Page 23 of Just for a Taste

T he door was closed. I stared at it, stunned, then finally opted to knock a few times. Rap rap rap . Even after a few seconds of waiting, there was no response. Another pause, another round of knocking. Still nothing.

After taking a deep breath, I peeked my head in to see the room was shrouded in darkness. The usual lantern was nowhere to be seen. There was no scent of pastries to overshadow the room’s standard fragrance. And most of all, there was no music to be heard.

I hadn’t realized how much I loved this part of the day until it was swept out from under me. I let the door fall shut.

I mentally flipped through various activities, but nothing seemed like the correct replacement. With nothing but the old standby of taking a walk, I crept out into the courtyard between the main abbey and the dining hall. It was a cool night, at least by Sicilian standards, and a gentle wind caressed my face, carrying with it the fragrance of blooming flowers. Despite how sweet the fragrance was, there was some complexity in its undertones, some distinctly musky sourness. Flowers, yes, but they were older blooms, only days away from falling.

The bittersweet realization that the seasons were changing behind my back struck me. How long had it been since I had walked through the gardens at night? Goose bumps pricked along my arms when it came to me—the last time was the night when I had heard my sister’s voice.

Birdie.

With that thought, my chest tightened. I knew the burning feeling between my breasts wasn’t mere anxiety but rather the start of an episode. I took in a sharp breath in a slightly successful effort to delay that feeling of imminent doom for a few seconds, to stave away that loud ringing. I need beads. Everything will be fine if I have beads, just like it was last time . Unfortunately, my room was on the other side of the abbey, and I knew that by the time I reached it, I would be reduced to a hyperventilating wreck. I would need to look closer.

I ran into a building I had never entered before: the church itself.

Darkness was closing in on my vision, and I relied on instinct alone to navigate the new place. I focused on putting one foot in front of the other and pressed my hand against my chest. A wooden table emerged before me, and to my relief, so did a rosary. After shoving past a curtain, I fell to my knees and began my ritual.

One-two-three-four, inhale. One-two-three-four, exhale. One-two-three-four, hold my breath, rotate a bead.

After one full rotation, everything came back into view—more specifically, a lattice appeared before my face. Great. Not only had I been using a rosary in a literally unorthodox manner, but I had also been doing so in a confessional. If I believed in God, I would have apologized to Him, but I relegated myself to trying to find my way back.

The confessional gave way to a small hallway, which gave way to another. It was astonishing that I had wound through this labyrinthine place amid a panic attack, and more astonishing still that I was struggling to return to the entrance. Left, right, right, left. I turned in random directions at the end of each hallway until finally, I entered a novel area.

It took me a moment to realize that the beautiful white figure kneeling at the altar was not a ghost or a statue, but Duca de’ Medici. Blue moonlight poured through the stained-glass window above and candlelight from below, giving his face a strange, ethereal glow and highlighting every delicate feature. The sight stole my breath away.

“What are you doing here?”

The rosary fell to the ground. I didn’t realize I was still holding it.

“Sorry!” I blurted out. “I didn’t realize anyone else was here.”

He sighed. “I didn’t say it was a problem.” Through his veneer of exasperation, I detected warmth. “Please, sit.”

As he requested, I chose a nearby bench. Duca de’ Medici resumed his previous position, hands folded and head facing the wall. But rather than praying, he spoke to me.

“I came here with my father once as a child, long ago. Some young, ambitious local priest asked him to bequeath a massive donation to the town to reconstruct this abbey. I’m sure my father knew he would never fund such a venture. What good would repairing a place no one could see be? After the priest gave us a tour, my father laughed in his face and told him the favor of the church couldn’t be won with money, especially someone else’s. At that point, he cited some obscure latae sententiae suspension to censure the priest. My father made a teaching moment of this—I think he had planned that all along. In bringing me here, he meant to show me that idealistic fools would reach for my pockets all my life. But that wasn’t what I got out of it. I knew, ever since that day, that I wanted this to be my casket. At the end of the day, that priest fulfilled his wish, and the Abbazia di Santa Dymphna was restored.”

Maybe it was the remnants of adrenaline clouding my mind, but I couldn’t force the puzzle pieces together, not when I had so few.

“Why here?” I finally asked. “Why not somewhere closer to your home?”

He chuckled, and the sound sent a chill down my spine. It lacked any warmth. “Since the moment I understood shame, I knew it was attached to me. I have no home, Signorina Bowling, not even now. That’s why I chose this place.”

At that moment, I wondered why I had ever mistaken him for an angel. Then again, the look in his eyes right now did not seem earthly. Something in me felt the need to claw at his skin until a drop of humanity bled out.

“Do you ever get lonely?” I pressed.

“Yes. I’m never not.”

For as quick as his answer had come, nothing followed it. I was unsure how to respond, and a palpable pause held in the air. The irregular rattling of branches against the windows and the distant calls of an owl seemed loud.

“You said something when we first met—something about why music was beautiful.” His gaze flickered over to me. “Do you remember what it was?”

My heartbeat doubled with a mixture of feelings I couldn’t fully identify. He remembered that conversation? Truthfully, I did too. Something about it had stuck with me—something about every word we shared had. I didn’t reply.

