Chapter 25: Bridge of Sighs
It’s been about a week, but we haven’t seen Stu or Terease since the incident. It’s the word teachers are using to refer to it. We aren’t exactly sure what the punishment for horseplay is, and the teachers keep us guessing, never addressing our queries. I suspect it’s all an act to keep us scared, well-behaved students.
For all I know, there’s an ancient torture machine that erases your brain in a dungeon below Olde Town. Well, maybe not that extreme, but I know Stu disappearing with Terease can’t be good.
In a world that seems like so much fun, you’d figure they wouldn’t flip out about such a stupid little thing. But then again, this is Terease we’re talking about—my terrifying Lady in Black—the one that tried to turn my brain into a crispy critter for fun. She originally made the number one spot on my list of weird. My mind runs over the remaining list, as it has done a million times in the past week: CC, Francis Germ Bum, and the Grungy Gang. To relieve my stress, I imagine myself closer to solving the mystery and finding a way to see my mom.
I try not to think of the flip side, but it continues to haunt me. The gang might kill me. A cloud of dread consumes my mind, sending shivers over my skin. Don’t be a baby, Sera!
I’m annoyed for being such a wimp, so I focus on the fact that I feel much safer within the confines of the Academy building. When I venture out again, I know I’ll be slightly more capable with my newly acquired fighting skills from Defense Arts classes. Although, I pray I will never have to test them against the gang. I don’t think I’m ready for that. I’ll just be happy if I get to use my new moves to eventually take Bishop down, the way he did to me at Gabe’s soirée. For some reason, I just need him to know I’m his equal.
Annoyed that my thoughts keep circling back to Bishop, I moan and throw a pillow over my face, trying to enlist my thoughts elsewhere.
My classes are unbelievable but, as I promised Mona, I remain as open-minded as possible, however difficult.
After an introduction to running the relicutionist last week, students were given full rein of exploring the massive cache of relics below the earth. The treasure trove of information gives front row seats to any historical event we choose: the Gettysburg address, the landing on the moon, the Greeks, the Romans. Nothing is off limits if we have the proper relic. We learn the real truths of every event or person we have ever learned about in a Normal’s school. My previous notions of history are remolded and challenged daily.
In Team Tactics, Ms. Midgenet works with our group individually to strengthen the invisible bond between us. Sam, originally resistant, has finally started warming up to me—slightly. Undecided tension remains between Bishop and me. I take comfort in the fact that he needs me in at least one of the ways I need him, the way all three of us need each other, as a team.
As promised by Mr. Evanston on our first meeting, I listen to recorded Night Classes in my sleep on a machine called the contrapulator. It traps and steals my dreams, trading them with recorded information. The first week of recordings covered a partial history and etiquette of the Italian culture in addition to boring Normal studies. Later in the week, the recordings launched into beginning Italian.
I wake up every morning wondering if the lessons worked because I don’t feel more knowledgeable. Gabe explained that I’d be able to access the information when I needed it, like a computer database. “You’ll be just as super-fabulous as a computer,” he insisted, flailing his expressive hands.
A knock at my door interrupts my thoughts.
Surprised, I roll out of bed, dragging my blanket with me to answer it. Any normal person would be asleep this early on a Monday. I reach for the knob and tug the door open.
“Well, speak of the devil,” I say.
Gabe snickers. “Oh, Sera, I’ve been called so much worse.” He trots past and over to my closet. On his tiptoes, he hangs a huge garment bag on the door. He quickly pulls the zipper open and tugs out a magnificent Baroque hoop dress.
“What’s this for?” I ask.
“For today’s field trip, of course.”
I eye the thing. “Thing” is a good word for it because the massive dress, so intricate in its design, takes on a life of its own. Gabe’s hands flutter over the ruffles, beads, and ribbons encasing the blue satin brocade fabric. The dress looks like attire that should accompany a powdered wig and a big fake beauty mark. Images of Marie Antoinette come to mind.
“Aren’t we just going to the Carnevale festival in Venice, like two years ago?” I thought we’d just wear our regular uniforms. It’s not the eighteenth century, after all.
“Yes, but we’re all getting dressed up. For fun!” he says with exuberance.
“Like this?” I point at the thing. “All of us are dressing like this?”
“Of cou—rse!” Gabe drags out the last word like he’s saying “duh!” “I mean—you know—this is how they dress for Carnevale. You could arrive looking all normal, but what fun would that be? Right?” His eyes question. “You should see my outfit, Sera. It’s so fab-rageous!”
I know from my Night Classes that the Venice Carnevale in Italy is a huge festival before the beginning of Catholic Lent. The most popular traditions are to dress extravagantly in voluminous, eighteenth-century ball gowns, velvet capes, and hand-painted papier-mâché masks while roaming around the ancient city. We’re attending on the final day of the Carnevale, the busiest and most exciting. Gabe promises an excellent spectator event. I just didn’t realize that I would be part of the spectacle.
