Chapter 16

16

I found Lillian alone in her room. She opened the door to let me in, then returned to the vanity to continue reapplying her makeup. Her hair was slightly disheveled, and she had a dreamy look on her face.

"I was beginning to think you'd been swallowed by one of Bomarzo's monsters," I said, adopting a playful tone to mask my underlying frustration.

Lillian looked at me in the mirror. "Oh, Jules, you won't believe the afternoon I've had. Paolo is just...incredible."

"That's wonderful. I'm happy for you."

My friend knew me too well. "But? What's wrong?"

I sighed. "You do realize you left me alone in the garden, right?"

Her eyes widened. "Oh god, I didn't even think... I'm so sorry, Jules. We lost track of time."

"It's fine, really. I fell asleep. But guess who woke me up?"

"Oh no. Ignazio?" She set down her box of mascara and turned to me. "What happened?"

"Fortunately, nothing. But it was...odd. He's been absent all day, and then he suddenly appeared when everyone else was gone."

I explained about his weird apology and his familiarity with Giulia Lama.

"But he didn't hurt you?"

"No, he helped me out of the whale's mouth. Then we walked back to the truck."

Lillian came to me and enveloped me in a hug. "Thank god. I'm really sorry, Jules. It wasn't intentional, I promise. Paolo and I just got carried away."

"I get it, Lil. New love is intoxicating. Just...maybe next time, set an alarm?"

Lillian laughed. "Deal. So, what's on the agenda for tonight?"

"I'm not sure. But we're supposed to be ready in an hour."

When Ignazio had dropped us off, he had exchanged a cryptic glance with Dalí before the two of them headed toward the kitchen. "Dinner will be at six," Ignazio had said in a loud voice without looking back at us. I could only imagine what kind of Dalínian spectacle awaited us—and dread how many pomegranate seeds I would see on each plate.

My expectations about dinner were not only met but exceeded when Lillian and I stepped into the grand hall. Dalí stood with Ignazio near the crackling fireplace, the former resplendent in a tailored black suit and flamboyant brooch in the shape of a distorted eye. His cravat was a swirl of colors that only Salvador Dalí could pull off. Ignazio contrasted in a deep burgundy velvet blazer and charcoal trousers, a striking silver-and-ruby ring glinting on his finger.

Four circular tables graced the corners of the room, each draped in a sumptuous tablecloth that seemed to embody an element: deep oceanic blue for water, a rich, loamy brown for earth, a pristine white, evoking the lightness of air, and a blazing red that practically smoldered for fire. Our companions had already been seated at the blue table and were making small talk.

But what truly captured my attention was the centerpiece in the middle of the room—a butter sculpture, intricately carved. It was a breathtaking rendition of the Pegasus statue, complete with cascading buttery water flowing over rocks. And there, at the base of the sculpture, was a figure unmistakably modeled after me, hands outstretched as if to catch the stream of inspiration flowing from above.

I gaped. A sculpture like that had to have taken the better part of a day to create and I had only left those rocks behind a few hours past. "How did you...?"

Dalí shushed me with a theatrical flourish. "The muse quickens the hand, little goddess. All is possible with such divine inspiration. Shall we begin?" He gestured toward the first table where everyone was seated. "Tonight we dine through the elements, and we start with Water—the realm of emotion."

He sat next to me, and Lillian took a seat on my other side, next to Paolo. Gala was engaged in some deep conversation with Jack about Americans and their love of ice in every drink, and how strange the idea of cold, sweetened tea was. I, too, had no love for iced tea, and normally, I would have defended Gala's position, but her anger that afternoon had me on edge, so I kept my thoughts to myself. Ignazio stood near the kitchen entrance, his eyes meeting mine briefly as he oversaw the blue-suited servants carrying trays of lobster bisque with saffron. He gave me a knowing smile, which set my heart to pounding.

As I expected, a single pomegranate seed floated atop the bisque, a vibrant red against the orange hue of the soup. Dalí caught my eye and gestured toward the seed with a subtle nod, but I chose to leave it untouched, swirling it around with my spoon instead.

"The pomegranate seed—a symbol of binding, of commitment," Dalí mused, watching my hesitation. "I forgive you, darling Proserpina, for now. Tonight you may put your worries and your fears aside. Let us commit only to the experience. To the emotions that water stirs within us."

Put my worries and fears aside? I wasn't sure what he meant by that, but I had no intention of letting my guard down.

