Chapter 14

14

I was overjoyed to find Lillian waiting for me at the palazzo . Seeing her gave me the jolt of determination I had lost earlier when I cried in the Hell mouth. With my friend by my side, I would be able to see the week through, I was sure of it.

"Lily!" I threw myself into her arms and buried my face into her shoulder. She hugged me tight.

Gala cleared her throat behind me. My heart sank. Dalí must not have told her Lillian was coming. I let my friend go and turned to face Gala.

"This is Lillian?" Dalí asked, striding forward before I could make the introduction. He took Lillian in his arms as though she were his dancing partner and twirled her around.

Gala looked like she might whip a knife out and stab one of us.

Lillian gave Gala a broad grin and went to her. She grasped both of Gala's hands in hers and gripped them tightly. "I am honored to meet you, Signora Dalí. I have heard so much about you."

Gala did not look pleased by Lillian's bold behavior. "I've heard nothing about you," she barked, withdrawing her hands.

Lillian wasn't deterred. "I'm Julia's roommate. She tells me you are an inspiration to her, a woman who knows what she wants in life and isn't afraid to take it."

I had said no such thing, of course. But I had seen Lillian do this before. She was a marvel when it came to smoothing things over, assuaging doubts, and bolstering her friends. I had told her how difficult Gala was, and this was her way of mollifying the Russian. It worked. I glanced at Gala and saw the slightest twitch of pleasure at the edge of her lips.

Ignazio cleared his throat, drawing all our attention in his direction. "Miss Parker, I am pleased that my driver has delivered you to Bomarzo without issue. I have arranged a room for you next to Julia's." He turned to Gala. "Ms. Dalí, I am taking care of Miss Parker's expenses, so please do not concern yourself about that."

Gala huffed but didn't say anything.

Lillian stared at Ignazio, and I knew she recognized him from the brief description I had given her over the phone. "You must be Ignazio. Thank you for putting me up. Julia has told me much about you."

He raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"It is," she said matter-of-factly, linking her arm in mine, a protective gesture.

I thought I saw the hint of a smirk on his face, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

In any case, Dalí had already managed to shift the conversation, rattling on about our impending dinner, and for that, I was grateful. He waved his hand at our host. "I require snails tonight, Ignazio. Snails and armadillos, under the stars, with bats in the sky and monsters in the valley below. Fig-stuffed armadillos. And jasmine for my Gravida."

"Surely, you realize there are no armadillos in Italy," Lillian exclaimed, squeezing my arm. It was the first "Dalínian" thing she'd witnessed.

Dalí guffawed. "There are, but you must know where to look."

"You'll get used to him soon enough," Jack said.

I didn't think it was possible for anyone, save perhaps Gala, to get used to Salvador Dalí, but I laughed as if Jack had just cracked a joke, and as if there was nothing unusual or off-putting about our ringleader. Then I took my friend by the arm and led her away from my strange companions. By the time we reached the top of the staircase my emotions burst forth.

Lillian pulled me into a hug. "Oh, dear heart, stop your tears. It can't be as bad as all that, can it? They don't seem completely terrible."

"Seem! That is the deception here," I cried. "Nothing is as it seems."

As if on cue, Demetra emerged from the library and strode toward us, her eyes fixed upon Lillian. "You." She spit the word as though it were poison.

Lillian tilted her head. "Me? I'm a friend of Julia's."

"You should not be here. You weren't invited."

I stepped forward a pace, placing myself partly in front of my friend. I had an overwhelming desire to protect Lillian. "I invited her."

The old woman shook her head. "That will only end in regret." She pointed down the stairs. "Go. Now. While you still can," she said to Lillian.

I took Lillian's hand and led her past Demetra to my room. When I looked back, the maid had vanished. I pulled Lillian inside and locked the door.

"What an oddball," she said, plopping down on my bed. "She reminds me of the driver that brought me from Attigliano. Maybe they are related. They both have the same strange coldness."

I shrugged. "The servants here are all like that. But that's not even the weirdest thing about this place."

"This place is weird. Why would she tell me that I should not be here?"

"She's said other weird things to me too."

