Wow. I stare into the flame from the sapphire candle, realizing that as unbelievable as her story is, I totally believe it. How could I not after everything that’s happened this past week? But as I replay her words in my mind, my eyes narrow, one piece still not quite making sense. “I think I understand why me…and why the Renaissance. But I don’t understand why I had to become someone else? Why Patience?”
Reyna nods, fiddling with the pop-top of her can with a small smile. “The Goddess did not reveal that part until the final spell. As I called upon her to show me your destiny, she lifted the veil, and your story unfolded like a film. Your aunt, so much like the women you struggled not to think about during the tea ceremony. Your cousins, the ones to teach you to open your heart again. Lorenzo”—my stomach clenches at his name—“to show you how love can be if you trust yourself. And Niccolo, so you can discover that some things are beyond our control. If we are to fight them, we cannot be consumed with the need to be perfect or to always do what is expected. We need to be willing to chance failure in order to succeed.”
I collapse against the back of my chair, amazed. The cryptic message to “keep my mind open to the lessons ahead” had haunted me since the moment I woke up and realized there was more to this trip than a simple twenty-four-hour immersion, but I wasted so much time trying to riddle it out that I forgot to pay attention to the things that really mattered. All the elusive lessons surrounded me the whole time.
As if reading my thoughts, Reyna leans forward, her marble-like gaze hypnotic in its intensity. “Caterina, what have you learned from this experience?”
Taking a deep breath, I consider her question.
“Well, for starters, I learned that having a Sweet Sixteen is not the worst thing that can happen.”
Gratified with her snort in reply, I purse my lips and concentrate on remembering all the amazing bits and pieces of my Renaissance vacay. The horrid dinner at Antonia’s and my even-worse performance. My countless blunders and the craziness with Niccolo.
“This experience definitely showed me I can’t control everything, as much as I want to. And I guess I realized it’s okay if I occasionally make a few mistakes. I’m not my mother.”
Shocked by the conviction in my own statement, I laugh—then as a strange lightness enters my chest, I put my hand over my heart and do it again. I take another breath, finding it easier this time, and close my eyes, energized by my self-discovery. Behind my veiled eyes, I see the faces of Alessandra and Aunt Francesca, Uncle Marco and Cipriano, and finally, Lorenzo. I let the hurt come, along with the engulfing sense of love and comfort.
“And I’ve learned that letting people get close to you doesn’t always lead to pain. Some people are actually worth the risk.”
As I think about Jenna, and how different things might be if I gave her a chance, I hear Reyna laugh, a surprisingly soft, tinkling sound. I open my eyes to see her shaking her head.
“Misto! I believe my work here is done.” Picking up the purple candle, she smiles and asks, “So then, Caterina, are you ready to go home?”
I throw my head back and sigh. There’s so much I’ll miss about the sixteenth century, but in the end, it’s nothing compared to Dad and home. When I lift my head again, I feel lighter than air. “Yes. Definitely, yes.”
Reyna nods, pleased, and I watch as she inscribes my name on one side of the candle. She then draws an infinity symbol above and below it. With one hand, she grasps the wick and rolls it first in the oil and then in the red powder, while handing me a piece of parchment paper with the other.
“Back to business,” she says in her usual rough voice. “Write down what it is you need control over and place it under the candleholder.”
Control.
It’s crazy to realize how important that word has been in my life the past sixteen years. But now, after going so long without having any shred of it, I realize all I really want control over is getting home. I grab a sparkly pen off the shelf lining the wall, write HOME on the stiff paper, and slide it under the holder as instructed.
Reyna strikes a match, and the candle’s flame begins to dance. She closes her eyes and chants, “Wax and herb, now bring me power that grows with every passing hour. Bring control back into me. As I will it, so mote it be!”
This time, there’s no creepy parlor trick to accompany the magic. A strong wind rattles the outside walls of the tent, but inside it’s relatively calm. A subtle electric current runs up my spine and down my limbs, and my stomach clenches—a tickling feeling close to the kind I get from a roller coaster. But that’s it.
