Page 9 of This Vicious Hunger

Chapter Five

I leave the laboratory with Petaccia’s words echoing in my skull like the ring of a gong.

Friend. Partner. I don’t know what I expected from my meeting, but it wasn’t this.

Petaccia is the kind of woman I was sure could never exist—the kind of woman who, if I’d known of her before, could have changed everything I have ever thought possible, everything I have ever known about myself.

Warring feelings of pride and anger distract me on the journey back to my rooms. I wonder if Petaccia ever felt she had to read books in secret, if a husband ever told her that learning, the delicious pursuit of knowledge, was not something that belonged to her.

I wonder why my father, knowing this successful woman of science, still believed this life was not suitable for me.

If Aurelio could see me here, I know without a doubt that he would laugh—and it would be that same scornful laugh he gave the day he threw away the novel he caught me reading.

I’m seized by the memory, pausing in the middle of the cobbled path; I feel the pressure of his fingers around my wrist as he tore the book away, his nails digging into my skin.

The sun beats down on my shoulders, but it’s the heat of the parlour fire I feel warming my skin.

Why are you crying? he’d demanded after the book was nothing but ash. I’m trying to help you.

How does this help me? I said, wiping the single tear from my cheek—anger, not sadness, writhing in my chest. You want me to be stupid.

You’re already stupid if you think this sort of thing is appropriate. Aurelio’s eyes were icy, but he wore that same smirk, the laughter always only moments away. Don’t you want to rise to your new station?

The words echo in my mind as I push on, away from La Vita.

Your new station. Aurelio thought I should be grateful that he’d deigned to marry beneath himself, that he’d lifted somebody like me up into the golden glory of society.

The thought angers me even now, even with these gorgeous ancient buildings standing proud on my every side, even with Aurelio nothing but ash in the great beyond.

Faith in my father has always driven me onwards, but since Aurelio died there are new questions to haunt me.

If my father was such a good man, why did he let me read all his books?

Or, perhaps more importantly, why didn’t he let me read them in the open?

I feel caught in a limbo, half silly society wife and half scholar, both costumes that shroud the real me.

I suppose I expected to leave my meeting with the doctor with the confidence that I was on the right path.

I did not realise until our conversation that thoughts of remarriage had never entirely left my mind, though they had never been my dream either; deep down maybe I had hoped to find another husband here, a man I could take with my meagre widow’s dowry as a fallback.

If Petaccia is truly my only hope, if I’m putting all my faith in academia, is that brave or stupid?

I walk without purpose, kicking up dust with my shoes.

My thoughts stumble over Petaccia’s comment about my wardrobe—I long to tear off the walking gown and stomp on it like a petulant child, but what would I replace it with?

All I have are the clothes Aurelio gave me, all in shades of demure cream, rose, sage, more dresses and stays and chemises fit for a society lady, nothing like the doctor’s strange hybrid choice of skirt and trousers.

The thought of having to ask Petaccia for money to have something new tailored is intolerable.

But so, too, is the thought of returning to my rooms and trying to sort through my belongings to find something more suitable. I need the heat on my shoulders, need the sun to burn off this nervous energy that thrums under my skin.

Eventually I realise I’ve been heading back towards my rooms anyway—the only place I can find without asking for directions or a map. Once I reach the front of the building I stop. The sun is high now, the heat making the blood pump hot in my veins. And then I think of the garden.

I turn away from my building, following the line of trees out front until the cobbles fall away to grassy tracks.

The grass is scrubby here, as it appears from my study window, and when I walk I can feel the crackle of it beneath my soles like thousands of fragile fish bones.

The image comes unbidden and I stop for a moment, curious at my morbidity. Then I laugh.

There is such freedom in the loosening of my chest. I swing my limbs and walk eagerly along the path.

It is shaded here, deliciously cool despite the heat of the day.

The wall I’ve seen from my window rises beside me, maybe ten feet high and smooth to the touch, its top verdant between the iron spikes that run along its length.

The stone is cool too; I run my palm along it as I follow the path.

It is quiet—silent, in fact. I could probably pick out my room eventually given enough time to count the windows, but I suspect the rest of the building behind me is empty.

This is, I think wryly, the exact kind of hidden, secret place Aurelio would have warned me off if he was alive.

Propriety , he’d say. Think before you act, Thora.

A woman alone in what is essentially an alley?

What will people think? What would people think, indeed?

A bitter smile crawls across my face. The air tastes of freedom.

“There are no people here to think,” I say aloud. This place is, for now at least, entirely mine. Mine. It is such a foreign concept that I bark another laugh. “Fuck propriety.” The curse sends a thrill through me.

I walk until the edge of my building comes into sight, but still there is no sign of a way into the garden.

Weeds grow along the base of the wall, but thinly, as though they daren’t touch the stone and risk being compared to the riot of greenery at the top and on the other side.

From here it’s impossible to see any of the real beauty I can see from my room, just grey stone on one side, coiling vines at the zenith, and the softer, sandy bricks of my building on the other.

From here I can’t even locate the top of the tower at the garden’s heart.

Just a little farther, I think, and then I’ll head back and tackle the awful job of my clothes.

I just want to see how far the wall goes, how big the garden is, since it’s hard to tell from my window.

Now the wall curves away, and instead of walking back around to the front of the dorm, I continue with my hand on the stone.

Here—eventually—I come to a large gate. It is arched stone and ornate ironwork, long crackled from vivid orange rust to faded brown and wide enough that I cannot reach from one side to the other.

I wrap my hands around the lumpy bars and peer through the gaps; the garden is truly beautiful, even more overgrown than I realised.

Tangles of green form the base, but everywhere I look there is a new colour, rose pink and lilac and the soft white of lilies, even some rare black blooms that look like a cross between a rose and foxglove, the centre of their flowers bell-shaped, so dark they seem to swallow the sunlight.

“Hello?” I call.

I press my face to the gate. There is no sign of a padlock, but it is either locked from within or rusted shut.

It looks so peaceful inside, shaded in some places and full sun in others, sprawling in every direction as far as I can see.

It would be the perfect place to study, away from the prying eyes of those horrid male scholars, and warmer than the library.

“Is the garden open?” I call. Quieter I add, “Even just for me?”

I wait in silence, fighting the inevitable swoop of disappointment when I receive no response.

It was undeniably a long shot; it looks as if nobody has tended this space in years.

There are hints of what might have once been paths, but they are overgrown, treacherous to the ankles.

I picture with a good deal of childish glee lengthy thorns snagging the embroidery of my skirts, but I push the thought aside.

Despite the obvious abandonment, I can’t shake the feeling that the garden isn’t entirely empty. Probably rats, I think. Or mice. Or birds—though I can’t hear any. It doesn’t feel exactly like I’m talking to nothing, though perhaps I am simply sick of silence.

“Well,” I say flippantly, patting the gate and startling myself with the volume of its rattle. “I’m sure I’ll be back. So if you change your mind… kindly leave the gate unlocked, will you?”