaning and even mailing out the bills to spend time with me anymore. Outside of books, I was never really one for friends outside of her. Ugh, that sounds so pathetic.”

He shrugged broadly and gave me a reassuring smile. “You had roses and a sister for friends. I had birds and a cousin.”

I chuckled. “At least yours were animals.”

I looked over, expecting him to mirror my casual expression, but I was met with a slightly furrowed brow and a faraway look. “Thorns aside, roses aren’t cruel, Signorina Bowling. Not like how Basilio became. He was my dearest and only friend once, and now I am left with birds.”

I had absolutely no idea what to say or do. I wanted to ask about this cryptic statement, but was terrified to overstep and ruin all the progress we had made.

As the silence lingered, his gaze on me intensified.

“I would like to make your acquaintance with someone important,” Duca de’ Medici said finally, “if you are willing.”

If sadness was absinthe, then confusion was like cooking wine. As much as I wanted to retreat, it wasn’t as though I had grounds to decline, other than the fact that I was nervous to meet someone with my face still sticky with tears.

“Um, okay.”

Without another word, Duca de’ Medici gestured for me to follow him and crossed the room toward a planted area I hadn’t noticed before.