Page 6 of Just for a Taste

I was woken three times the next morning, twice by chance and once on purpose. The first time I woke up was at the crack of dawn, when Signora Carbone entered my room. I pretended to be asleep as she placed the full contract for employment at my bedside, and soon enough, I was. The second time I woke up was when Lucia gently called my name and shook my shoulders at the expected time. She quickly gave up when my somnolent protests made it apparent jet lag still clung to me. The third time was a few hours later, when Lucia cheerfully whistled as she folded my laundry in the other room.

I groaned as I sat up in bed. No matter how comfortable this mattress was, it couldn’t counteract a night of tossing and turning. I rubbed my eyes in a vain attempt to push out the exhaustion, then decided the better option would be to lighten the room a bit. I threw open the curtains on the eastern wall, wincing as the afternoon sun poured in.

“Ugh.” My chin was sticky and wet with drool. I knew instinctively my hair was a mess, and although I would have a bath later in the day, I should at least attempt to tame it somewhat. With another groan, I stumbled to my vanity.

In the mirror, a flash of someone: sallow cheeks, yellowed skin and eyes, matted hair.

I blinked in shock. Between frames, she changed. Light sunspots across a round, dimpled face, bright green eyes, dirty-blonde hair plaited into loose braids.

With another blink, it was just me. Me, with the freckles along the bridge of my nose and prominent features, tight black curls, intense gaze.

I staggered back and reached for something solid but found only air. I hit the ground with my tailbone at an awkward angle, and for a second, I feared it had shattered. But by the time the adrenaline wore off and I could fully assess my pain, it was already fading. I ran a shaking hand across my forehead and wiped away the cold sweat.

“Signorina Cora?” Lucia burst into the room and immediately fell to her knees beside me. “Are you okay? Are you ill? What happened?”

I exhaled and shook my head. “It’s fine, Lucia. I just got a little startled, is all.”

“Do you want me to get Doctor Ntumba?”

Surely I hadn’t woken up entirely, right? Surely my nightmares had just lingered a moment past waking up.

That was what I told myself, anyway.

“No, I’m fine, really.” I pinched the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes. “Sorry to worry you.” She hovered by me for a moment, clearly restraining the urge to help me up. She only relaxed when I gave her a small smile.

“What’s the plan for today, Lucia?”

Instantly, she brightened. “Oh yes, I heard you accepted the position, Signorina Cora! Congratulations!”

“Thank you,” I replied as I got to my feet. “I’m excited to be here.”

“Anyway,” she continued, “Doctor Ntumba thought you might want to settle in, so she didn’t want to have you follow the schedule very strictly today. Signora Carbone was going to write it up for you.”

I felt my muscles tense at the sound of the conservatrix’s name. Our last encounter had been . . . strained, to say the least.

“Speaking of which,” Lucia added, “she’s on her way to speak with you.”

I couldn’t help but grimace. Luckily, Lucia wasn’t looking. I didn’t know what to expect, nor was I emotionally prepared. Would Signora Carbone now regard me with respect, or would the rudeness continue?

I briefly considered finding some sort of escape route, but before I could do so, Lucia looked behind me and said, “Good afternoon, Signora Carbone!”

Signora Carbone had her arms folded tightly behind her back but was seemingly unaltered from our previous exchange. I searched her face for any sign of anger or discomfort and was slightly disturbed to find none. Lucia beamed, evidently clueless.

“Good afternoon, Lucia,” Signora Carbone said coolly. “I need you to go to the kitchen and finish preparing breakfast.”

Lucia pursed her lips in a childlike pout—she hated cooking, she had told me—but didn’t protest further. Once we were alone, Signora Carbone finally addressed me. “Signorina Bowling. How are you today?”

“I’m well,” I lied, shifting from foot to foot.

“Good. I was just coming to inform you that breakfast will be ready soon, and that I will be delivering your daily schedule this evening.”

Her eyes trailed me up and down, and her lips tightened. I wasn’t sure if her thoughts were transparent for once, whether her actions showed she thought I was inadequate to be a beniamina for the most powerful family in Italy, or if I was transposing my own insecurities onto her. But then she showed the first true ounce of incertitude I had ever seen from her.

“Signorina Bowling,” she said with a funereal air. “I apologize for yesterday. Going forward, I will remember my station. I hope you remember yours.”

She walked away before I could ask what she meant by that last bit.

I wondered if she knew the truth. As lovely as this week had been, my goal here was not to be a beniamina, or even get the salary. I was here to find clues for my thesis, and even if I hadn’t dug into them so far, that was my sole reason for staying. Doctor Ntumba had told me both parties would review the job quarterly, and I planned to take full advantage of that leniency. But if Signora Carbone had caught on, I couldn’t help but wonder if—or when—anyone else in the house would. I hadn’t mentioned the details of my thesis, and I couldn’t help but fear that if I did, certain documents would mysteriously go missing from the library—or worse, I would be out of a job entirely.