The candle burns completely down, and Reyna grabs a second dish to incinerate the parchment paper.
I have to admit, I kinda missed the crawly skin and crazy voodoo. But I’m not the one running this ship. And as long as she gets me home, gypsy girl can do whatever she wants.
The last particle of the paper disintegrates, and Reyna lifts her gaze to mine. “It is finished.”
The sides of the tent still, and I hear an angry car horn blare in the distance. The sound of home.
I jump to my feet and circle the table, pull Reyna up, and throw my arms around her neck. “Thank you so much for everything. Seriously, now that I’m back—and not married—I have to tell you that this whole experience completely rocked!”
She laughs and pats my back, and I pull away to look down at her. “Now that it’s all over, what will you do?”
Reyna shrugs. “Some of us get another assignment; others carry on their lives as they did before. I guess I will have to wait to see which camp I fall into.” A wistful look passes over her face, and then it clears.
“Will I ever see you again?”
Her eyes sparkle as if she has a hidden secret. “It is possible.”
Realizing I’m not going to get anything more than that, I gnaw on my lip and eye the front of the tent. Dad is just a twenty-minute walk away. But then I turn to Reyna once again. “And the real Patience—my however-many-once-removed cousin or aunt. What happens to her?”
It’s the only question that’s been nagging me since I entered the tent, and the one I’m most scared to hear the answer to. My stomach immediately knots a hundred different ways, wondering if she ended up with Niccolo or was lost forever.
Reyna closes her eyes and bows her head, circling slowly once to the left, and then again to the right. She chants softly under her breath, and when she lifts her head, she smiles. The pressure in my chest lightens a smidge.
“She returned to your aunt’s house with your memories intact as if they were her own. She approached your uncle with Niccolo’s letter, and together, they confronted him. The betrothal was broken.”
I sink against her, collapsing in relief. “And Niccolo?”
Reyna’s lips twitch. “Married Antonia Stefani.” I slap my hand over my mouth, and she nods. “I believe that is what they call poetic justice, is it not?”
We share a laugh, which after the stress of the morning feels freaking amazing. My laughter trails off, giving way to the fading roar of a Vespa, and I turn my head to follow the sound. When I look back, Reyna spears me with her perceptive stare. I tuck loose hair behind my ear and shake my head.
I can’t ask about Lorenzo.
I’m back where I need to be, where I’m meant to be, but I’m not ready to hear how he married a gorgeous Florentine woman—or even that he remained alone the rest of his life, screwed up after meeting me. Either possibility is just too painful to consider.
Reyna presses her lips together and nods once, understanding. Grateful, I hug her tightly one final time and smile in spite of myself.
The family of huggers rubbed off.
Reyna steps back, hesitant and almost shy. She squeezes my arm in a rare show of affection, then promptly turns me to face the front of the tent. “Upon walking outside, you will find that no time has elapsed since you left on your adventure. When you see your family again, nothing will have changed for them. But hopefully that will not
be the case with you.”
“I can say with almost complete certainty, Jenna will flip her pancake over the change in me.”
Reyna snorts and with a gentle shove says, “Kushti. Then I believe your father is waiting.”
A surge of excitement and longing shoots through me, and I race to the front of the tent. I slip my feet into slippers that I know will change the second I step outside and slide my arm through the shoulder strap of my beloved backpack.
With a wave at Reyna, I pull back the flap, pausing for a moment to close my eyes and savor the smells and sounds of the twenty-first century. Who knew that the rhythmic rumble and buzzing of Italian traffic could be so beautiful? I take a step, and then another, basking in the warm, pollution-filled sunshine. I open my eyes to gaze down at my familiar Seven jeans and Abercrombie top, and with a kick of my Steve Madden gladiator–encased feet, I walk out into present-day Florence.