I gave Lillian the lowdown. "And Gala is also always telling me that I'm somehow ‘not right,' that I'm ‘out of place,' that something is wrong with me, and that they shouldn't have brought me here."

Lillian's eyes grew wide. "That makes no sense."

"I know. But that's not even that strange. Not compared to everything else that's been happening since I got here."

"Dimmi," she said. "Tell me everything."

I drew her to the love seat in the corner of the room, a rush of relief washing over me. As we sat, I began to unravel the intricacies of the past few days: the ghosts, the eerie green glow emanating from the garden, the moving statues, and the peculiar dinners. I told her a little bit about Dalí's odd fixation on feeding me pomegranate seeds and briefly mentioned the mysterious diary I'd unearthed. I also armed her with information about the artist's generally bizarre mannerisms and Gala's bitchiness so she wouldn't be caught too off guard.

Then, with a hesitant breath, I broached the topic I'd long avoided—my lack of a past. "I've always let you believe I was a New Yorker, through and through," I confessed. "I wish I'd been brave enough to tell you the truth."

Lillian's expression softened. "You know I am always here for you. So tell me, what is the truth?"

I sighed, gathering the fragments of my earliest memories. "The first thing I remember is walking out of the Pantheon, a couple of years past, just after the war ended. I had nothing but the clothes on my back, a purse filled with lire—an amount equivalent to $2,000—and a letter of acceptance for a full-ride scholarship to the accademia ." The words came out in a rush. I had never told anyone the truth before. "The first person I spoke to was an American woman. She noticed my confusion and asked if I was lost. It was her kindness that led me to the school, where an administrator welcomed me and helped me get settled, and arranged for a doctor to treat my amnesia."

Lillian listened intently. "Damn. It's almost like you just popped into existence. I know, that's out-there, but wow, what a story."

A chill ran down my spine. I had always felt exactly like that, as though I had literally appeared in the world. But she was right—that was too out-there.

"Wait, how did you get the scholarship?" she asked.

"An anonymous benefactor. The school couldn't tell me anything. I don't think they even knew." A strange sense of relief surged through me at sharing this with her. "None of it has ever made sense. It's like I'm a character from a story, stepping into a world that was somehow prepared for me, yet completely foreign."

Lillian's expression softened, a mix of surprise and understanding. "I have always admired your confidence, Jules. You seemed so...self-assured, so worldly. But there have been moments when little things didn't quite add up."

"Like what?"

"Well, your knowledge of art and history for one. It's as if you have memorized hundreds of books. And you often have a faraway look in your eyes, as if you were searching for something lost."

"I've always felt out of place, Lillian. Like a puzzle piece trying to fit into the wrong picture."

She smiled then, a big happy grin that brightened her eyes. "Do you remember how we met? I mean, the very first time?"

"We met at a gallery opening sponsored by the accademia . But tell me what you remember." I didn't want to admit that I wasn't sure if I should trust my memory; everything had become so convoluted and I wasn't sure what to believe.

"I saw that tree and I knew I had to meet you. I asked around and a curator at the show pointed you out to me. You were staring at someone else's painting, some weird, surreal thing I couldn't get into. You seemed so captivated, yet so lost. I remember thinking you were like a character from one of those paintings—enigmatic, mysterious. I told you how much I loved your painting, and after we talked for a few minutes, you said you wanted me to have it. I tried to refuse but you were adamant."

"And that's when I asked if you knew anyone who was looking for a roommate?"

Lillian bobbed her head in affirmation. "That's right. It's so strange you don't remember that. But that's okay. We'll figure this all out." She patted me on the shoulder. "So now you are caught up with our history at least. But really, Jules, you should have told me about your memory."

"I was too embarrassed." While I was glad she knew the truth, the one thing I couldn't bring myself to mention was that I'd slept with Jack. If I told her about that, I'd inevitably tell her about the dreams, about the woman who came to me, and the deep underlying desire I had for Ignazio. I could barely articulate those feelings to myself, much less to someone else, even someone as dear to me as Lillian. "It sounds pazzo ."

"Well, it's definitely some bad business," Lillian said, shaking her head. "Tell me, you don't really think that you are somehow connected to Persephone—I mean, Proserpina?"