With this uncomfortable possibility in mind, a sense of urgency burned in my chest. Knowing Lucia and Signora Carbone would be busy in the kitchen for the foreseeable future, I grabbed a notebook and made a beeline to the large library to investigate its innards. The fiction section dwarfed the large library’s non-fiction section, and much of the non-fiction section focused on the sciences, not history.

I crouched in the most promising area and scanned the books, writing down anything that looked unusual or relevant. Within seconds, I spotted a pair of promising titles that hadn’t been available at my university.

I scratched them down quickly. Just as I was about to start on the second row, a strange feeling bored through my excitement: the feeling of someone watching me.

Duca de’ Medici’s eyes were piercing, especially in the light. How I hadn’t noticed them before was a mystery. He sat in the corner of the room in front of a small tea table, sprawled out in a casual position—one arm extended onto the table, chin resting on his fist, and one leg dangling over the other—that seemed mismatched with the formality of his clothing. The vampire wore a gray button-down shirt with plaid charcoal pants and a matching suit jacket draped over his shoulder like a cape. I hadn’t noticed his earrings before: ruby-and-gold studs that matched the gem on the end of his bolo tie and brought out the sharpness in his jaw.

In front of him was a tray of biscotti, many with the corners nibbled off in tiny, mouse-like bites. A series of records were fanned out in front of him, but I couldn’t see the titles at my angle. Even if I could, it would have been impossible to focus on anything but the terrifyingly angelic man before me.

“O-oh!” I stammered, my notebook nearly slipping from my fingers. “I wasn’t expecting—um, good morning. How long have you . . .?”

Duca de’ Medici blinked at me a few times, then returned his attention to the biscotti. I almost thought he wouldn’t reply, but a few seconds later, his voice rang out, clear yet in a monotone, “However long you’ve been here, along with an additional ten or so minutes. Not that I tend to linger here, normally. I would have finished my meal and picked out music by now, but your uninvited presence was distracting.”

My jaw fell to the floor. All that came out for several seconds was incoherent sputtering. But once I could actually talk, the wrong words came out, a sharp riposte instead of the intended apology or small talk.

“I’m sorry my presence was distracting , but I didn’t realize I had to be invited when the door was wide open. And for that matter, I didn’t realize a plate of cookies counted as a meal for a grown man.”

A faint rosy shade spread across Duca de’ Medici’s cheeks, and he jerked away.

I was terrified he was enraged until I noticed the quiver in his lips, the fine knitting of his brow, and the way he was averting his eyes from me entirely.

“Consider the library yours during your stay,” he grumbled, his voice surprisingly even for how flustered he appeared. “I’m . . . not fond of sharing, and I doubt my company is desired, regardless.”

Duca de’ Medici’s coat billowed as he strode quickly to the door. I reached out for where he had been.

“W-wait!” I cried, hoping to salvage the conversation. This was my employer, after all. “What about your cookies and music? You haven’t chosen—”

“I don’t have an appetite anymore,” he snapped. “And I have a collection of records that serves me well enough.”

Once again, I was at a loss for words. An awkward silence hung between us. I considered apologizing and discounting his former assertion that I wouldn’t want his presence but feared it would look forced. Then I thought about inviting him back in and starting the conversation anew, but I knew I was far too rattled to come up with anything to discuss.

Instead, I asked the question at the forefront of my mind. “You know I accepted the position, right? I’m technically your beniamina ?”

He gave me a single, quick nod. “If that is acceptable to you. I’m sure Noor informed you that the title won’t require much of you out here. You’re welcome to change your mind, but I will gladly keep my distance for the time being if you find that preferable.”

“I don’t want . . .” I trailed off. Maybe I did want him to keep his distance. Doctor Ntumba had insinuated that Duca de’ Medici only needed to tolerate my presence, and it was possible he would keep interactions with me to a minimum. Had she been wrong in guessing there was something about me he would be fond of? Perhaps in future discussions, Duca de’ Medici would discover he found me neither “peculiar” nor “interesting enough to keep around.” Perhaps I would continue to flounder in conversation after conversation and get kicked out before I even finished a single book.

I should at least clarify I didn’t hate him.

I didn’t get the chance to finish my sentence, or any other for that matter. With little more than a tense nod, Duca de’ Medici departed.

In the two conversations I’d had with him, he had shown himself to be many things: pompous, peculiar, and blunt. But over the next few days, I discovered another trait: he was true to his word. I didn’t see him in the library or anywhere else, and soon it felt like our conversations were some imagined figments of the past.

Of course, that couldn’t last forever.