Page 50 of Just for a Taste

S nip. Snip. Snip . The shriveled head of an old bloom joined the rest of the old foliage littered across the ground. I took a step back and glanced at my watch. An hour had passed, and the smell of fresh cuttings filled the air, but I still had plenty of work to do. Tea roses had reached crookedly to the grow lights, prairie roses crawled lopsided on its trellis, and a young addition to the garden had overextended itself by focusing on flowering before developing a healthy root system. Most pertinently, La Rosa di Santa Dymphna had not only germinated while I was gone but had already begun its awkward adolescence.

“Sorry, but I’m already late for tea,” I said to them, sitting on my heels. “I’ll be sure to take care of you first thing tomorrow.” Then, just before leaving, I added, “I’m proud. All of you were so brave and strong while I was gone. I’m sorry it took me so long to come home.”

As I soon discovered, tea and cookies were waiting for me in the library, but Doctor Ntumba was not.

Sorry . Won’t make it, read a simple note folded neatly beside the plate. I didn’t even see Signora Carbone drop it off—it was as though the still-brewing chai and cookies, so freshly baked they were still hot to the touch, had poof ed into existence. They were as fragrant and spiced as ever, but rather than digging in, I watched the steam. Whether it was because of medication in my system or anxiety, the thought of eating or drinking anything in front of me was nauseating. Worse, it brought flashbacks to that affogato that Basilio’s friend had given me in Cisternino, and the Sorry written on the napkin beneath.

The plate screeched in tandem with my chair as I pushed it away and left. A walk was in order, I decided. Some fresh air to settle my mind and stomach.

The door to the courtyard was heavier than I remembered, or maybe I was weaker. I was forced to ignore the pain and lean into it, but the result was immediately worth the effort.

It had been a long time since I had been to the abbey, and yet everything appeared as it did the first day I arrived. The fountains burbled with their usual crystal-clear water, the statuaries grinned down at me from above, and even the sky itself was the same marbled mixture of orange and pink. There was a distinct, sweet fragrance—the final, desperate blooms from Sicilian flora trying to attract wildlife.

Signora Carbone (and, I realized with a chill, probably Signore Urbino) had maintained the shrubbery almost identically as when I had arrived long ago. The sight made me feel as if I were transported back to that simpler time, but this only lasted a few seconds. I could ignore the annoying swishing of the hospital gown, could mask the lingering taste of medicine on my tongue, and could even push away the steady ache that had started up the moment I tried to walk again. But the thing that brought forth chills was the realization that there was no audible wildlife. Though I hadn’t always paid much attention to it, the Abbazia di Santa Dymphna was always bustling, especially at this time of year. Birds called to one another at dusk, rabbits grazed, and countless other animals had their typical schedule around the abbey. This evening, however, I heard nothing.

I paused to examine the tree line and discovered there was no avian movement there, either, or hopping among the grass. In fact, not even the wind was blowing. I felt excruciatingly small.

Not again.

There was a good excuse for this, I convinced myself, just as the tingling began. I glanced at the door, ensuring it hadn’t magically locked behind me, and walked further. I had just finally felt at ease when suddenly, a soft, barely audible coo rang out in the distance.

My heart raced, and within seconds, my fingers were tingling. There were several species of doves in Sicily—in fact, I used to watch a nesting pair of wood pigeons from the abbey. But this coo belonged to none of them. Within this country, I had only heard the gentle song of a Barbary dove within the walls of the abbey.

Then, despite everything I knew and despite that sinking feeling in my chest, I saw her . A white Barbary dove fluttering in the distance, a collar of red around her neck.

“No—no, no, no!”

I staggered back but was able to catch myself on a pillar. When I looked back, she was gone, not even a white dot in the distance.

I blinked back tears and focused on my breathing. Nothing is there. It’s just the painkillers.

A contralto voice reverberated behind me. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

My breath hitched at the sight of Signora Carbone. I couldn’t help but associate her with Signore Urbino and his duplicity. Of course, I logically knew that if she were involved, Zeno would have already sent her away. Yet days later, the association was as strong as ever.

“O-oh, Signora Carbone!” I stammered. “I didn’t see you.”

She softened at my expression, and part of me felt the need to apologize for wounding her. Instead, I averted my gaze and festered in the guilt.

She repeated, albeit in a gentler tone, “You shouldn’t be out here.”

“I came outside because I heard . . .” I trailed off.

“It isn’t wise to follow ghosts,” Signora Carbone warned. “Especially not into places you aren’t meant to be.”

But my ghosts were gone. Zeno had said so himself. I had not seen my parents or Peachy for weeks, and for all intents and purposes, the abbey should have been entirely unhaunted. But I had just seen Leonore, and now I wondered if I would have to see others. I got the terrible feeling that Basilio, Urbino, and Zeno’s father would now inhabit the Abbazia di Santa Dymphna. Perhaps worst of all, maybe I would have to face the bruised and swollen version of Zeno that had haunted me weeks ago.

I shook away the distressing thought and instead inquired about the second half of her sentence: “Why am I not supposed to be out here?”

