Page 9 of Just for a Taste

I didn’t see Duca de’ Medici for many days, but when I went to evening teatime the following week, I didn’t have to ask who my guest would be; the tray Signore Urbino carried out with him was enough of an answer. Doctor Ntumba was a light snacker and tended not to like overly sweet foods. I was, therefore, used to things like sesame cookies and chai every afternoon. But now, the tray in front of me was overflowing with a wide selection of chocolates and freshly baked cookies. A light, fruity fragrance wafted from still-steaming teacups, next to another teacup exclusively full of sugar.

Trying to extinguish the proliferating butterflies in my stomach, I plucked a smaller cookie from the middle of the tray, a thumbprint cookie that looked like the kind my mother used to bake. As nauseous as I felt, the raspberry jam and buttery pastry went down easily.

“Those are good, aren’t they? I ordered them from a bakery in Salemi.”

Duca de’ Medici had entered without me noticing. I was surprised when he didn’t immediately take a seat across from me. Instead, he lingered at my side with a small plate and tongs.

“You should try those.” He grabbed a few small chocolates from the tray. “I had them custom-made from a chocolatier in Switzerland. They’re Couverture chocolate bonbons with a lingonberry liquor filling. Oh—or perhaps those petits fours from my favorite patisserie in Paris? And those macarons there have a lovely ganache. Ah, and those ladyfingers have a deceptively nuanced vanilla undertone. Or maybe—”

The list of sweets, all intricately described, continued on for several minutes, and the plate became more and more crowded. Once it couldn’t hold another confection, Duca de’ Medici placed it in front of me.

I blinked at him several times before realizing what that meant.

“I, uh . . . I can’t eat all this? I haven’t even finished the cookie. This is all a lot.”

“Oh, I see,” Duca de’ Medici responded somberly, taking his seat. “I should have been a more attentive host. I didn’t mean to overwhelm you.”

I felt a pang of guilt at how genuinely crestfallen the man looked. I took another empty plate and migrated the sweets with my tongs. “That’s okay, we can split them,” I told him. “I’m excited to try this one here. I’ve never tried lingonberry! And the petits four look wonderful, not to mention the macarons! I wish the climate was this wonderful when I used to make these at work.”

“You worked in a bakery?” He brightened once more after plopping a petits four into his mouth and spooning two scoops of sugar into his tea.

I continued to separate the chocolate, halving them as needed. “Just a few months before college, to make ends meet before my scholarship kicked in. I did a few odd jobs, but that one was actually quite fun.”

“Did you not live with your family at that point? Were you kicked out at eighteen?” His voice was casual, far calmer than it had been only minutes before. “Or was it a matter of your family being poor and having to rely on you for income?”

I froze. A truffle fell from my tongs and rolled off the table. I didn’t bother picking it up. Duca de’ Medici eyed the truffle, then gave me an inquisitive look, but didn’t press the issue. This was not an acceptable topic, which must have shown on my face.

For a moment, we sat in unsteady silence. I attempted to fill it. “Um, I’ve been pretty fruitful with painting lately. With the weather changing, it’s been pretty fun to dabble with landscape paintings. I haven’t painted since I was a freshman, so it’s been nice to return to.”

I watched as he looked around the room at each painting, then finally rose to his feet and strode across the room. A small swell of anxiety pulsed through me as I charted his course of action. He was about to uncover my work in progress.

I balled up my skirt in my hands as he tossed the cloth over the canvas.

It was a still-life oil painting, clearly in the early stages of shading. I hadn’t put details on it, either, other than the focal point of the work: an open pomegranate with a chunk grotesquely removed. Beside it was a china bowl partially filled with red seeds. Barely visible in its reflection were a pair of slender, pale hands, which were in the process of picking out more seeds.

Duca de’ Medici regarded it for an agonizing time while I counted the shapes on the carpet.

When the vampire turned back, I saw an unexpected fury in his eyes. Had the painting somehow offended him? Was he so egocentric to dislike any work of mine that didn’t have him as the focus?

To my surprise, the flash of anger was subdued to mild annoyance.

“You’re out of carmine. I’ll have Urbino pick you up some more.” Then, to the door with an exaggerated huff: “He should have known not to let my guest run out. What does he think I keep him around for anyway?”

There was a strange vitriol in his voice, one I did not care to explore. Awkward silence proliferated, and I quickly sought a more pleasant topic. “So, what did you think of Il Canzoniere ?”

I had always been incredibly fond of Petrarch’s poetry collection. The sonnets composed to his unrequited love had touched me ever since I first read them, when I moved to London. They’d given me a shred of hope that beauty and romance existed in a world so dark, and by now I could recite a few sonnets by heart. Not that I had ever done such a thing in front of a living soul. I had been terrified to check the book out, knowing someone else would read it with me, but I harbored the vague hope that maybe I had found a kindred spirit who would be just as eager to discuss it.

Instead of answering as quickly as I had hoped, Duca de’ Medici dug through his sweets to find a perfectly shaped ladyfinger and replied, “I imagine you chose that to satisfy me, which I expressly told you not to do when we last spoke. But it was an acceptable read nonetheless.”

I folded my arms and didn’t even attempt to soften my glower. “What makes you think I chose it for you? And I don’t think ‘acceptable’ is an accurate description of Il Canzoniere .”

Duca de’ Medici took a long sip of tea, then added a third spoonful of sugar. “My assumption is based on the fact that you've not once read Petrarch here, nor have you read anything from the fourteenth century. That being said, I acquiesce on that second bit.”

“How generous of you to acquiesce.”

“What more do you expect me to say? Au regarde , I’d rather you not attempt to butter me up with sonnets, of all things.”

I narrowed my eyes. First this man had forced a large plate onto me, then pried into my past, accused me of trying to kiss his ass in the most pretentious way, and above all, had the gall to scoff at something personal I had been terrified to share?

“For your information, I chose it because I’ve never been able to get my hands on the original, just translations. What I wanted to read had nothing to do with you. And what exactly was your point in coming here if you didn’t want to talk about books? You know, other than just to eat a bunch of sugar and brag about all your fancy desserts?”

Once the last sentence left my lips, immediate regret set in. Shit . Not again. While he wasn’t my employer directly, Duca de’ Medici’s opinion of me was still imperative to my being here. Besides, getting angry over something so stupid was just . . . embarrassing.

I felt a lump in my throat, an abomination of chocolate and cookies and sweets threatening to break through. I stuffed another cookie in my mouth and swallowed it without chewing. It was dry, like swallowing sandpaper. I coughed. Crumbs flew from my mouth, soaring all the way across the table—and, I wagered, right in Duca de’ Medici’s face.

My eyes were watering from the coughing, so that I couldn’t see his reaction, but I couldn’t imagine it was anything good.

The door was screaming my name. I stood and shoved the table away from me, the plates and cups clattering. I didn’t wait to see how many chocolates I had overturned, how much tea was dripping down the table.

“I’m sorry! Thanks for the cookies! I think it’s time for dinner now, actually!”

With a pained expression, Duca de’ Medici stood and held out a hand. “Signorina Bowling, I—”

I didn’t hear the end of the sentence. I had already run off.