"I don't want to believe it, but with the warnings from the ghosts, and from Orpheus...I don't want to eat another pomegranate seed and find out. Why chance it? I don't want to be the next Julia buried in the garden."

"Well, even if the whole thing seems rather far-fetched, don't you worry. I've got your back, Jules. I'll eat all the pomegranates so you can't."

I hugged her, grateful again beyond measure. "So, you believe me?"

She chuckled. "Let's put it this way. I don't disbelieve you. But there is a lot to get to the bottom of in all this weirdness. Besides, this is better than a Nancy Drew mystery!"

I probably should have expected such a reaction from my friend. She was always up for a challenge.

"There's more," I said, feeling energized by her excitement. "Come, let me show you."

When we reached the library, I was pleased to find Paolo lounging on one of the couches. Lillian blushed when he stood to greet her with kisses upon both cheeks. It hadn't hit me before that moment, but he was exactly Lillian's type.

But we didn't have time for flirting. Anyone could appear at the library door at any moment, and I was determined to show them my find before that happened.

"Ooo," Lillian said as I led them around the library and pointed out the thin golden arrows. She reached out a hand to touch the final arrow in the corner, and again, the hidden door slid back with a whoosh. "Holy moly," she exclaimed as Paolo simultaneously let loose a "Madonna."

I shushed them, and we looked down the stairs into the blackness.

"We need a flashlight before we can go down there," Lillian said.

"I have a couple of torches in my camera bags," Paolo offered. I smiled, amused by his use of the British word for flashlight .

"Let's check it out tonight after everyone has gone to sleep." Lillian was giddy, like a child excited about going to a birthday party. "Maybe there are secret chambers down there full of fascinating things."

After the episode in the cellar, I was more than a little anxious about exploring this place, but the idea that perhaps I may learn more about the green glow in the boschetto bolstered me. I touched the arrow, and we watched the door close before joining the others for dinner.

It was cool on the terrace, but several little fiery lamps around the periphery helped to warm us up. I was surprised to see such a rustic table, given that the rest of the furniture in the castello was so opulent. There was no tablecloth. The plates were simple Tuscan majolica, the stemware of thick red glass. The servers looked as if they had just stepped out of a restaurant in Rome. Though I appreciated this bit of normalcy, I was disappointed for Lillian, who had not yet witnessed the wonders of Ignazio's hospitality. But my friend had also not had many extravagant experiences, and she found everything about the meal enchanting, especially the food, which was also more rustic than our previous feasts, featuring deeply traditional Italian foods: potato croquettes, passatelli noodles made from breadcrumbs; zampa burrata , calf's foot in butter; pappardelle in a rabbit sauce; veal scaloppine; lentils with prosciutto; and plates of roasted white truffles.

"Have you been eating like this all week?" Lillian asked me.

"Better, in fact."

"Impossible. This is literally the best meal I've ever had."

"I see you haven't had many fine meals." Gala sniffed.

Lillian didn't let the woman rile her. "You're right. I've not been part of the glitterati, which is why I appreciate it so much."

"Wait! Where are my snails? My armadillos?" Dalí cried as the waiters brought out the sweet dishes, a bevy of little tastes: cake with pine nuts; mostaccioli and amaretti cookies; and zuppa inglese , a cake from the northern region of Emilia-Romagna made from a unique red liquor called alkermes . "Ignazio!"

Our host merely lifted a hand toward the door leading back into the palazzo, and two servers brought forth platters of beautiful marzipans in the shape of snails and armadillos.

Dalí was incensed.

"Forgive me," Ignazio begged, laying a hand on the maestro's shoulder.

The spell that fell upon Dalí was immediate. He relaxed his shoulders and let out a small sigh of satisfaction, lifting one of the miniature armadillos to his mouth.

"Forgiven," he said, closing his eyes in savory bliss.

Lillian pressed her knee against mine, a distinct what-on-earth reaction to the way Dalí had so easily fallen under Ignazio's influence. I was feeling the same. The gesture confirmed what I had already begun to suspect, that Ignazio held a very particular sway here. It wasn't just the magical touches that he brought to every meal. No, the sway he had was over the very people of this place, over my companions. Or at least over Dalí. And certainly, over me.