The oysters Rockefeller were next, each one a tiny universe of flavor, nestled in its shell. The cured sardines offered a salty contrast, perfectly complemented by the rye bread. The watercress-and-orange salad was a refreshing palate cleanser, preparing us for the courses yet to come. Each dish was a work of art, presented with the same meticulous attention to detail that Dalí applied to his paintings.

As we finished the water course, I couldn't help but feel a sense of anxiety building, like the rising tide. Despite Dalí's advice, I wasn't fond of the emotions that this course, or any of the upcoming courses, might bring.

Ignazio appeared with a decanter of Elysium wine. A few sips of the digestivo , and the heaviness of the first course seemed to lift, making room for what was to come.

The plates were removed, and we were ushered to the next table. Jack made an attempt to sit next to me, but Gala wouldn't hear of it. She swatted him on the shoulder, and he gave me a sheepish smile as he stood to switch chairs.

Ignazio's resonant voice rang out across the room. "From the depths of emotion, we rise to Earth, the grounding reality that holds us." He clapped his hands and the servers in earthy brown-and-green attire returned. Much like at the magnificent dinner inspired by the Hypnerotomachia , the servers seemed to be changing their dress for every course. A hearty venison stew was the centerpiece, its rich aroma filling the room. It was accompanied by roasted chestnuts, petite glasses of potato-and-leek soup, and a platter of roasted beets, turnips, and carrots. My stomach turned when I saw the root vegetables were dressed in a rich pomegranate sauce.

"Just say no," Lillian whispered to me. "They can't make you eat it."

"I know, but I make everyone so angry."

She squeezed my hand. "Let them be angry. I'll stand with you if they are."

Gala threw a piece of bread at us. "What are you gossiping about? Don't be rude!"

I expected Lillian to retort something about the rudeness of throwing food, but she wisely refrained. "Girl problems," she said instead, giving Gala a knowing eye. "You understand."

Gala pursed her lips but only nodded her head. I pressed my leg against Lillian's, a silent laugh between us.

A server moved to spoon the sauced vegetables onto my plate, but remembering how they ignored my refusals in the past, this time I blocked the attempt with my hand. He hesitated, spoon hovering uncertainly. A sharp clap from Ignazio broke the tension, and the server returned the spoon to the platter. Ignazio offered me a knowing smile, as if granting an unspoken favor. Relief washed over me, but it was tinged with a sense of distrust. His smile, while seemingly generous, left me wondering what he truly had in store for the evening.

At the end of the Earth course, Dalí instructed us to stand and make our way to the table that represented Air.

"At the conclusion of Earth's grounding embrace, we take wing," Dalí said. "Let us ascend to the realm of Air, where the zephyrs of freedom dance with the breath of life itself! A place where the imagination soars and the soul is unshackled. Air, where the molecules of inspiration collide with the atoms of audacity. Where the very air we breathe is laced with the intoxicating perfume of anarchy and the ozone of original thought. Prepare yourselves, for tonight we dine on the very essence of liberation. It may leave you breathless."

"So, tell me again, what does this table represent?" Jack laughed.

"FREEDOM! FREEDOM!" The artist lifted his hands to the sky.

Dalí's words hung in the air, filling the room with a sense of exhilaration. But as I took my seat, I couldn't help but feel a dissonance between his poetic description of freedom and my own reality. Here I was, surrounded by people who seemed to live life on their own terms, unshackled by societal norms or expectations. And yet I was anything but free. The weight of the pomegranate seeds, the lingering gaze of Ignazio, the unspoken tensions—they all felt like invisible threads, pulling me in directions I wasn't sure I wanted to go. Freedom? I could hardly imagine it.

The servers, now dressed in flowing white, brought in the next course, highlighted by a goat-cheese-and-spinach soufflé that seemed to defy gravity. It was accompanied by puff pastry twists with herbs, mini quiches with asparagus and Gruyère, and miniature angel food cakes, each one dotted with three damned ruby seeds.

As soon as the cake landed on my plate, Lillian's hand snatched it and popped it into her mouth. "Delizioso," she declared. "So good I needed two."

Next to me, Dalí grunted but stuck his fork into a quiche without further comment. I didn't dare look at Ignazio. I was glad when the server didn't attempt to replace it with another cake.