“This will go perfectly with the dress.” Gabe cocks his head and holds up a pearl choker with a sea blue cameo.
“Thanks.” I grab it from him. “When are we leaving?”
“At noon. In the Olde Town piazza.”
“So late?”
“Well, the Seers have their relic challenge first thing this morning.” He leans down and places a matching pair of shoes on the floor.
The Seers are being tested on their ability to find a suitable relic for us to wander with from the Relic Archives, a relic that will lead us to the Carnevale, two years ago.
Gabe skips to the bedroom door. “Don’t forget, physical time is of no consequence when you’re wandering. We can leave, be gone for hours, yet return to true time in the very next moment.” Gabe snaps his fingers. “You’ll be back for lunch.”
“Right.” I find the concept hard to contemplate. When we wander, we never lose time. Time is irrelevant.
“See you later, duchess,” Gabe says, shutting the door behind him.
•
I adjust my corset bodice then smooth down the skirt of my dress. It’s actually two separate pieces, but you’d never know it. The silky fabric feels wonderful under my fingertips. I’m, like, some kind of princess. Maybe this won’t be so bad.
When I walk into Olde Town, everyone mingles in groups, admiring each other’s fanciful clothing. I wander through the crowd, searching for Sam and Bishop.
A hand lightly grabs my arm. I’d know the touch anywhere. I find it strange that it affects me physically, shooting warmth across my skin even before I turn to see him.
“We’re right here,” Bishop says, pulling me toward him.
His crooked smile and perfectly square chin look down at me from behind an argyle-patterned mask painted silver. My heart jumps at the sight of him dressed elegantly in two tones of black, a tailed jacket with wide cuffed sleeves, and knee breeches.
Here stands my prince.
My face flushes. I turn my eyes away as quickly as they catch his. They always linger a little too long on his face. As much as I feel for him, I need to keep my emotions in check.
“What relic did you find, Sam?” I redirect my interest.
“A mask.” She hands it to me. “It’s a girl’s mask, so I guess you’ll be the one holding it. Unless Bishop is considering a gender change for the day?” She eyes him.
“Sera can hold it,” he assures us.
“It t
ook me a while to find this one,” she continues. “It might be a bumpy ride, lots of turns in the map to get that specific day.”
“Nothing could be as bad as the first time,” I say.
“If you say so,” she responds.
“What will you do while we’re gone?” Since this is our first official trip as a team, I’m unclear about what happens to her during the process.
“I’ll be watching everything,” she says.
“But we leave and come back in the next instant. How do you see everything so fast?”
“In the moment you leave, I’ll fall into a hypnotic state. Then I’ll experience everything that happens through Bishop’s eyes. Your trip will take you hours. My meditating will be a fraction of a second. I’ll resurface when you step foot back on true time. Then we’ll be coordinated in time again. Make sense?”
“I guess.”
“I’m going to the Seer’s Meditation Room now. I’ll be watching everything you do. Try to make it interesting.” She sniffs.
“We’ll see what we can do.” Bishop offers me his arm. “Shall we, Miss Parrish?”
Everyone lines up by twos, ready to take a run across Olde Town’s piazza. Ms. Midgenet, at the front, gives instructions to each team before they wander.
When our turn comes, I realize Sam didn’t lie. The trip slams us with so many direction changes within the wormhole that I feel I might throw up. The stream of warm colors radiating around us finally subsides, and we fall through the wormhole, catapulting through the air. Our bodies halt, crashing into a large wall. I clench the surface under my fingers and allow my cheek to rest on the cool marble facade. I’m relieved to be standing still. After several deep breaths, I steady my stomach.
“Chop, chop, kiddies,” Gabe encourages.
We both look over our shoulders. Gabe stands behind us in a festive pink get-up with mounds of white lace, but now, there are two of him. I wobble toward him, readjusting the layers of fabric encasing my body. This isn’t the most comfortable attire for wandering.
“Oh, don’t you two look so cute.” He pinches our cheeks simultaneously. “Now, here’s some money and a map of the city. The streets are confusing so don’t lose this. And stay together,” he warns, shaking a painted fingernail. “The fireworks start in a few hours. Nine, Venice time.” Bishop takes out his pocket watch and sets it. “We meet back here, tonight at ten. So don’t be late!”
Together, we walk out of the tiny hidden courtyard and into a grand shopping arcade with arched columns as far as the eye can see. Beyond the corridor, the space opens up into a massive piazza, the famous Piazza San Marco.