Chapter Eighteen
The lobby of our hotel is quiet. More importantly, it is Dad and Jenna free. The shiny golden clock hanging above the concierge desk confirms it’s five minutes to two, which means that despite my nine-day absence, I’m actually early for our lunch date.
I plop down on a plush sofa, the floral fabric wrapping itself around me, and lay my head on the silk-covered arm. Hugging an envelope-style pillow to my chest, I rest my eyes and try to sneak in a quick catnap while I wait. Time travel can really take a lot out of a girl.
“Signorina, are you all right?”
No catnaps today, I guess. With a sigh, I open my eyes and see a middle-aged man with thick-rimmed glasses and a gentle smile. In clear English he asks, “Is there anything I can get for you?”
I lift my head and smile. “No, I’m good. Really good, actually, but thanks. I’m just waiting for someone, and I couldn’t resist diving into this super-soft sofa, I guess.”
“I don’t blame you,” he says, sitting down on the matching love seat. His eyes shine with humor and wisdom. “They are quite nice, aren’t they? All the hotel’s furnishings are inspired by the Renaissance, but this level of luxury isn’t exactly authentic to the sixteenth century.”
I bolt upright, suddenly excited about the opportunity to share my experience with someone else. Even though I just got back, I feel like if I don’t talk about it as soon as possible, the memories will start to fade or seem less real. I look at his shiny gold name tag. “So, Henry, you know a lot about the sixteenth century, then?”
He nods, running his hand along the soft upholstery. “You have to know at least a little to work in a hotel that was once a sixteenth-century palace, but it’s also a hobby of mine. I taught Italian and Renaissance history at Northwestern and moved here when I retired. It’s about as close as you can get to actually living in the past, don’t you think?”
I bite back a laugh and nod instead. A movement near the door catches my eye, and I twist my head around, hoping to see Dad, but it’s just another white-socked tourist. My shoulders slump, and I turn to look away when I notice a huge painting hanging to the side of the glass doors.
A strange tingle runs through my left arm, and a peculiar sense of déjà vu hits me. I have to see that painting. I get up, the weird prompting drawing me closer, and Henry follows.
“Do you know anything about this painting?” I ask him as we cross the hardwood floor toward it. “There’s something about it that seems familiar, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before.”
“Ah, yes, it is our hotel’s most prized possession. A Cappelli original.”
My feet stop.
I turn and ask, “Did you say Cappelli?”
Henry’s smile grows wider with pride as he answers, “Yes, a Lorenzo Cappelli.” My jaw drops as he points to the painting and steers me closer. “This particular one is of great value, due to the speculation as to what the pear on the hip of the Goddess of Victory means. Oftentimes in Renaissance art, the pear is used to symbolize fidelity in marriage, but Victoria was not married in the mythology.”
I stare, wide eyed, at the small plaque below the painting that says, GODDESS VICTORIA WITH PAINTED PEAR, LORENZO CAPPELLI, 1506.
A year after I was there.
The memory of our day in the country comes flooding back as I gaze with wonder at the goddess Victoria standing before a rushing waterfall, a crown of daisies in her hair and white linen draped around her body in such a way that it exposes a pear tattoo on her right hip.
Yep, I think, a giddy giggle bursting out of my mouth, he definitely copped a look.
“You said it is a prized possession,” I say, tearing my gaze away. “Are there other Cappelli paintings in existence?”
Henry eyes me with a perplexed frown, and my heart rate increases. I wet my lips and swallow, my head buzzing with possibilities. I couldn’t handle knowing Lorenzo married someone else, but this is different.
Suddenly I have to know—and I’m kicking myself for not asking Reyna when I had the chance—did Lorenzo become an artist like he wanted, or did his parents finally win?
A noisy tour group enters from behind us, and a harried-looking clerk barks Henry’s name from the front desk. Thankfully, he hesitates, shaking his head and flashing the universal signal for Give me a minute. He tilts his head, as if he can’t quite figure me out, and says, “But of course there are other paintings. Lorenzo Cappelli is one of the Renaissance’s most beloved artists…as celebrated as da Vinci, Raphael, or even Michelangelo.”