I downed a glass of wine, hoping to calm my nerves. Did this mean Ignazio could also control me?

The servers set a platter of little, rustic, fava bean–shaped cookies before me. I plucked one from the plate, pleased it didn't look to have anything to do with pomegranates. The exterior was hard, the interior slightly soft, with a slightly sweet orange flavor.

"What are these called?" I asked, intrigued.

"Fave alla Romana o dei morti," Paolo explained. "Roman beans of the dead. They are usually served on All Saints' Day. I don't know why."

Ignazio cast his gaze at me. "The ancient Romans believed that fava beans represented the souls of the dead. They were used as offerings to Proserpina and Pluto to pacify any restless ancestors or spirits in the Underworld."

I averted my eyes and put the cookie down, unnerved.

"How do you know Julia?" Jack asked Lillian.

"I was struck by one of her paintings, a rendering of a tree standing in a pool of bright, cherry-red-colored water, on exhibit at the accademia art show. I sought her out at the gallery party to tell her how much I loved it and was shocked when she gave it to me. We got to talking, and she told me she was looking for a roommate. Two weeks later, I moved in."

"I knew right away we would be fast friends," I added for color, despite not recalling any of the moment.

"You are an artist?" Jack asked me. "You haven't mentioned that."

"Yes," I said sheepishly, feeling Dalí's eyes on me and knowing full well how he felt about female artists. "I graduated from the accademia last year. I have a small studio in Rome. Still a bit of a starving artist, which is why I model." I tried to sound nonchalant, but Dalí's dismissive words about women painters still stung.

"Modeling will take you farther," Gala sniped.

"What is your medium?" Jack asked.

"Oil, mostly," I said, grateful for his interest. "But I have been working lately with some of the new Magna acrylics, which dry much faster."

"Are you a surrealist?" he asked.

Dalí threw back his head and laughed. "She is a muse, nothing more."

Flames of embarrassment washed over me. I wanted to crawl under the table and hide.

"Julia is a dynamite abstract expressionist." Lillian put her hand on my arm, cool and calming, as she spoke to Jack. "Her paintings are wild and full of color. Viewing them leaves you feeling positively sublime."

Lillian was only standing up for me, but I wished she had kept her mouth shut. I could feel Dalí's irritation rising.

"Isn't it amusing?" Gala interjected, a cold smile playing on her lips as she glanced at Lillian. "How often those who cannot create, promote. Julia, dear, you really ought to surround yourself with people who truly understand art." Her eyes lingered on Lillian, the implication clear.

Gala's words hung in the air like a thick fog, suffocating the conversation. Lillian, however, seemed undeterred, her eyes narrowing as she met Gala's challenge.

"Well, Mrs. Dalí," Lillian began, her voice sweet but with a hint of steel, "I believe that true appreciation of art doesn't require one to create it. Understanding and passion can be found in those who merely witness the beauty, don't you think?"

Gala's smile was fixed, a mask that failed to conceal her irritation. "Darling, you mistake simple admiration for genuine understanding. It's quaint, really, how people like you believe they can comprehend the profound depths of artistic genius."

Lillian's cheeks flushed, but her voice remained steady. "Perhaps, Mrs. Dalí, you mistake pretension for wisdom. Art is a language spoken by many, not just the so-called geniuses."

Dalí glanced between the two women, his eyes dancing with amusement. But Gala's expression had turned frosty, and her reply was clipped. "And yet it's the geniuses who shape the world, while the admirers merely gawk."

"Or exploit," Lillian shot back, her eyes locking on to Gala's. "After all, without those who truly value art for its essence, the geniuses might starve."

The room fell into an uncomfortable silence, the tension palpable. Gala's eyes narrowed further, a challenge in her gaze. But before either woman could continue, Ignazio appeared in the doorway, a glass carafe of golden liquid in his hand.

I interrupted the conversation. "Lillian, our host has the most wonderful concoction you must try." I waved at Ignazio, who came to our table with a dazzling smile. "He says it's from Elysium, and I think he might be right."

Ignazio filled our goblets with the shimmering elixir, then raised his glass. "I propose a toast."

"Yes, a toast!" Dalí cried, jumping to his feet and raising his glass.

