Chapter 21

21

There was no funeral parlor to take Lillian's body to in Bomarzo, so until the commissario had enough information for the investigation and they could return her to Rome, they had to keep her in the palazzo. The coroner in neighboring Viterbo had been sent for but would not arrive until the next day. Gala didn't want Lillian laid out where she'd be a constant reminder of her inconvenient death, so the salons were nixed. Ignazio had the commissario bring Lillian to the library, where she lay on a long walnut table.

Paolo's words about Lillian gave me the courage I needed to go to her, late in the afternoon. Although the sun still filtered through the big windows, the room was lit with four or five candelabra, and a fire crackled in the grate.

Someone had closed Lillian's eyes and mouth, dressed her in a white shirt, smoothed down her hair, and laid her hands at her sides. The bottom half of her body was covered by a sheet. She looked like she was sleeping. I was grateful she no longer looked afraid.

I wanted to tell her I was sorry, but I couldn't make the words come. I couldn't speak at all. I knew I would fall apart, and there was so little holding me together. Instead, like Ignazio had done with me, I sat with her in silence, staring at the fire. I didn't hear any whispers during my vigil, but I had the distinct feeling I wasn't alone, that my ghosts were there with me, mourning at my side.

Eventually, my body's needs broke through the numbness of my grief. With a lingering kiss to Lillian's cold forehead, I excused myself to use the bathroom down the hall. Inside, I caught my reflection in the mirror, a stark reminder of the day's toll. My appearance was a wreck, hair askew and tear-streaked cheeks. I could almost hear Lillian's teasing voice, chiding me about my disheveled state. The thought brought a fresh wave of tears, blurring the reflection that so vividly echoed my inner turmoil.

I allowed myself a few moments of unchecked sorrow, the bathroom echoing with the sound of my crying. Gradually, the sobs subsided, and I set about repairing the damage. Splashing water on my face, tidying my hair, I worked to regain some semblance of composure.

On my way back, I was nearly at the library door when I heard Jack calling my name. He and Dalí approached, a study in contrasts. They were a funny sight, even in the midst of my grief—one dark and one light, one taller than the other, one solid and strong, and the other thin and slight. Everything about them was opposing, yet here they were together.

"We wanted to pay our respects," Jack said, his voice somber.

"Properly," Dalí added, bowing his head a little.

Given our recent confrontation, I was taken aback by his lack of animosity. The thought of Dalí hovering over Lillian's lifeless body again gnawed at me, but it seemed ungracious to turn them away now. With a reluctant nod, I led them into the library.

When I saw the empty table, I froze, my heart sinking into my stomach. "She was here...right here, a moment ago." Panic clawed at my chest. "Who could do this? Why would someone take her?"

"What's that?" Dalí pointed, his eyes narrowed, his voice tinged with a nervousness that was uncharacteristic of him.

I followed his gaze to the corner of the library. The door to the secret passage was ajar, a dim light glowing from the darkness beyond.

"Whoever did this must have taken her to the garden. This passage leads there," I said.

I rushed to the corner and peered down the stairs. The torches had all been lit. I knew it was foolish, but I didn't hesitate. I started down the stairs, not caring if Dalí or Jack followed, which of course they did. Their footsteps and ragged breathing sounded behind me. I don't know what I expected to do when I found Lillian—if I did—I only knew I had to find her. Or I would die trying. The footsteps that were following us in the snow the night before were from some creature far bigger than me.

As I navigated the secret passage, its contours seemed to change under the torchlight. Chisel marks told a story of laborious excavation, and soot-blackened spots above each torch marred the ceiling. While I could see easily and didn't have to rely on the cautious bob of a flashlight, the passage felt just as interminable as it had when we first discovered it. Finally, I had to stop to catch my breath, allowing Jack and Dalí to catch up.

Dalí looked unnerved. "This might be a bad idea," he muttered, glancing around the stone walls as if they could close in at any moment.

It was such a ridiculous statement I almost laughed.

Jack looked pensive, his eyes squinting as if trying to pierce the darkness ahead. "You have to wonder, with Lillian gone so suddenly... Could be we're not alone in this place. Could be some deranged killer lurking in the shadows," he said, his voice low and ominous.

A shiver crawled down my spine. "You really think a murderer would be hiding here?"

Jack shrugged, his eyes shifting, evasive. "Who knows? People do all kinds of horrible things for reasons we can't always understand."

Dalí looked from me to Jack, as if sensing an unspoken tension. His eyes darted nervously. "Indeed, madness and genius often walk hand in hand, but a killer—that's something else altogether."

Jack smirked at Dalí. "You should be excited about this. An excursion into the heart of one of the most surreal places on Earth."

Dalí narrowed his eyes at Jack. "This is not a game."

"Isn't it?"

I don't know what compelled Jack to say such a thing, but I think he saw the horror written on my face. He quickly put his arm around my shoulders and hugged me tight. "Don't worry, Jules, we'll find her."