Signora Carbone looked over her shoulder at the manor, gaze boring into Zeno’s room, then back at me. Like Lucia, her eyes were unusually bleak with heavy circles beneath them, and she blinked slowly as she answered me. “He doesn’t want you outside of the abbey.”

“That doesn’t exactly answer my question,” I responded with a frown.

Her eyes lingered on me a moment longer before she responded, “He said you aren’t well and should remain indoors.”

“Isn’t fresh air supposed to be good for me?”

“I am telling you what he said, not what I believe,” she said gravely. “What I believe does not matter in this household. It never has.”

So whatever possessed Lucia was contagious, it seemed. And I feared it was spreading to me as well.

Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.

I shifted from foot to foot, as though the movement would shake words loose from my mind. I finally murmured an awkward goodbye and went back inside, tail between my legs.

The hall seemed darker than only moments before, the air heavier. With little else to do before my time in the aviary, I returned to the library, where the tea and cookies awaited me. That lukewarm chai, drank alone in dead silence, was the bitterest I had ever had.

If not for the knowledge of my next destination, I probably would have just gone back to bed. Beyond the usual drive to see Zeno or discuss the Aeneid , there was something greater that kept me awake. It would be the first time I had been in the aviary since returning to the abbey. And even though Leonore would not be among them, I missed the birds—and the normalcy.

When I entered the room, the quiet and stillness of the library vanished in an instant. In the aviary, the chirping was loud as ever, and the room was as vibrant as usual, if not more so. The plants I had picked out many months ago were flourishing, but even more vibrant than the blooms were the birds that flew between them. Every bird teemed with energy, taking full advantage of the breadth of the room. Their bright summer plumage gleamed in the grow lights. A trio of strawberry finches flitted over to me, tilting their heads at me with evident curiosity.

It took me a moment to see Zeno sitting among the white stone, to remember that the aviary did not have any statues in it.

“You’re early,” I noted, sitting beside Zeno. “Or not five minutes late, I guess.”

“I’ve waited long enough for you,” Zeno responded in an equally casual tone. “I can’t bear wasting another minute.” I turned toward the bird to shield my flustered expression, and Zeno picked up his copy of our book. “Which verse do you remember us reading last? Shall we start there?”

What were words? What was the Aeneid ? The way Zeno was looking at me, I couldn’t remember any of that. I just wanted to soak in a past comfort and then take advantage of a newfound treasure. I tossed aside my copy.

“As much as I’d like to talk about the Aeneid , I don’t think I can today. I’ve really missed this place,” I said with a small smile. “Not just the aviary, I mean. All of it. I’m just happy to be here right now with you.”

Zeno chuckled, resting his hand on his chin and giving me the warm, crooked smile I adored. “I know. Me too.” With far more boldness than I remembered having, I crawled into Zeno’s lap. He scooped me up immediately and kissed the top of my head. “I was hoping you’d do that.”

I laughed and nuzzled into him. “There’s no way you could’ve known I would!”

Zeno huffed in response. “I’ll have you know I have an exquisite imagination. There were plenty of things I was hoping you’d do. This was the tame option.”

For whatever reason, this lighthearted tone—likely intended to enlighten me—had the opposite effect. After holding my breath for a few beats, I asked him, my voice low and wavering, “Is it really over now? Are we really safe?”

Zeno’s breath grew hot on my neck. “I promise you, Cora, not a soul will hurt you again. I will make certain of that.”

While I wanted to take these words for fact, not question him further, and sink away from this fear, I couldn’t.

“Is this different from the last months in Puglia?” I asked. “Will you fade away from me and stop drinking from me?”

“It is different.” The answer to my question came immediately, and I wondered if he had been expecting it. Considering how grave and intense his tone was, he must have. “I am having transfusions. I will drink from you when you are well,” Zeno explained. “In the meantime, I will make this abbey impenetrable. I will make you untouchable to anyone but me.”

The intensity of his words took me aback. They were likely meant to inspire certainty from me, to quiet any dissonance, but they had the opposite effect. He wanted the abbey impenetrable, but did I?

“We should go to town soon,” I suggested. “I haven’t seen it in the summertime before.”

Zeno’s reply was as sudden as it was firm. “That isn’t a good idea. You aren’t well yet. You could get sick, or someone could bump into you and burst open your stitches. I can’t permit that.”

I shrugged, feeling foolish but resolved to continue testing this invisible boundary.

“I’m sure a small bookstore would be safe. It would be nice to have some more books. I think I’ll likely go through them more quickly now—” I cut myself off, but the implication remained. I would go through books more quickly now that I wouldn’t be researching the Medici—a name which used to signify fascination and even adoration, but now served only as the harbinger of nightly terrors.

Despite my ever-growing discomfort, Zeno seemed unmoved, eyes as distant as before.

“We’ll have outings when you’re better,” he said finally. “In the meantime, tell me anything you want. A new library, a closet of dresses, a private theater. As long as you are here and as long as you are safe.”

“Just books are fine,” I muttered, nestling into his chest as an excuse to dismiss myself from that fiery gaze. “Like you said, we’ll go once I’m healed. It’s okay. We have forever, however long that is.”

“Yes,” he echoed. “Forever, however long that is.”