After another dose of Elysium wine, Ignazio brought us to the final table. His voice was like a smoldering ember, heating the room with its intensity. "Fire is the catalyst, the transformative force that turns potential into reality. Tonight we feast on the very essence of desire, the heat that fuels our most primal instincts."

As we took our seats, I couldn't help but feel the tension in the room rise like the temperature of a flame. The table was set ablaze with reds and oranges, and the centerpiece was a bowl of actual fire, flickering and dancing in a mesmerizing pattern.

The servers, now dressed in fiery hues, brought out the Baked Alaska, setting it in the middle of the table. With a flourish, Ignazio produced a match and set the dessert afire. The room gasped as the fire danced atop the dish, casting flickering shadows on everyone's faces.

"At last! A dish as contradictory as love itself—cold and hot, sweet and fiery," Dalí exclaimed.

Gala leaned over to Jack and whispered something in his ear, loud enough for me to hear. "Darling, I expect a performance as fiery as this dessert later tonight."

Jack chuckled, his eyes meeting mine for a brief moment. "Oh, don't you worry. I know how to fan the flames of passion."

Ignazio caught my eye as he served the Baked Alaska, his gaze lingering just a moment too long. "I trust you'll find this course...enlightening."

I felt a shiver run down my spine, despite the heat of the room. Ignazio's presence was like a flame I was both drawn to and afraid of getting burned by.

As we moved on to mini churros with cayenne-pepper sugar and the flambéed, spiced poached pears, Dalí steered the conversation toward themes increasingly risqué. He licked the sugar off a churro, then leaned back in his chair, a devilish grin spreading across his face. "Imagine, if you will, as I have witnessed, a night in Paris, where the air is thick with the scent of absinthe and the promise of forbidden pleasures. There, in a dimly lit room adorned with velvet and lace, the boundaries of the flesh are tested. The male organ, that phallic totem of virility, becomes a paintbrush, and the female form, a canvas of voluptuous landscapes, each curve a hill, each crevice a valley. And I, the voyeuristic maestro, orchestrating this symphony of skin and sin, where every moan is a note and every climax a crescendo!"

Lillian's mouth fell open in shock. No one spoke for a moment. Then Gala giggled. "I remember that night." Her hand moved under the table, conspicuously, in Jack's lap. Jack closed his eyes for a moment, reveling in Gala's touch, then abruptly opened them again, fixing them on me. "So, Julia, which element do you find most stirs your passions? Water, Earth, Air, or Fire?"

Caught off guard, I hesitated. "I think I'm still figuring that out."

Ignazio, who had been directing the servers, paused. "Don't be shy, Julia. You are drawn to Fire, are you not?"

The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for my response. My heart leaped into my throat as Lillian's leg pressed deep into mine.

I thought of Dalí's description of Air. "No, I'm drawn to freedom."

Ignazio nodded. "Then it seems we both want the same thing." He held my gaze. Heat rose to my cheeks.

Lillian came to my rescue. "And what sort of freedom do you want?"

Ignazio's eyes remained locked on to mine as he responded, "The freedom to pursue what sets our souls aflame, without the constraints others may place upon us."

The atmosphere in the room became charged, as if his words had added fuel to an already smoldering fire. I felt both seen and exposed, a paradox that only Ignazio seemed capable of evoking in me.

She pushed harder. "And what, pray tell, are the constraints that have been placed upon you?"

Ignazio's gaze finally broke from mine to meet Lillian's challenging stare. "Constraints are often self-imposed, are they not? Fear, doubt, the weight of expectations—these are the chains we forge for ourselves." His eyes flicked back to me, as if inviting me to break free. "But sometimes, the key to those chains is held by another."

"I wish I had the key to those chains," Gala said, reaching out a hand to run it across Ignazio's arm.

Dalí suddenly stood, knocking over the chair behind him. "Gala, the supreme, divine Gala holds ALL THE KEYS."

Gala laughed and let her husband lean down to kiss her. Ignazio gave me a knowing wink, then returned to directing the servers. What did he mean by someone else holding the key? It certainly wasn't me.

The course ended with a demitasse cup full of spicy hot chocolate, sensuous and smooth. I never wanted the flavors to dissipate, but all too soon the last drop was gone.

"Bravo, Signor Dalí. What a meal," Lillian declared as the last plate was removed.

Jack patted his belly. "I feel so perfectly full. Not too full, just perfectly full. What's next, Dalí?"

