With hands softer than silk, he wipes the tears away and presses a kiss to the tip of my nose. “Do not cry, angel of mine. We shall be together now.”
Pain shoots through my stomach. Even though I desperately want his words to be true, I know this is it. It’s time to say good-bye.
Closing my eyes, I stand on tiptoe and kiss him one last time. I run my fingers through his soft golden curls, nibble on his full lower lip, and drink in his woodsy scent. I leave a trail of kisses on the slight bump of his nose, his bronzed cheeks, and the indentation above his upper lip. And then, with regret, I stand back and look into his dazed, promise-filled eyes.
“Shall I escort you home and request an audience with your uncle?” he asks, skimming his hands down my arms and interlocking our fingers.
I shake my head and watch the confusion cloud his gaze. I slowly inhale, count to three, and then five, before exhaling.
“No. Lorenzo, I’m so sorry, but I can’t marry you. Or run away.”
He bolts back in shock, his mouth opening and closing. Confusion, doubt, and pain all flash across his face, and before he can argue or I can lose my nerve, I press on.
“You need to follow the plan you had before you ever met me. You’re an amazing man, and your father will see that eventually, regardless of your career. He’ll be proud of you as an artist. And one day, when the time is right and you have your life in order, you’re going to fall in love. Truly, deeply, and passionately. I just know it.”
Lorenzo grabs my arms, his breathing shallow and rapid, and searches my eyes. “You do not mean what you are saying. You want to be with me; I know that you do.”
I let the tears fall as I twist my arms from his grip, not because he’s hurting me like Niccolo did, but because it hurts to be near him. He looks down at his hands in horror and releases me.
“I do want to be with you, Lorenzo,” I say, backing away. “But I can’t let you throw away your life for me.”
Then, before he can beg again or my resolve to do the right thing crumbles, I spin around and grab the hem of my dress. As I race back home, heartbroken, the sound of my cries joins the pounding of my footsteps against the cold cobblestone road.
Chapter Seventeen
Lucia’s thumping on my door shakes me out of a restless dream. Sleep eluded me most of the night, allowing me to watch through swollen eyelids as the dark sky outside my window turned orange and pink and purple. Exhaustion must have consumed me shortly after dawn.
“Come in, already!” I scream, shoving my balled-up fists into my eye sockets.
She does, but her purposeful stride halts when she takes in my appearance. I can only imagine what a night spent crumpled in the fetal position on my bed, dry heaving and weeping, has done for my complexion. Her familiar eyes turn sad as she tries to coax me out of bed. “Today is an important day, Signorina.”
For a moment, I don’t know what she means. And then I remember. Today is my sixteenth birthday.
The whole hurting the first guy I’ve ever cared about and being stalked by a maniacal sociopath distracted me from such a monumental occasion. Now, according to ancient philosophy, I’m old enough to be married. Let the celebration begin.
I nod at Lucia as I stumble toward my stool. “Yeah, thanks for remembering. I guess sixteen is a pretty big deal, huh?” I ask, my voice hoarse and scratchy.
She tilts her bonnet-encased head in confusion and grabs the brush. As the rhythmic strokes lull my heavy lids closed, she clears her throat. “Your uncle should return any moment, so we must make haste in dressing.”
My eyes pop open, and an uneasy feeling steels my spine. I lick my dry, cracked lips and ask, “Return?”
The brush stills. “Sì, from the notary.”
My already-labored breathing grows harsher as a fresh wave of panic washes over me. I turn and unclench my jaw to repeat, “The notary.”
Lucia stares at me, sees the question in my eyes, and nods once. “He accompanied Signor di Rialto at sunrise. Your aunt and cousin have been preparing for the wedding feast. Today is your wedding day.”
NO!!!
The one word screamed only in my head bounces around my brain, eclipsing the next thing Lucia says. Through dazed eyes, I somehow register her lips moving.
I put a shaky hand to the table and force myself to stand. “I-I’m sorry. What did you just say?”
Surely I heard her wrong. There’s no way my aunt wouldn’t have told me something this important. But then, I did tune out as much of the planning stuff as I could, refusing to believe this day would ever really come.