“About how its beauty lies in its ability to cross time? I don’t know if that’s what you meant, but there’s something like that to these places.” He pressed his hand against the lava-stone wall and traced his pointer finger along the intricate embossments, leaving only the sound of my heartbeat in my ears. Then, suddenly: “Do you believe in ghosts?”

Even if I told myself I was used to the tricks of the abbey, the sights and sounds I had experienced here were engraved in my mind. The rosary sat on the ground, taunting me. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t either. I just know I feel them all around me when I’m here. I feel them in the stones and the altar and the rosaries and the Bibles. That doesn’t sound stupid, does it?”

Since when did he care what anyone thought of what he said?

“No, not at all,” I answered. “I think I get what you mean.”

“The ghosts that live here feel more real than the other nobility I talk to. Yes, I get lonely here, but it’s less lonely than out there.”

I held out a hand to him. “Duca de’ Medici, I—”

A nightingale flitted along the stained glass, calling loudly and casting a shadow over our heads. Seeing its outline fly across the tiles, up through the apex of the church’s triumphal cross, I remembered where I was, who I was talking to. My hand returned to my side.

“I need to go to bed now.”

“Cora,” he said, voice scarcely above a whisper. “Please stay.”

In another circumstance, I may have faltered or frozen, but there was not a moment of hesitation in me now. Not when his voice was so vulnerable, so pitiful. Not when he had called me by my first name.

Wordlessly, I sat on the bench in front of him, and he sat beside me. From the corner of my eye, I saw minute, halted movements as he considered and second-guessed a thousand different actions. I smoothed down my skirt, an invitation for him to lay his head on my lap. After briefly meeting my eyes, as if to ask for permission one final time, he accepted it.

Seconds later, Duca de’ Medici melted into me, closing his eyes. Looking down at him, at his long, white lashes and the fullness of his lips, it struck me that Zeno was only a few years older than me. I saw blood was pooling into his cheeks, and I remembered that some of that blood was my own. I brushed my thumb across his sleeve, feeling how soft it was and wondering how soft the skin beneath it would be.

“You smell good,” he mumbled, voice muffled by embarrassment and fabric. “You always do.”

“Strange,” I replied with a small smile. “I was thinking the same thing about you.”

“Cora?” the vampire murmured dreamily.

“Yes?”

“You can call me Zeno.”

I chuckled and ran my fingers through his hair. “Okay, Zeno.”

As if I had commanded it, his breathing slowed and grew even. Up close, the contrast between his translucent skin and the dark crescents beneath his eyes was even starker. How long, I wondered, had it been since he had a good night of sleep? From afar, his hair always looked sculpted, so I was pleasantly surprised to find it silky to the touch. As I carefully braided a few stray strands, Zeno snored softly through parted lips. I gently combed through the braid to loosen it, then began another.

By the time dozens of braids were done and undone, the moon had risen to its apex, the purplish hue of the sky had deepened, and the lanterns around us flickered as their power diminished. All the while, Zeno slumbered in near-perfect stillness, save the occasional languid mumble.

“Cora.” When he spoke, clear and lucid, after some time, I flinched. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Zeno peeled himself from my lap, yawned wide enough to show every fang, and straightened his hair. “How long was I asleep?”

“Only a few minutes,” I lied.

He looked at where the moon was in the sky and shot me a skeptical look but didn’t bother arguing. Instead, he stated, “Thank you, Cora. I’ll walk you back.”

Zeno’s pace through the gardens was steady, which I sensed was for my sake rather than his own. That flash of childlike fear he had shown was absent now. Meanwhile, my anxiety had heightened, a Pavlovian response to the twilit gardens. I sighed and focused on the tiles at my feet and the sound of Zeno’s shoes on them. No more moonlit walks for me through this courtyard. What a pity.

The checkerboard of tiles ended, and Zeno held the door open for me.

“Aren’t you a gentleman?” I teased.

“Only for—” he cleared his throat. “I try.”

When we made it to my room, he lingered at my doorway, and I smiled. Déjà vu. When I turned to say good night, I realized Zeno was holding out his hand. The rosary. “I didn’t realize you were religious.”

“I’m not.” I took it quickly and shoved it into my pocket. “Counting the beads helps when I get nervous. Sorry, I’m not trying to be disrespectful. I’ll get a normal bead bracelet soon.”

“I don’t believe He minds. I don’t, anyhow.” Zeno shook his head and reached into his shirt. All along, he had been wearing a miraculous medal. “It helps me to rub my thumb across this as well.”

“I didn’t realize you were religious,” I echoed.

“Ah, so I’m still a mystery to you? How amusing.” He smirked. “In another life, I would be standing here in a cassock.” I studied him to see to what extent he was joking about becoming a priest. Seeing my prying eyes, he added, “Probably further from your bed at this time of night, of course.”

I gasped at the implication and pointed past the door. “Out!”

“Hey!” Zeno said with a guffaw. “I am a gentleman, remember? You said so yourself.”

“It doesn’t matter! If anyone sees you here—”

He put his hands up, stifling further laughter. “Okay, okay. I was just joking, I promise.” He closed the door partially but peeked his head in for a moment. “Thank you.”

It shut softly behind him.

“You’re welcome,” I said to his memory.