Page 22 of Just for a Taste

T he next few days passed normally for Duca de’ Medici and me. Per usual, we had our book club in the aviary; we’d shifted from reading Idylls of the King to Julius Caesar , then to North and South. Respectively, we’d shifted from listening to Tristan und Isolde , to Mussorgsky , to Beethoven.

But on the inside, my stomach flipped every time I remembered that day in Partanna and our conversation on the hill. I didn’t know if I regretted my answer, if I was making a mistake in promising something I couldn’t really give. All I knew was that at the moment, I’d meant it—for at least another month, I was his. And when the next donation came around, his words haunted me: I need you to understand that I could not possibly spend a portion of the money allotted to me within my lifetime, even if it were full.

I never ceased to be impressed by how chilly the exam room was. I used to assume my old fear of doctor’s offices was responsible for my goose bumps, but the cold was the actual culprit. Even the side table my arm rested on was sickeningly cool. I looked at Doctor Ntumba next to me, envy striking at the sight of her warm outfit. It was per her demand that this feeding was being done by IV—retribution, I assumed, for the horrifically unsanitary feeding we’d had in the presence of countless birds.

“Doctor Ntumba,” I said before she began, “I have a question.”

She looked up from what she was doing—preparing the IV itself—curious yet slightly irritated. “What is it, Cora?”

“Well, actually, I don’t know if we can talk about this. I mean, is there some European equivalent to HIPAA?”

She tied the tourniquet masterfully, as usual, and I tried not to wince at its vice grip, preparing my arm for the prick of the needle. I focused instead on the cold, rough sensation of the alcohol wipe across my arm.

“There’s a near equivalent, GDPR. But your job acceptance included mutual ROIs. In fact, the same applies to you and Zeno with this entire household. So, what do you want to know?”

Doctor Ntumba pierced my vein with ease, then tossed the tourniquet aside as though it were a victory flag. I was never squeamish with blood, but my stomach always turned at the sight of red traveling down the tubes into a bag.

“I, uh—how long could my employment last? Like, if I were here for a long time, how long could that be?”

“Ah. You’re asking how long Zeno has to live.”

I wished, suddenly, that I wasn’t sitting there with a massive tube in my arm so I could abort the conversation if it wasn’t successful, but maybe both of us being forced to sit here would work to my benefit.

“Yeah,” I replied. “I guess I couldn’t find a polite way to ask.”

“Zeno’s health has long been a subject of contention.” With the blood flowing easily, she sat across from me and coolly said, “Some specialists believe he’ll live into his fifties, others believe he should have already died.”

“But I thought most vampires had a normal lifespan?” It came out as more of a question than a statement.

“Most, but Zeno has an unfortunate set of mutations on top of the typical oculocutaneous albinism and pancytopenia—xeroderma pigmentosum and congenital immunodeficiency. To vastly simplify both conditions, the former means his skin struggles to repair damage caused by ultraviolet light, and the latter means his body cannot fight off infection or abnormalities.”

My undergraduate biology degree wormed its way out of my subconscious. “In other words, he’s incredibly likely to get skin cancer?”

I wasn’t sure when Doctor Ntumba had pulled the IV out from me, but she was already patching me up.

“He’s been lucky so far. Set up to thrive, as it were. Vampirism is known amongst nobility, and houses tend to prepare for it. This entire house is powered with UV-free lighting, as has every house he’s grown up in. Even the candles here are designed to burn at a low enough temperature so as not to emit any hint of radiation. It is likely that if he only had xeroderma pigmentosum, he would have a normal lifespan, but I believe it’s only a matter of time.”

My patience was already wearing thin, and Doctor Ntumba gathering up the bags made me unable to hold back from cutting her off. “But how long do you think he’ll live?”

Doctor Ntumba’s countenance finally darkened. “As many doctors have projected, he could probably live until his late fifties, but knowing Zeno, I think he’ll only last until his mid-to-late thirties.”

The pit in my stomach blossomed, its branches coursing through my body, making my fingers numb. Like I felt when Pa died, before pangs of sorrow radiated through me.

“Why? Isn’t he set up for success?” I demanded. “He doesn’t even look like he has any sun damage!”

Doctor Ntumba gave me a small smile, more pitiful than any tears could have been. “He is set up for success, more than any client I’ve ever seen, but he’s . . . negligent. Even convincing him to have transfusions, much less blood from a beniamina , took months.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, shaking my head and crossing my arms tightly.

I did, of course. I just didn’t want to.

With a deep sigh, Doctor Ntumba put her hand on my shoulder. “That is why your presence here is so important, Cora, and I must apologize for understating it when you were hired. But truthfully, you are responsible for giving much more than just blood to him.”

I wanted to ask what exactly I was responsible for, but I already knew the answer. He had told me that night on the hill: as briefly as we had known one another, our time together was motivation for him to fight for every day.

I felt myself shaking. Sweat gathered on my brow and hands. “That’s way more than I signed up for. I—I can’t handle that kind of responsibility! You said this wasn’t a permanent position.”

Doctor Ntumba stepped away from me with guilt, exasperation, annoyance, and countless other emotions flickering across her features.

“I didn’t think he would take to you so strongly. I didn’t think he was capable of it,” she admitted with a frown. “Zeno has been my sole patient since he was eight, and I knew him even as an infant. For as long as I’ve known him, he has only let a few people in, and those were all so long ago.”

We both held our breaths, and another sound became audible.

Drip. Drip .

I looked down to see crimson pooling on the tile at my feet, the result of a spidery path of red trailing down my arm. The cotton ball was dangling, half attached to my arm, entirely ineffective in damming the deluge of blood I had forced out by gripping my fists. I cursed under my breath, and Doctor Ntumba quickly gloved up and patched me up again.