Lucia thrusts her hand under my arm to steady me. “It is your wedding day,” she says again, as if she’s addicted to the freaking sentence. She nods her head toward a large trunk near the door. “And your counter-trousseau just arrived.”
I lurch forward, and Lucia catches me, her eyes flashing with concern as she guides me over to the door. Sinking to my knees, I hesitantly unhook the lock and pry open the latch, not really knowing why, other than the need to prove somehow that this isn’t happening.
The trunk is filled with jewelry—bracelets, brooches, rings, and pendants—and gowns of every color and fabric. Silk, satin, taffeta, brocade, and on top, a crimson cut-velvet surcoat. Lucia takes it, along with the matching slippers underneath, and drapes it on my bed.
“This is the gown you shall wear for the wedding.”
The pretty, innocuous Italian words float in my ear, and I dumbly nod in acknowledgment. I blink and swallow hard, then look to my bed for my backpack. I don’t even care if Lucia sees it; I need to hold it. I crawl over and reach out but stop when my fingers brush across a folded piece of paper on the floor. Right below where Lucia hung the gown.
Gingerly I pick it up, almost as if it’ll bite. I know who it’s from. Forgetting about my backpack for now, I grip the letter in my fist and let my feet carry me back to the stool, where I stare at the wall before me.
The passage of time ceases to hold meaning as I retreat within myself again. On some distant level, I feel Lucia’s hands work my hair, then lift me up and dress me for the day. I still feel the paper in my hand, now cutting and breaking the skin due to my death grip on it. Lucia finishes and clears her throat.
I blink unseeing eyes and focus on her petite frame. She hands me a mirror, and I nod at my reflection.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice devoid of any emotion.
As I hand back the mirror, a surprising image registers in my mind, and my grip tightens around the gilded frame. I tug it back, my eyes boring into the glass.
For a fleeting moment, I see myself as I did the day I arrived in Florence with my dad. Full makeup, hair down, fake-confident smile.
I glance at my crimson surcoat, then back at my reflection, watching as the image fades into the sixteenth-century version of me, veil skimming over an elaborate hairstyle adorned with flowers. But that hallucination is enough to wake me from my trance.
Trotting horse hooves outside my window catch my attention, and I glance out to see a line of carriages arriving. Niccolo stands near the fountain, talking with a guest.
I open my hand and unfold the letter, knowing it’s from him. The words are few, but they were obviously crafted to pierce my heart.
Signorina Patience D’Angeli,
I look forward to making you mine. Young Cappelli is safe. You chose correctly.
N.
I lift my head, and as if he senses my stare, Niccolo looks up, meeting my gaze with an icy look of superiority and triumph.
Uncle Marco’s voice reaches me from below, and I shift my eyes to watch him greet the guests in turn. Pride radiates off him even from this distance as he surveys the growing crowd. Almost the entire guest list from the ball appears to be in attendance, whether to celebrate Patience’s wedding or to mourn the loss of the town’s most eligible bachelor, I’m not sure. What I do know is this:
Running will cause a scene.
A scandal.
I s
hould know; it’s what my mother excels at. And because of that, because of her, I’ve always done exactly what I think is expected of me. Always tried to make up for her failures.
I look back at Niccolo and shake my head.
But not this time.
“I can’t do this anymore.” Exhaling sharply, I turn to Lucia and bunch the sides of my soft velvet dress in my hands. “I have to get outta here.”
Lucia stumbles back as I barrel past her, through the door, and down the hall—the smell of the wedding feast’s roasted peacock assaulting me. I pass Alessandra near the dining room, but I refuse to stop even when she calls after me. I can’t. I won’t stop until I’m down the stairs, through the courtyard, and out the arched doors leading to the street, far, far away from this nightmare.
The astonished crowd in the courtyard parts, and I tear through, pausing only long enough to shout a tearful “Sorry” to my uncle. Behind me, Niccolo screams in rage. But I’m already gone.
After a few blocks, my lungs and thighs burn, and I have a painful stitch in my side. Reluctantly I slow my frantic pace, hearing footsteps slapping the road behind me. Leaning against the sandstone building next to me, I close my eyes and draw ragged, searing breaths. The trailing footsteps come to a sharp stop.