A gasp of astonishment, followed by an impressive round of choking on air, is my eloquent response to this bit of unbelievable news. I slap my hand over my mouth, waving away Henry’s concern, and turn back to the painting.
Lorenzo followed his dream.
Minutes pass, and Henry leaves, but still I stand there, completely captivated by Lorenzo’s artwork. It’s not just that he painted me, although if you know what you’re looking for, you can clearly see it’s me on the canvas. But his artistry, the paint strokes, his use of color. He truly was a brilliant artist.
And somehow, something I did in the midst of my many, many screw-ups changed history.
I helped make this happen.
A hand closes around my shoulder, breaking the painting’s spell. “Cat?”
My knees buckle at the sound of Dad’s voice. His grip tightens, and I collapse into his arms, throwing mine around his neck and inhaling the comforting scent of his spicy aftershave and Armani cologne. “Daddy, I missed you so much.”
He laughs and kisses the top of my head. “You weren’t gone that long, Peanut. But a few hours without dear old Dad can feel like a lifetime, right?”
I squeeze him tighter and whisper, “You have no idea.”
When we finally break apart, I see Jenna standing a few feet behind us. She gives me a cautious smile, and as I walk toward her, it turns into one of confusion. I wrap my arms around her neck, and I hear a startled intake of air, and then a happy giggle, before she hugs me back.
“That tour of yours must’ve been some kind of awesome,” she says, running her fingers through my hair. “All we did was window shop. You’ll have to show us everything you saw.”
I step back, nodding, a smile on my face as I realize I can’t show them everything, and say, “Sure thing.”
Jenna blinks, obviously still flabbergasted from my open display of affection, so I decide to go for the kill and really freak the girl out.
“And, you know, Jenna, I’ve been giving a lot of thought to the whole Sweet Sixteen thing.”
Her tentative smile falters, and she bites her lip.
I drum my fingers against my jaw and hesitate—trying to draw out the suspense—but when deep grooves form in her poor lower lip, I smile.
“Let’s do it—the ball, the napkins, MTV, all of it. Why not, right?”
Her eyebrows shoot toward her hairline, and her hundred-watt grin is restored to its full glory. Dad squeezes my shoulder.
I continue. “It’ll probably be fun to do together, although this is def
initely more your domain, and I’ll bow down to your mad skills.” I glance back at Lorenzo’s painting and smile. “But I do have one small request.”
…
I stand on the balcony overlooking the ballroom of the ginormous hotel Jenna booked for the party. Pseudo-candlelight cast by rows of golden chandeliers shine on hundreds of costumed dancers, and cameramen snake through the crowds to interview party guests. They’ve already gotten me several times, and the entire experience has been surprisingly painless. Jenna’s been by my side the whole time, coaching me on what to say and telling the director what he can and cannot ask.
Hayley sidles up beside me, bopping her head to the music. “This was such a fun and unique idea,” she tells me, leaning in to be heard over the booming music below.
“Thanks.” I turn my head to give her a smile before looking back to crowd watch. “I’ve always had a soft spot for the Renaissance.”
My friendship with Hayley is new, and we’re still feeling each other out, but it’s definitely been one of the best developments since I got back home last month. She’s a loner like me who prefers hanging on the fringes of our school’s social order. We’re both art nerds, and Hayley’s also really into fashion. The sixteenth century–inspired gown she’s wearing for the night is her own creation, and while the design isn’t completely authentic, it still looks incredible.
Jenna waves to me from below and begins ascending the steps to the balcony. While she climbs the spiral staircase, my gaze sweeps across the crowd again, landing on a dark-green doublet.
My breath hitches as I follow the guy’s golden hair across the floor and out the side door leading to the pool.
It’s not Lorenzo, Cat. It can’t be. You have to stop looking for him.
My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century Page 20