The artist raised his walking stick into the air. "My friends, we ascend upon the realm of Quintessence." He charged forward toward the small salon, leaving us to wonder what he meant.

"No seeds," Lillian said to me as we followed Dalí across the immense hall, our footsteps echoing on the stone floor. "They hardly even tried."

I was worried about that. But before I could express my fears to her, we had reached the salon's ornate double doors. With a flourish, Dalí pushed them open.

The salon had been rearranged, and rather than the couches and plush chairs that had been there before, individual chairs were positioned in a circle facing each other. Ignazio stood in the center.

"Welcome to the Quintessence Salon," Ignazio announced, holding out his hands. His eyes met mine for a fleeting moment, and a shiver ran down my spine. "Quintessence, or Aether, is considered the fifth element," he continued. "It's the essence that fills the universe and the celestial sphere. It's the divine breath that gives life to all things. Tonight we gather here to explore our own quintessence, to delve into the mysteries that bind us, both earthly and divine."

Dalí clapped his hands together, drawing our attention back to him. "To celebrate this celestial gathering, we shall engage in a game—one that will reveal our deepest mysteries and dare us to confront our most hidden desires."

He paused, looking at each of us in turn before his gaze settled on Ignazio. "I've asked Ignazio to participate in this game. His role is crucial, for he will be the arbiter of our choices. Are you up for the challenge?"

Ignazio gave the maestro a single nod. "I accept, Dalí. Come, sit. Let the game begin."

My breath caught in my throat.

The chairs bore name tags, clearly designed to prevent us from sitting next to familiar comforts. I found myself between Gala and Paolo, while Ignazio occupied the seat directly across from me—a placement that unsettled me more than if he had been right beside me.

Minos appeared and handed Ignazio a black top hat with a red band. I expected our host to put it upon his head, but instead he drew out a slip of paper. "Jack, this question is for you. A truth you must answer."

Jack grinned. "Fire away."

Ignazio read from the slip. "If you could replace the moon with any object, what would it be?"

Jack answered immediately. "That's an easy one. If I could replace the moon, I'd put up a giant baseball. That way, every night would be a ball game, and we'd all be swinging for the fences."

Gala rolled her eyes. "How very droll, Jack."

"Quintessentially American," Dalí exclaimed, not letting his wife bring down the mood. "Next!" He looked at Ignazio.

Ignazio fixed his gaze on Paolo. "Ready?"

The cameraman laughed. "No. But go ahead."

"You are to compose a poem about the last person you kissed." Ignazio snapped his fingers and Minos presented Paolo with a notepad and a pencil.

Lillian burst out laughing. "This will be good."

Paolo took the implements with a sigh. "I fear I am a terrible poet."

"Even better," Jack said.

While Paolo composed his poem, six servers appeared with glasses of wine. I noticed Ignazio did not partake.

Finally, Paolo looked up. "It's in Italian. Mi dispiace. "

"I'll translate," I said. I felt bad for him. His face was red with embarrassment.

He handed me the slip, and I read it aloud:

"‘Labbra si incontrano

In un attimo di magia

Il cuore trepida.'"

"A little haiku. And now, the translation." I couldn't help but grin when I looked at Lillian. She knew enough Italian to understand the poem and I could see the adoration in her eyes. I would mostly be reading the poem for Jack.

"‘Lips meet

In a moment of magic

The heart trembles.'"

Gala's laughter broke the silence. "How utterly sentimental, Paolo. Now, Ignazio, would you be so kind as to draw a question for me?"

Ignazio reached into the hat. "If you could be any mythical creature for one day, which would you choose?"

Gala swirled her wineglass before taking a sip. "An intriguing question. A siren. Imagine the power of captivating anyone with just the sound of your voice."

My mind immediately wandered to the siren statue in the garden, situated at the far end of the hippodrome, opposite Proserpina's bench, next to the Fury whose wings had moved. The stone figure was a paradox—both hideous and sensual. Her bifurcated, scaly tails were spread wide in place of legs, while her thick, stone-like hair veiled her intimate areas. She was a creature of contradictions, embodying both allure and repulsion. Fitting, I thought.

"Dalí, your turn." Ignazio handed the artist a slip of paper.

Dalí leaned back in his chair and read the slip out loud. "‘Pick someone in the room and describe how they would be as a lover, using only metaphors.'"