“I’m not going back,” I tell whoever it is, shaking my head with my eyes clamped shut. I’m almost certain it’s Alessandra. Maybe even my aunt or uncle. But I’m scared to death to open them and see Niccolo. I don’t care what he threatens to do to me; I’m not becoming his wife today. I’ll run away on my own if I have to.
“You don’t have to go back, Caterina.”
The eerily familiar Russian-accented, English-speaking voice breaks through my panic, and my eyes snap open. Another pair of clacking footsteps rounds the corner, and I turn and lock gazes with Alessandra, all wild eyes and bright red cheeks.
Then I turn back to Lucia.
“Reyna?” I ask in disbelief, watching her drab servant uniform vanish and a voluminous outfit of purple veils and layers of multicolored chiffon skirts replace it.
At least this time, more than just her eyes are exposed. She smiles at me and nods. “Arvah.” She takes a step back and motions to a tent that has materialized behind her. “I believe the two of us should step inside.”
Alessandra’s slowed steps finally reach us, and she wraps her hands around the top of her head, squeezing it in confusion. She looks from me to Reyna to the tent and back again. “I do not understand.”
Reyna nods at her, and then her familiar eyes pierce mine. “I’ll leave you two to talk, but make it quick. I will see you inside, tatcho?”
I nod, relief and joy competing for which emotion I feel most. A laugh echoes off the building next to us before I even realize it came from me.
I’m going home.
The flap of the tent closes behind Reyna, and I turn to face Alessandra. The joy transforms into grief in a nanosecond.
“Um, so that was my gypsy lady,” I say, forcing a smile. “It looks like I’m heading back to the future now.”
As much as I want and need to get away from Niccolo and unwanted betrothals and people who eat roasted peacock to celebrate anything, the thought of leaving Alessandra tears at me. I reach for her hand and pull her into a tight hug. I breathe in the scent of my floral shampoo clinging to her hair and choke on a sob. “I’m never gonna forget you, girl.”
Alessandra sniffles and stays quiet for a minute. Then she says, “Nor I you. You have taught me much about life and the future.” She rubs her forehead on my shoulder. “I shall forever miss my dear sister.”
My grip around her neck tightens as I shake my head. “Your family is the one who taught me, I assure you.” I pull away to swipe at my tears. “Geez, you people turned me into a freaking crybaby.”
She smiles softly and laughs once. “Mama will miss you, too, as will Father. They love you, you know.”
I hiccup and blink away a fresh batch of tears. “Take care of them for me, will ya? Your mom and dad, Cip, Lorenzo.” My voice breaks on his name, and I have to take a steadying breath before I continue. I squeeze her hand for strength.
My gaze falls on the tent, and a thought dawns on me. “Less, I don’t know what kind of mess I’m leaving you with here. I don’t know if I’m gonna walk into the tent and the real Patience will step out, or if she does, if she’ll even know or understand anything that’s happened. And what if no one steps out?” I ask, the horrifying image playing in my mind. “What if Patience no longer exists, or if she never shows up? I mean, it’s great that she won’t have to marry Niccolo, but people will think she ran away! That’ll devastate Aunt Francesca!”
I remember all those guests back there. They’ll think I jilted Niccolo on our wedding day. With his arrogance and need for public approval, something like this will shame him.
The thought actually brings a smile to my face.
Now that I like.
Alessandra puts a hand on my elbow and smiles confidently at me. “Do not worry about what will happen next, fair cousin. I will take care of everything.”
I tilt my head and study this new girl standing in front of me. “You will? How?”
Her smile grows wider as she lifts one delicate shoulder. “I do not yet know, but I am an actress.”
She giggles, and I just stand there, watching her embrace her passion—even if it’s only with me. Maybe my being around did help in some small way, after all.
I wrap my arms around her for one last hug. “Yes, you are,” I say, burying my head again in her soft hair. “A gifted one at that.”
The flap of the tent moves as Reyna sticks out her head. “We really must be going. Everything is ready.”
I nod and step away from Alessandra. Heat floods my cheeks. My chest tightens in a steely grip as I blink rapidly and choke out, “I love ya, girl.”
Her doe eyes fill with tears again as she says, “I love you, too, Cat.”