"To the power of art to bring people together," Ignazio said, lifting his glass a little higher.

"To art," Jack said enthusiastically, clinking his glass with Dalí's. Gala snarled but brought her glass to meet Jack's.

Ignazio winked at me as we touched glasses, and again, conflict rose within me. Could this man indeed be Pluto...or Hades...or the Devil? Sipping at the wine, I savored the heady scent and each delicious drop on my tongue. I should have warned Lillian to indulge carefully, but I was lost in thought about Ignazio. I couldn't stop thinking of him kneeling at my feet in my bedroom, and I hated myself for turning over the moments of pleasure more than the confusion and terror I felt when he vanished.

Dalí was obviously delighted to have another person to regale with his tales, and he made a grand show of doing whatever he could to shock Lillian. He told us stories of how he pushed a childhood friend off a bridge just to do it and how when he first met Gala he so wanted to impress her that he dyed his armpits blue, then cut them up to be bloody and scabby, before making a paste that smelled like ram manure to smear all over his body.

"Fortunately, he had second thoughts and showered it all off before he came outside." Gala chuckled, the wine clearly having dissipated her anger. "But he wore a pearl necklace and had a red geranium behind his ear."

Lillian nodded politely, smiling and laughing at all the right spots. But I knew my friend, and she was mortified. More than once, she nudged my leg with her hand or her knee. Yet as the evening progressed—and as Dalí poured more of the golden Elysium wine into her goblet—she seemed to relax into the weirdness, even egging Dalí on, teasing Gala, flirting with Paolo.

Dalí had just poured another round when the first crack of thunder sounded, a massive crash of the heavens right above our heads, causing us all to jump in fright. A moment later, the skies lit up bright as a blue-white sun then plunged us back into darkness, releasing a deluge of rain upon our heads. The wind kicked up and blew out the candles and torches that had lit up the terrace. We only had a few feet to run, but by the time we shut the doors behind us, we were drenched. Ignazio arrived a moment later with a servant bearing a pile of towels.

"The night is young," Dalí proclaimed as he toweled off his hair. "It is time for SNAPDRAGON." He said this last word with a grand flourish, elongating the sounds.

Gala clapped her hands together like a little girl. "Yes. How perfect!"

"What is Snapdragon?" I asked.

"Go and change into something dry, then return to the small salon and you'll find out." Gala had never sounded so gleeful. She took Ignazio by the arm and led him out of the room, giving him some sort of instructions in a low voice.

We trudged upstairs to change. Lillian was disappointed.

"I'm guessing it's probably not the best night to go to the garden," she said to Paolo and me as we headed back downstairs a while later.

Unlike my friend, I was relieved to spend the evening playing Snapdragon, which, it turned out, was a game, usually played on Christmas or, sometimes, on Halloween, that had been popular as far back as the Renaissance. Shakespeare even mentioned it in The Winter's Tale —though it had fallen out of favor sometime before the Great War because it was rather dangerous.

"We're going to do what?" Lillian asked, incredulous as Ignazio poured sweet brandy into a shallow dish, just barely covering the fruit therein.

"You will reach into the flames and pluck, with your beautiful hands, a fruit or a nut," Dalí explained.

A growing horror rose within me as I noticed that, in addition to raisins, currants, and figs, the bottom of the dish was laden with pomegranate seeds. How would I avoid snatching one up through a hot flame that could burn me as I tried?

A servant turned off the lights, and we were suddenly doused in a flickering dimness, lit only by a pair of candelabras in different corners of the room.

Ignazio capped the brandy and set it aside. He handed Gala a matchbox, and she gleefully struck a match against its side, then lit the bowl on fire. It glowed blue as the alcohol burned.

"Now we snatch away. The person who eats the most wins," Gala declared. "Ignazio, will you keep track for us?"

He nodded. "Of course, Signora Dalí. I would be happy to track all your fiery snacks." His eyes caught mine, and he winked, then retrieved a pad and pen from the credenza.

"What will we win?" Lillian asked.

"A hundred and fifteen thousand lire," Dalí declared.

"Dio mio," Paolo breathed.

I sucked in a breath and glanced at Lillian. She nodded at me, her eyes wide.