His eyes twinkled mischievously as they landed on me. "Proserpina! A lover like her would be a surrealist dreamscape, a labyrinth of sensuality where each turn reveals a new wonder. She would be the brush and the canvas, both the muse and the art, a swirling vortex of passion where the boundaries between reality and fantasy blur. She would be the moon pulling the tides of desire, a symphony of ecstasy where each note is a shiver down the spine, each crescendo a climax of soul-shattering intensity. A dalliance with her would be like plunging into a sea of liquid gold, where every touch is alchemy, transforming the mundane into the extraordinary."

I wanted to crawl under my chair and hide. Jack caught my eye and winked at me.

"Damn, Julia. Now even I want to make love to you." Lillian laughed, breaking the tension.

Ignazio had been staring at me throughout Dalí's monologue, and his gaze remained unbroken, even as the room erupted in laughter and playful banter. The intensity of his stare was almost palpable, like a physical touch, and my cheeks heated under the scrutiny. He said nothing, however, and only pulled another slip of paper from the hat and handed it to Lillian.

Lillian's eyes widened as she read it. "‘Choose someone to dance with, but the dance must be entirely improvised and as surreal as possible.'"

A mischievous smile spread across her face. "Well, this should be interesting. Paolo, would you do me the honor?"

Paolo grinned and stood, offering his hand. "With pleasure."

The two moved to the center of the room, and for a moment, they simply stood there, staring into each other's eyes as if searching for some unspoken cue. Then, as if struck by the same bolt of inspiration, they began to move.

It was unlike any dance I'd ever seen. Lillian started by mimicking the movements of a marionette, her limbs jerking in exaggerated motions as Paolo pretended to hold invisible strings. He then transformed into a matador, and Lillian became the bull, charging at him only to spin away at the last moment.

The dance evolved, becoming more abstract with each passing second. Lillian suddenly dropped to the floor, curling into a ball and rolling around Paolo, who responded by leaping over her as if jumping over a rolling log. They moved in a series of bizarre, yet oddly harmonious, movements—sometimes mirroring each other, sometimes in stark contrast. All of it was simultaneously mesmerizing and hilarious.

At one point, Lillian stood perfectly still, as if frozen in time, while Paolo circled her, making sweeping gestures as if painting her into existence. Then, in a sudden burst of energy, Lillian sprang to life, pulling Paolo into a series of quick spins before pushing him away, only to pull him back in a magnetic-like force.

As they took their final pose, Lillian bending backward in a dramatic arch with Paolo's hand supporting her, the room erupted into laughter and applause.

Dalí was the first to speak, his eyes shining with delight. " Bravo! Bravo! A dance worthy of the surreal. A living canvas."

Lillian and Paolo, still catching their breath, bowed deeply, their eyes meeting for a lingering moment before they returned to their seats. The atmosphere in the room was electric, charged with the energy of their performance. But I only felt dread.

The hat of fate was now down to two choices: mine or Ignazio's.

Ignazio extended the hat toward Dalí, who theatrically plucked a slip of paper from it. He twirled it around in the air, as if casting a spell, before handing it back to Ignazio.

"You must choose one who has not chosen!" Dalí declared, his voice booming in the small room.

A groan escaped my lips. What mortifying task would that slip assign me to perform with Ignazio?

"Don't fret, Julia," Lillian reassured me. "If he decides to toss you into the stratosphere, we'll be here to catch you." Her words were playful, but the underlying message was clear: I wasn't alone, and she would be there to protect me, come what may.

Ignazio read the slip. "‘Engage in a staring contest with your chosen partner. The first to blink or look away loses. The winner gets to ask the loser any question they desire, which must be answered truthfully.'"

Oh, dear god, no. Not a staring contest. There was no way I would win this. I caught Lillian's eye, and while she tried to plaster on a smile for me, I could see that she thought the same. But at least he wouldn't be touching me.

Dalí instructed us to position our chairs facing each other, a few feet apart. The group rearranged themselves around us to watch and egg us on.

"Udachi," Gala muttered to me in Russian as she pulled her chair away from mine. "You'll need it."

I didn't need a translator to tell me that she also thought I was about to lose.

I closed my eyes and waited for Dalí to give us the signal. The room fell silent, the tension palpable.

"Begin!"