She squeezes my hand, then gently shoves me toward the tent. With a heavy sigh, I walk away from my cousin and the past and head toward Reyna and my future.
…
Inside the tent it’s just as dim as I remember, but this time nowhere near as spooky. The patchouli incense still tickles my nose, the dotted candlelight makes the same dancing shadows on the ground, but at the back, Reyna is perched on top of the black-sheathed table, drinking a can of Coke.
She sees my smirk and shrugs. “I missed carbonation.”
I roll my eyes and laugh, the English language and the bright red can welcome signs of normalcy. Remembering the drill from before, I slide off my slippers and promptly freeze.
“I need to go back!” I shriek, causing Reyna’s eyebrows to shoot up in surprise. She folds her arms, and, scared I’ll say the wrong thing and end up being stuck here forever, I take a breath and lower my shaking voice. “You don’t understand. I forgot my backpack in my room. My phone, my camera, my wallet, hundreds of dollars’ worth of products. My art supplies. Lorenzo’s drawing. My drawing… My life is in that bag!”
As she watches me, a small smile twitches at her lips. Figuring that’s as close to permission as I’m going to get, I turn to put my shoes back on, fear tightening my muscles as I imagine running into Niccolo again. A gentle breeze whips strands of hair in my face, and when I push them back, I see my backpack lying on the floor.
I jump about a foot and shoot her an open-mouthed look of disbelief.
Reyna snickers. “Did you not think I could perform such a simple trick? I transport you five hundred years into the past, and this is what you do not buy?”
Relief coursing through my veins, I grin. “Touché.”
Sinking to the ground, I run my hand across the rolled-up drawings poking out the top. Pressure builds behind my eyes, but I refuse to cry. I’m going home, where I need to be. I can blubber like a baby once I’m in a cushy bed back in the twenty-first century—and far away from Niccolo. I slide my backpack onto the reserved space on the
shelf and push myself to my feet.
In the back of the tent, I take a seat opposite Reyna and lean my elbows on the soft silk sheath. With a nod to the purple votive candle, jar of oil, and dish of red powder sitting beside the large sapphire candle and red Coke can, I say, “Looks like you’re ready for another session of hocus-pocus. Well, this time I am your more-than-willing vessel, gypsy girl. Work your magic.”
Reyna taps one long, red-painted nail against her cheek. “Are you not curious to know why all this happened?”
Honestly, the need to get to the hotel and see Dad again is almost overwhelming. But so is finally getting the answers to my bazillion questions. I lean my chair back and bat my eyelashes. “You mean to say that you don’t do this to every random tourist who walks into your tent sporting a pear tattoo?”
But Reyna doesn’t laugh. Her luminous eyes glaze over as she stares at a point just above my head. And when she speaks, her rough voice is unusually gentle. “Since I was born in Romania twenty years ago, I have always known that I had a particular destiny, one that lives outside my own. I spent the whole of my childhood preparing for my sixteenth birthday, when the goddess Isis would grant me my magical powers at my patshiv, along with a special assignment to use them for good. The morning of my sixteenth birthday, I awoke from a vivid dream of a painted pear. And every night since, it has been the same vision. Occasionally with flashes of more, but always the pear.”
Reyna falls quiet, trapped in her memories, and I try not to break the eerie silence. But I can’t help crumpling the fabric of my skirt as I impatiently wait to hear more.
It’s not every day I learn I’m someone’s destiny.
Finally Reyna inhales deeply and lowers her eyes to mine, though they still look a little misty. “About a year ago, I wandered into a museum, searching for a glimpse of the pear in my waking hours, and I stumbled upon an ancient tome. I cannot explain the magnetic pull I felt to that book. The woodcut illustrations fascinated me, and though it was written in Italian and I could not understand a word, it was impossible to look away. Having never been interested in art, or history, or even Italy before, I knew there had to be a connection. I noted the printing was from Florence, somewhere around the early 1500s, and I threw myself into learning about the Renaissance, devouring all I could, hoping it would lead me closer to my destiny. Eventually I traveled here. And when I saw your tattoo that afternoon in this tent, I knew my destiny had finally arrived.”
My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century Page 19