“Sit,” she ordered. Then, more politely, “Please.”

I was grateful for this request, as the weight of my body and the entire situation had already impressed itself upon my limbs. The blood loss made things worse, of course, but everything Zeno had said to me over these past few weeks fully came to a head. I allowed myself to go limp, slouching in the chair with defeat.

She worked quickly as I sat there and eventually closed my eyes. “Do you feel okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I mumbled. “This is just a lot to take in.”

“I understand. I am true to my word, and your contract will continue to be renegotiated on a quarterly basis.” She paused and met my eyes. “You should consider whether or not you wish to be a beniamina in all senses of the word.”

How could you understand? was the immediate riposte in my mind. I bit the thought back the second it emerged; Noor was not to blame for any of this, I realized. In fact, blame might not even be an accurate term. Even without a contract, I had accepted this role, both to myself and to Zeno. I just hadn’t allowed myself to consciously acknowledge it.

“It’s okay,” I finally asserted once she finished. “I already have, for the time being.”

I remained seated but gave her a nod of dismissal. After a moment of hesitation, she wheeled away the blood, leaving me alone with my thoughts in that cold, cold room. So cold it reminded me of the mortality of the man who was getting my blood.

Whether I remained here—whether I left to pursue my PhD after finishing my thesis—his body would join the others in the graveyard. But he would continue to fight for at least another month. What would I do after that?

∞∞∞

I stirred the soup in front of me, long gone cold. I had taken a few bites of the macco di fave , and the fava bean soup was delicious as everything else I had been served. My portion sizes had lessened to account for my waning appetite, and I felt more obliged than ever to try to finish what I had. But unfortunately, today was one of those days where neurosis had nestled into my stomach and made the thought of eating unbearable. I plopped my spoon into the bowl and ran my thumb across the bite marks on my wrist, strangely comforted by the familiar grooves, the remnants of that feeding in the aviary, as sweet and electrifying as the feeling of when I had signed the contract renewal.

A plate descended from above, carried by a set of tiny hands. I glanced behind me at Lucia, who was grinning broadly, first at me and then at the plate. It had a few truffles on it—my favorite. No matter how full or nauseous I was, I couldn’t resist the little treasures.

“Don’t worry, signorina,” Lucia told me, stealing one for herself. “I know you’ve been having late-night snacks. I won’t hold your appetite against you.”

I gave her a small smile but didn’t outwardly acknowledge her comment. She was entirely correct, as the charcuterie boards I devoured each night were meals in and of themselves.

While clearing away the bowl of macco di fave , Lucia whistled a tune I didn’t know the name of—some local folk tune I would hum when she wasn’t there. By the time she returned with cleaning supplies, I had already finished the remaining four truffles. Raspberry-vanilla with white chocolate. How she could predict the exact sort of flavor profile I was craving was a mystery.

“It’s Friday, isn’t it?” I asked, reaching for a washcloth. “I heard you were asked on a date when you were in town the other day. Signora Carbone is a gossip.”

I realized what a pretty blue Lucia’s eyes were now that her face was so pink. I also realized how booming her voice was now that she spoke so softly. “I had to turn it down. I can’t leave the premises until you are asleep, signorina.”

I shrugged. “Tell the others I told you to fetch me some more paint.”

“So late at night?”

I wiped down the tables, but because of Signora Carbone and Lucia’s thoroughness, there were only a few crumbs. “I’m a silly American. I didn’t know any better.”

She fidgeted with her apron. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I insist.” I shoved the washcloth in my pocket. “And since you were already out and about, you ran a few errands for me. You know, fetching me some cuttings, dropping off some letters, grabbing some spring water.”

Lucia sighed softly, and her eyes darted around as the cogs in her head turned. That was one of my favorite things about Lucia. She couldn’t hide her thoughts even if she wanted to.

She paced toward the windows. Night had fallen, but the purplish hue in the sky showed it was still young. Still plenty of time to make it to town and either meet this mysterious belle at a bar, or text her once she could get reception. Then she looked down at her clothes, held out her uniform, and stared pointedly at the dirt in its creases.

“You’re about my size,” I offered. My wardrobe was filled with countless clothes, most of which I hadn’t picked out myself. They seemed to appear as if by magic.

She smiled and shook her head. “I have my own dresses, Signorina Cora. And I think Duca de’ Medici would be angry if anyone but you wore yours. Anyway, are you sure?”

“Yeah,” I replied with a small smile. I finished the rest of the sentence in my head. And I just want to be alone.

“O-okay!” Lucia could barely conceal her excitement; she appeared on the verge of literally jumping for joy. She looked at me once again as though to confirm permission, and I gave her a nod. With only a, “Thanks!” she gathered up my dishes and hurried off toward the maids’ chambers, leaving me alone.

For as quickly as she had dashed away, the door behind Lucia shut softly. And as quiet as the noise was, it seemed loud to me. I kept repeating my conversation with Duca de’ Medici over and over, scouring every sentence I had spoken and every sentence he hadn’t, until eventually, I couldn’t handle mulling on the subject any longer.

Reading proved to be a fruitless activity with my limited focus, so I tried to track down every crumb and scrub every inch of that table. Once I completed that task, I watched as Lucia’s tiny car disappeared deep into the horizon and its sputtering became inaudible.

I continued to stare out the window after that, hoping to see any movement, but not even the grass was fluttering. I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts. I glanced at my watch and was satisfied to see it was just late enough for Duca de’ Medici to begin his playing. Now, if nothing else, I could focus on something other than the way the chocolates felt heavy in my stomach. With more hope than I had felt all day, I rushed off toward his room.