His shout made me jump and my eyes flew open. Like a moth drawn to a flame, I locked eyes with Ignazio. The iridescent quality of his pale green eyes seemed to shift with the flickering candlelight, casting an almost ethereal glow that was both captivating and unsettling. It was like staring into the soul of a creature not entirely of this world, and the intensity of his gaze made it difficult to look away. His stare pulled me, silently challenging me, daring me to delve deeper, to discover what lay behind those enigmatic eyes. And in that moment, I felt both vulnerable and strangely exhilarated, as if I were standing on the edge of a precipice, teetering between fear and fascination.

Then, suddenly, I plunged into the abyss. My world shifted and went gray, then brightened. I was no longer sitting in that circle in Bomarzo, but instead standing in a chamber unlike any I'd ever seen. It was as if I'd stepped into a realm where the very fabric of reality had been woven with threads of beauty and enigma. The walls were alive with murals that appeared to breathe, their colors vivid yet ethereal, like the hues of a twilight sky. They depicted scenes both celestial and earthly, as if capturing the essence of two realms in one sweeping panorama.

The room was bathed in a soft, otherworldly light emanating from orbs suspended from the ceiling. They glowed with a captured sunlight that felt both distant and intimate, like a cherished memory. The bed before me was a masterpiece, its frame carved from obsidian but adorned with an intricate filigree of silver and gold. The sheets whispered secrets of unimaginable softness, their colors a blend of pomegranate red and the deepest shades of midnight.

Ignazio stood before me, his jacket and tie missing, and his shirt undone. "All of this is up to you," he said.

He stretched out a hand and I could not help but take it. Pulling me forward, he lifted his hands to my face, his eyes never once leaving mine.

"I will ask my question of you now."

The question? My mind was hazy, but it came to me, yes, the question I must answer when I lost the staring contest.

"What is it?" I breathed. I didn't want to talk. I wanted... Dear god, I wanted him. No, no, I didn't. This made no sense. My mind whirled with the contradiction.

"Do you like this?"

His mouth found mine and I closed my eyes.

The room erupted in squeals and groans. Jack's whoop reached me first. "Julia, you barely even tried."

I swallowed hard, trying to make sense of what had just happened—and what was happening around me.

"Absolutely weak," Gala sniped.

"The question," Dalí shouted. "The divine question must be asked."

All eyes turned toward Ignazio.

"I don't need to ask my question," Ignazio said, his voice low but carrying easily in the hushed room. "I already know the answer."

The room seemed to hold its collective breath, as if waiting for a revelation. Ignazio's gaze never wavered, daring me to challenge him, to question what he claimed to know. But I couldn't. Because deep down, a part of me feared he was right—that he did know, and that knowing gave him a power over me I didn't fully understand.

Lillian broke the silence, her voice tinged with a mix of awe and concern. "Well, that was...intense. What's the next dare?"

Ignazio handed the hat to Dalí. "Please, continue on without me. I have duties to attend to."

He left and did not look back.

As the hat of dares and questions began to circulate again, I sank back into my chair, my heart still pounding, my lips still tingling from the dream of his kiss. I was caught in a whirlpool of emotions—desire, confusion, a hint of fear.

The game resumed, the room buzzing with laughter, dares, and the clinking of glasses. But it all felt like background noise, a distant echo that couldn't reach the place where my thoughts were spiraling. I participated, laughed at the right moments, even completed a dare, but my attention was elsewhere. How could Ignazio have evoked such a vivid vision? Was it a trick of the mind, or something more? And if it was more, what did that mean for me? What kind of power did he hold, not just over my thoughts but over my very senses?

As the evening wore on, I felt increasingly disconnected, as if I were floating above the scene, watching but not truly engaged. Finally, Lillian, sensing my detachment, leaned in and whispered, "I think it's time we call it a night."

I nodded, grateful for the escape. Lillian and Paolo accompanied me back to my room, where I explained what had happened during the staring contest. I implored Lillian to stay with me.

"Please. I don't think I should be alone."

Lillian hesitated. I sighed. She had obviously hoped to be with Paolo that night.

"Never mind," I said. "Just go. I'll be okay." Although I wasn't sure I would be.

Lillian gave Paolo a quick but passionate kiss. "A presto." See you soon.

"I came here for you, Jules," she said when the door closed. "Of course I'll stay."

She hugged me, and I fell into her, sobbing.

"Only one more day. You can do this," she said, wiping away my tears. "We'll get through this together."

Over her shoulder, the curtains were slightly open, and between them there was a little sliver of light. A green glow. I blinked, and it was gone.