Page 41 of Just for a Taste

T he morning was beautiful, so beautiful it felt like a sin to spend it indoors. I peered beyond the curtain, watching voluminous clouds roll through the sky. It was never truly cold in this part of Italy, so it was a wonder every plant and animal knew it was spring. Even through the glass, I could practically feel the gentle yet crisp breeze glide over my skin and smell the flowers in early bloom.

The shower door slid shut just loud enough for me to hear, and I quickly jumped back from the curtain. All at once, the delightful sunlight vanished, leaving only the dull, yellow, artificial lighting.

Zeno entered the room with a towel tied around his waist. Without thinking, my eyes trailed across him, causing him to smirk. I immediately looked away, face burning.

He burst into laughter, sweeping on a plush robe. He tied the sash loosely, much of his white skin still entirely exposed.

“There, better?” he asked, plopping down on the bed and lying with his head resting on his hands.

“Just hurry up and get dressed already!” I grumbled, heat lingering on my cheeks. “I want to talk about the next chapter.”

“What, will the robe have you distracted with unchaste thoughts or something? Or must I finally charge you a fee for a proper figure painting?”

I contemplated throwing my book at him but opted to glare instead, eliciting another melodic laugh.

“Fine, fine,” he crooned, making his way to the dresser.

I wish you weren’t so pretty sometimes , I thought, stealing a glance at him in those few seconds before he slipped the shirt on. I wished desperately that just once, I could see him outside during the day, that I could draw his entire body immersed in the essence of spring and paint the way the daylight highlighted every muscle and curve. That I could just walk out the door with Zeno and have faith he wouldn’t die long before me.

I let out a sigh without thinking, and Zeno immediately homed in on it, turning to give me an inquisitive look.

“It’s nothing,” I said before he could ask, forcing a weak smile. “I’m just impatient, is all. I, uh—I’ll go heat up some tea and wait in the dining room.”

Without waiting for a response, I quickly left the room. I splashed some water on my face and put our usual kettle on the stove.

It wasn’t a possibility, not for us. But even though it was such a simple, inescapable reality, it didn’t feel any better.

With the glowing orange fire beneath it, the water heated almost immediately. I had scarcely stepped to the other side of the room when the kitchen became filled with steam and the strangely pleasant singing of a harmonica teakettle. As if compelled by its melodic peer, the smaller pot of milk also began a light boil. I quickly got to work, pouring the steaming water over Earl Grey tea bags and breathing in the satisfying smell of bergamot. I frothed the milk and poured it over as skillfully as I could, which wasn’t very. Even with the mess of semifrothed milk all over the countertops, the mere presence of my slapdash London Fog made me feel better.

Walking slowly so as not to lose a single drop, I carried both mugs to the dining area and put them in our respective places.

Zeno was still getting dressed in the bedroom. Even though it was just the two of us at home, he never neglected to properly groom himself. Just as I was meant to wear whatever dress he had picked out for me, he always took the time to iron his pants, comb his hair, and properly fold his shirt cuffs. Whether this was due to the propriety cultivated in childhood, Zeno’s own flair for panache, or a combination of the two, I did not know. All I knew for certain was that I would have ample time to gather my thoughts and orient them toward our future conversation.

Just as I settled into my mind, I heard a noise I hadn’t in weeks: a knock on the door.

The mug in my hands suddenly felt searing, and every other noise felt loud, including my own irregular breathing. The mere act of standing felt as though I were breaking out of my skin. Everything about this felt strange and wrong. I knew each door of this place had copious locks for a reason, that we were in the absolute middle of nowhere. And yet with how calm the knocking had been—barely audible, from where I sat—I couldn’t help but hope it was Lucia or Noor.

I considered waiting for Zeno, but the siren’s song had grown too powerful. I didn’t think I had it in me to wait for Zeno to put on his sun-protective gear. Setting aside my drink and caution, I crept into the hallway and climbed up the ladder. The trapdoor opened and shut silently when I emerged, and my own footfalls were inaudible. If I wanted to, I could go back without being detected.

You should just go back anyway. Someone being out here is ridiculous. Nothing good can come of it.

I sighed to myself and reached for the trapdoor again but froze immediately. Behind me—three more raps, softer than the first.

No matter how conflicted I was, I felt compelled to answer. “Hello?” I called, approaching.

No response.

I cupped shaking hands around my face and repeated, “Hello?”

I was met with a further trio of wraps. I tiptoed closer, pressing my ear against the door and holding my breath.

I could hear heavy breathing on the other side. I braced myself for another knock but instead met something entirely different: footsteps fading into the distance.

I listened for several moments longer, and none returned. My shaking hand rested on the doorknob.

I opened the door and screamed at the top of my lungs.

In front of me was a dove, cleanly decapitated. Blood still fresh across white feathers, wings folded neatly across its breast and tied with a ribbon. Her head—for I knew this bird—was at her side atop a silver platter, a fan of rose petals beneath her. Her feet were still twitching, and as I discovered upon collapsing to my knees and picking her up, her body was still lithe and warm.

“What the fuck?” I repeated in alternating whispers and screams. “What the fuck?”

I pressed Leonore’s head against her body. They fit together perfectly. She looked so at peace, eyes closed loosely, beak slightly ajar, feet curled into her. But when I let go, everything fell apart again.

At the sight of her head tumbling onto the ground, I broke into hoarse, painful sobs.

“Cora?!” Zeno bellowed from the bedroom. Footsteps thundered behind me.

I dropped her body on the ground, staggered back, and slammed the door shut to protect Zeno from the light, then I fell onto my back.

At the sight of me lying supine with semicoagulated blood covering the front of my chest, Zeno grew even paler than I knew possible. He gaped at me, and we were both frozen.

“It’s not—” I had to force the words out of my trembling lips and pointed to where I knew the body was. “It’s not my blood.”

Each of his muscles loosened, though only slightly. “Are you hurt?”

“N-no.” A flashbulb memory of Leonore’s head as it rolled away struck me, and I brought my hands to my face. It was already sticky with tears and snot, and now grime and blood joined it. “I’m not.”

It felt like a lie and the truth all at once. I smeared away what little I could with my sleeve, and when I looked back at Zeno, I was horrified to see him staring at the door with a look of resolve. He was going to go outside in the middle of the day in cloudless Florence without a shred of protection. If I didn’t stop Zeno, he would burn irreparably within seconds. He looked composed, utterly at peace as he spoke with a gentle smile to the door.

“I’m going to rip his fucking throat out.”

My shoes squeaked against the floor as I tried and failed to scramble to my feet. I gasped in a mouthful of air, just enough to scream out, “Zeno, no!”

To my relief, he faltered, but his hand remained glued to the doorknob. I crawled on my knees toward him and pulled desperately at his clothes.

“Zeno,” I said, doing my best impression of him that night in the church. “Please stay.”

He joined me on the ground and wrapped me in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the top of my head. “I’m so sorry.”