"But," Dalí added with great dramatic flair, "if Gala or I win, you get nothing."

I had the sneaking suspicion that this game had nothing to do with the money—it was merely a convenient way to get me to eat a pomegranate seed.

"And we commence." Dalí clapped his hands together very fast.

Having played the game before, he and Gala did not hesitate to stick their hands in the flaming dish, pluck out fiery fruits and pop them into their mouths. Dalí's morsel was still lit with blue flames, and I couldn't understand how he wasn't worried about his mustache catching fire. Jack and Lillian quickly mastered the game, too, but Paolo and I were more tentative—he because of the fire, me because of the damn seeds.

The first morsel I took was a fig. It was boozy and warm but didn't burn my fingers or my tongue. But, as I was about to grab a second piece, Ignazio tossed something into the flames and the fire flared up gold and bright, causing us all to jump back.

"Just a little salt." He grinned. In the firelight, he looked almost demonic, his mouth in a sly smile, one eyebrow arched, his pale eyes boring into me, making my heart race.

Over and over, our hands danced in and out of the flames. If it weren't for my fear of consuming another pomegranate seed, I think I would have had a wonderful time. The game was dangerous, adventurous, and a tad ridiculous.

Soon I was moving fast, my hand flying into the blue flames. I didn't drop any, trusting that this wouldn't have been a game that families and their children played over the centuries if it was that hazardous. Each time I stuck my hand into the flickering blue, I became more confident that I could avoid the pomegranate seeds.

Until I didn't.

As soon as it hit my tongue, my stomach flipped. I looked up to find Ignazio staring at me, his eyes anticipating what I already knew, and I decided I wasn't going to swallow it. The room was dark, and the atmosphere chaotic. Sure I could get away with hiding the seed, I tucked it under my tongue and went for the next piece. It was an almond. I chewed the nut with my tongue sealed to the bottom of my mouth, the pomegranate seed safely nestled beneath. But Ignazio never took his eyes off me. I had no clue when I would be able to throw away the seed, and I hoped the awkwardness of it being under my tongue when I spoke wouldn't make anyone ask if I was feeling all right.

The fire eventually died down, and the remaining pomegranate seeds and currants sat at the bottom, the almonds, figs, and raisins snapped up by virtue of their size. All eyes turned to Ignazio for the final tally. He gave me yet another long look, and I was positive he knew I'd never swallowed the seed. My cheeks burned with crimson heat. He was going to say something, I was sure of it. He would tell them I cheated. But instead, he turned the notepad around so we could see the scores.

"Julia has won, by one piece over Signora Dalí," he announced. Gala scowled.

Lillian let out a little shout of excitement and gave me a big hug.

"Dang nabbit. I really thought I had that one." Jack snapped his fingers in disappointment.

"Wow," I said, careful to keep my tongue in place. "I can't believe it." It was only a few words, and everyone was talking simultaneously, so they missed the slight shift in my speech.

"What a gas," Lillian exclaimed. "And no one got burned." She sat down next to me and reached for her glass of wine. "A toast to our winner."

"Yes." Ignazio took up the carafe of wine and began refilling our glasses. "It will help wash down what is left of the flames." He was joking, of course, but the look he gave me when he refilled my wine made it clear that he expected me to wash down something more.

I took a sip and spit the pomegranate seed into my glass. Then I set the goblet down in front of Lillian. I nudged her with my knee, then tapped the glass with my finger, hoping she would get the hint before anyone noticed the seed floating in my wine. She did, and she immediately drained my goblet, seed and all.

Just as she set it back down on the table, a massive crack of thunder sounded overhead. It was so loud none of us even realized at first that it was thunder. Instead, we all dropped to the floor to put the table above us, the survival training of the War still so instinctively drilled into us.

From my vantage point on the tiles, I saw Ignazio storming out of the salon. At the door, he turned and gazed down at where we huddled, his eyes catching mine. The anger there set my heart to even more furious pounding. He'd done this, I was suddenly sure. He knew I hadn't eaten the seed, and he'd brought on this storm with his rage.