Pigeons flutter erratically around tourists, vying for offerings of bread and birdseed. Of the thousands of people crammed into the space, everyone hides behind some sort of costume. We blend. No one will ever imagine who or what we are. Very subtly, they’re teaching us the art of disguise.
Bishop unfolds the map and studies streets. “What shall we see?” He looks at me with interest. It suddenly dawns on me that we will be together. Alone. All day. The corner of my mouth twitches.
“Umm—the Grand Canal, the Rialto Bridge, the fish market, Santa Maria della Salute, and St. Mark’s Basilica.” I look up from under my eyelashes and smile.
“Anything else?” One eyebrow arches.
“And the fireworks, of course.”
“All right then, let’s take a large loop around the city.” I follow his finger around the map with my eyes. “Then we’ll return here for fireworks.” He taps Piazza San Marco on the map. “Sound agreeable?”
“Perfect!”
We walk through Piazza San Marco, past the ornate Doge’s Palace and the red bricks of the bell tower at San Marco, which happens to be the tallest building in the city at three hundred and twenty-three feet high. Next, we stroll the Grand Canal promenade.
At first, we don’t speak. I just enjoy the cool air and salty aroma of the seawater splashing onto the side of the promenade. Orchestra music plays softly somewhere in the distance. Merchants peddle wares at every street corner.
When I glance over at Bishop, his chin lifts toward the late afternoon sun. His hands fold behind his back. He appears regal, refined, and most certainly handsome in his costume. It’s as though he belongs in an outfit from the eighteenth century.
“Why does everyone call you by your last name?” It’s the first personal question I’ve ever asked him.
“There’s no glamorous reason, I’m afraid. Maxwell, it’s a family name. There are several among the cousins. They just started it out of necessity, to keep us all straight, I suppose.”
“It suits you, I guess.”
“Well, I’m glad you approve. I’ve always disliked my first name," he says with a smile.
I stop and admire one of the many ancient buildings, a rosy pink one with beautiful white details. A gold nameplate next to the door says Hotel Danieli.
“This building dates back to the fourteenth century. It used to serve as a palace for the noble Venetian Dandolo family,” Bishop explains.
“How do you know? I mean, I don’t remember it as part of our Night Classes.”
“Oh, it wasn’t. I just read a lot. I’m kind of a nerdy bookworm, really. Besides, I had to keep myself entertained somehow before you decided to join us. It took you forever, you know.”
“Sorry.”
“I’m glad you finally figured it out.” His eyes squint in upside-down smiles, the shape accentuated by the dark fringe of his lashes.
“Me too.” I look down to the stone street, and we walk on.
“What part of Great Britain are you from?”
“Chelsea—London. I live in a lovely red brick home with my dad.”
“And your mom?”
“Occasionally. She travels for work quite a bit.”
“Yeah, mine too—I mean my dad. Brothers and sisters?”
“Yes, one of each. Charlotte, who’s thirteen.” She’s the same age as Sam. He always seems to look after her like a little sister. Now their relationship makes sense. He pauses as though considering his words carefully. “And also Turner, who’s my fraternal twin.” His lips purse.
I steal a double glance at him, but he keeps his focus forward. “Your twin?” I’m desperately trying not to sound too surprised or too interested in his duplicate brother, so I ask about both siblings. “I mean, are they both at the Academy?”
“Charlotte, no. We aren’t positive if she will yet, but it would be easier for all of us if she did. And Turner, yes.”
“I never see you with him.” Not that I see Bishop that much outside of class, but when I do, I pay attention.
“I guess you could blame that on sibling rivalry.” He smiles, but his eyes avoid me. His attention immediately drifts to a vaporetto sloshing past in the murky green waters of the Grand Canal. It’s crammed with at least a hundred tourists snapping pictures of us as they pass.
“Hmph.” I want to know more about his brother, but his expression indicates that the Turner topic might be off limits. This gives me another thought. What if Turner is the boy in the picture with Bishop, the half that had been chopped off before being mailed to me? I want to ask about it and also the gang, but I have a feeling either might kill the mood. After all this time, we’re finally talking. Not about team stuff here and there, but about normal stuff. It’s so wonderful, I can’t bear to taint it with something negative. So I let both thoughts go. For now, anyway.
“And you, brothers or sisters?” He’s hesitant in asking, and I’m not exactly sure why.
“Nope, just lonely me.”
We turn off the promenade and onto a large wooden bridge that arches over the Grand Canal. We pause at the top. I lean over the railing, watching a red gondola glide underneath. A man stands in the back, playing an accordion while singing. I look up at the view. Gorgeous buildings line the canal. They appear as though they might crumble into the water from age, but I know they aren’t going anywhere. They’ve been here fo
rever. The glorious and serene scene represents a perfect time capsule of Italian beauty.
We walk on, enjoying the sights in a comfortable silence. Our hands brush each other’s accidentally on a few occasions. The contact sends trembles and tingles through my arm, almost rendering it useless.
I step away from Bishop to distance myself. I would never steal a boy from anyone, even someone I don’t like. I tie my mask relic to my dress with a loose ribbon and cross my arms to avoid further contact.
When we arrive at the Rialto Bridge, the sun sits lower in the sky. The street lamps flicker orange light within their glass globes.
“Would you like to take a gondola back?” he asks.
“That’s a good idea because, to be honest, these shoes are killing my feet.” I lift the hem of my dress, revealing a pair of blue satin heels with fancy silver buckles.
“Not exactly walking shoes, are they?” he asks with his fingers draped across his chin, inspecting them.
“Not at all, but you know how particular Gabe is about fashion.”
“I believe I do. I’m wearing tights, after all. Not my first choice for an outfit.” He laughs.
We step out onto a small pier surrounded by red-and-white-striped pillars. They remind me of peppermint sticks. Several docked gondolas clang against them, sloshing and spitting green water.
A smiling gondolier named Arturo, wearing a black-and-white-striped shirt and a broad-rimmed black hat, grabs my hand, helping me into the vessel. I sit. Bishop follows and sits next to me. I lean away so our shoulders won’t touch.
Our creaking boat drifts up and down several canals. Bishop delivers a complete lesson of each building’s architectural significance and history. Some of it I know, which I’m sure he realizes, but I let him continue without interruption because I enjoy the velvety sound of his voice.
The setting sun paints glowing hues of pink and orange across the sky. The colors are romantic and beautiful.
“Now, this is a nice one up here.” Bishop points to an enclosed limestone bridge. It sits high above the water, hanging between two solid buildings.
“Doesn’t look very nice. There are bars on the windows,” I say.
“It’s special, The Bridge of Sighs.” He leans a little closer, and his voice lightens, as though he’s about to tell me a secret. “Venetian legend states that you’ll be bestowed everlasting love if you share a kiss with someone in a gondola at sunset while underneath the bridge.”
My breath hitches in my throat. His words linger in the air for a moment like balloons. When they pop, the shock momentarily paralyzes me. I turn to face him in confusion. His perfect, ocean-green eyes gaze expectantly into mine. He leans in close, our foreheads touch, and I realize we’re both breathing heavily.
“You are so breathtaking,” he says in a soft whisper. Gently, he grazes the back of his fingers across my cheek. Then his palm slips behind my ear and cups my neck. His other hand follows. But he hesitates, as though he’s waiting for permission to be closer.
The seductive scent of his aftershave swirls and seduces me, pulling us closer. Our noses meet. They slip back and forth over each other, and I can feel his warm breath on my face, my lips, taste it on my tongue. I think of our lips finally meeting, trembling, and burning on impact. I’ve been dreaming about it since the first moment I saw him. With all my heart, I want to kiss him. So I finally react, but not in the way I want to.
I stand up.
I inhale every last ounce of air that my lungs will allow, and I jump, without thinking, from the gondola to a nearby pier.
“Sera!” Bishop reacts immediately. “What are you doing? Are you mad?”
“I can’t do this!” I yell back without looking, as I steady my footing on the rickety pier. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Resisting one of the things I want most—him.
I quickly tuck my head into the low doorway and find myself in an elegant dining room. Needing an escape route, I run out the front door of what appears to be a hotel and into a courtyard. Confused, I turn several times but eventually find my way to a corridor. I keep running until my energy dissolves, needing to be alone with my thoughts.
I’m several streets away, hidden against a wall in an alley, when Bishop runs past, yelling my name. If Sam wants drama, she’s getting it.
When his voice fades, swallowed by the labyrinth of buildings, I somberly stroll in the other direction, stepping into masquerade shops along the route. The diversion helps to release my mind of the tension and guilt. I’m positive I’ve done everything within my power not to give those kinds of signals. Everything but giving him up in my mind completely, which seems impossible, like breathing without air.
I step up to an Italian pastry shop, admiring the sweet confections on the other side of the store window. A reflection scares me. I spin to face it and halt in an instant.
A person concealed behind a gold mask stands inches away from my face. Their body is covered, head to toe, in a shimmering gold cloak. Before I can react, the figure grabs my hand with their velvety black glove and shoves an object into my palm, closing my fingers tightly around it.
Clasping their hands around mine, the figure speaks beautifully, in a rich Italian accent. “Reassemble this, and it will guide you to your heart’s desire.”
I stand confused, looking at the golden silhouette.
“Who are you?”
“A friend,” she says. She jerks her head around, scanning the crowd. “Tell no one,” she says hastily, then takes off running.
Wander Dust Page 25