My ghost—for that was how I had begun to think of her—appeared a few feet away from where Ignazio's stare burned into me. This me wore a gown from the previous century, with an Empire-style waistline and her blond hair piled high upon her head. Like the other ghosts, she held up three fingers. Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the darkest corners of the room. Then the ghost was gone, winking out at the moment the heavy wooden doors slammed shut behind Ignazio, a simultaneous crack of thunder rattling the windows.

Lillian crawled out from under the table first. She reached a hand down and pulled me out.

"Maybe I'll just stay down here," Gala joked.

Another flash of lightning and the main lights went out, leaving the room once more bathed in the pale flames from the candelabras.

"Then again, maybe I won't," she said, scrambling out from under the table and into Jack's arms.

"Where is Ignazio?" Dalí asked. "IGNAZIO," he bellowed.

I knew our host wasn't going to return. He was absolutely furious with me for thwarting him.

Dalí and Gala exchanged exasperated glances, their irritation palpable as they discussed Ignazio's sudden absence and the premature end of the night's revelries. Gala's voice was tinged with disdain. "This is simply intolerable," she muttered. "Such a lack of decorum, and now the party ends so abruptly."

Jack glanced nervously at Lillian's unsteady form. "Perhaps it's for the best," he suggested. "The storm outside is getting worse, and Lillian seems...quite affected by the wine."

"We should get Lillian back to her room." Paolo gestured toward the candelabras. "Let's take the candles."

I took one, the flame casting a dim, flickering light that barely penetrated the darkness of the palazzo. With the candle in my left hand, I reached out with my right to support Lillian, who leaned heavily against me, the effects of the alcohol increasingly evident. "We need to put you to bed," I told her, motioning to Paolo for help.

We made our way down the hall and up the stairs. The palazzo was creepy enough during the day, but at night, without any interior lighting and a storm raging, it was downright terrifying.

"The thunder and lightning... It's not moving away," Jack said as we reached the top of the landing. "It's just hovering over us."

"This storm is a humdinger!" Lillian yelled, her voice echoing through the palazzo between the claps of thunder. She was very drunk, and Paolo had his hands full keeping her upright.

Gala swept past us, her voice sharp. "Enough of this. Salvador, Jack, come with me. This night has lost its charm."

"Lemmee just sit on down here," Lillian slurred as their figures made their way along the hall, toward the safety of Dalí's room. She started to slide down the wall.

"No, no, Lillian, my room is just up ahead. You can sit there." I struggled to keep the candle steady, its light flickering as I helped Paolo lift Lillian back to her feet.

"This Paolo guy," she said, poking her finger at his chest. "He's a dreamboat." She gave him a sloppy kiss on the cheek. "You could... You...you could stay with me tonight."

"No, signorina. Not tonight," he said. "You are adorable, but troppo alticcia ."

He was being kind. She was downright drunk, not tipsy. "I'm sorry, Paolo." I sighed as he helped me get Lillian into my room and onto the bed. While I wasn't thrilled about my friend's drunken state, I was glad for her company, though she passed out as soon as I took off her shoes and tucked her in, clothes and all.

"This is my fault," I said as we watched her sleep.

Paolo shook his head. "No. I saw how she drank down the wine. She didn't know how powerful it is."

"She only drank it down like that because it was my glass, and I had spit a pomegranate seed into the goblet."

"So, you did have a seed. I wondered how you managed to play the game and not get one," he marveled.

"I think Ignazio knew I didn't eat it. You didn't see the way he looked at me, right before he left in a huff. This might sound ridiculous, but I think he caused this storm. It started at the exact moment that Lillian drank down that seed."

"Merda," Paolo cursed. "I thought this tempesta seemed unnatural. But controlling the weather?"

"I know what it sounds like. But I think that's why he didn't come to help us when the lights went out."

"We have seen some strange things, but I feel like that is...how do you say?...a stretch?"

"I hope you are right. I also don't think I won the game, either... I wasn't moving as fast as the rest of you, so how can I have eaten the most? He must have rigged it, but why? But I'm going to share my winnings with you and Lillian. It's only fair."

His laugh was rueful. "Signorina, if you are the one that is right, and Ignazio can control the weather, we have bigger problems. If you make it out of here alive, you deserve all that money."