"Let's keep going." I pulled away, unsure what to think about what had just happened, and doubly irritated that he'd called me by the nickname that Lillian always used for me.

We resumed our journey down the dark passage, but Jack's words hung in the air, each step forward accompanied by a growing sense of dread.

"If there is a killer," Dalí said as we continued on, "we have nothing with which to defend ourselves."

I didn't slow my pace. "Then maybe you should go back."

"Don't be silly, Julia. We're not leaving you," Jack said. "Right, Dalí? I know that I'm seeing this through with you to the end."

Something about his declaration of loyalty fell flat. But if physical danger did lurk at the end of the tunnel, perhaps I would be grateful to have his brawn at my side.

Finally, we reached the bronze door. It was wide open, and the last dim rays of the setting sun glowed against the green metal. We raced down the path, across the boards at the stream, and through the veil that separated the boschetto from the rest of the world.

Orpheus waited for me on the other side. He jumped into my arms, meowing. "I don't have time for you right now, little one," I said as I put him back down on the ground. Jack was the last one to cross the stream, and as he neared, Orpheus suddenly gave a hiss and a yowl before running back into the bushes. We looked around for the disturbance but saw none. Had he been hissing at Jack?

We took the path toward the heart of the garden, the one that Dalí had taken when we were looking for Lillian. As we turned the corner and came upon the dried-up fountain of Neptune and his dolphin, like the night before, a tangle of bushes and trees had grown up. But the bushes were different, only leaving room for a path that snaked between them in the direction of Ceres, who loomed between the trees about a hundred feet away. While that made me nervous, I was more immediately concerned with the type of foliage that had appeared. The pomegranate trees were bursting with fruit.

And that fruit was bursting.

"Mon Dieu," Dalí cried. I couldn't tell if he was horrified or amazed. Perhaps a bit of both. There were dozens upon dozens of the ruby fruits, each split open horizontally, revealing rows of seeds, some still unripe and white, others bloodred. They hung on the vine, arils bared like vicious fangs, their downward crowns reaching out like little tentacles, turning the pomegranates into horrifying little monsters.

"These," he said, examining the opening in the skin that looked like a mouth, "are the most Dalínian fruits I have ever seen. If only Paolo were here with his camera."

"They're all split," Jack marveled. He looked at me. "What could it mean?"

"How should I know?"

"I just thought you might," he said, raising an eyebrow.

He sauntered over to a bush, plucked one of the fruits, and held it out to me. I recoiled, horrified.

"She's not fond of those," Dalí said, coming to my rescue and snatching it out of Jack's hand. I was shocked. It was the first time that Dalí didn't try to make me eat a pomegranate. I wondered why. I only had one more seed to eat, and if he was some sort of mechanism for my destruction, wouldn't he want me to eat it?

"What a terrible Proserpina you make." Jack chuckled, but I sensed he was being serious. And mean. Something was not right about him, and I didn't like it.

"Truly terrible," I agreed, bristling. "Come, we don't have time for this."

Dalí chucked the pomegranate into bushes beyond the statue of Neptune. The wind immediately kicked up, rocking the trees around us, whipping my hair into my eyes and mouth.

"Maybe you should have eaten it," Jack said. He yanked another pomegranate off the bush, one with a jagged line of unripe white seeds.

Orpheus ran up between us and began a horrible caterwaul, a mournful, terrible sound. Jack snarled and gave the beast a swift kick, knocking him into the bushes.

"What is wrong with you? Why did you do that?" I screamed, pushing past him to part the bushes in search of Orpheus, but Jack spun me around to face him. His mouth was twisted into a snarl and his eyes were suddenly green, not that beautiful blue that I had once admired.

"I'm tired of this game," he said, but his voice wasn't his voice. It was the same one I heard every time I had encountered Demetra in the hallways of Palazzo Orsini. And then I understood. Demetra, named after Demeter, the Greek name for Ceres. I cursed myself for not making the obvious connection sooner.

His eyes flashed green, just as the giant's had last night.

This wasn't Jack. It was Ceres. Or at least, he was being controlled by her.

He yanked me toward him, pulling me into a one-armed embrace that pinned my arms to my sides like a vise. With his other hand, he pushed the pomegranate toward me, pressing the fruit against my lips.

I clenched my mouth tight, my screams muffled. I tried to struggle, but he held me fast. The pomegranate was hard against my face, smashing my lips against my teeth. I was sure he was going to break them when suddenly he crumpled, his hands loosening and falling away. The pomegranate rolled toward the bushes where Jack had sent Orpheus flying.

"No one defiles my modelo ," Dalí said, dropping the rock in his hands. There was a splotch of blood on one side.

On impulse, I threw my arms around him. "Thank you." I didn't know the reason he saw fit to stop Jack, but I was grateful for it.

He stiffened in my embrace, and I pulled away. He lifted a hand, calloused from holding his brushes for hours at a time, to wipe the tears from my cheeks.

I turned from him to look for Orpheus, digging through the leaves, but he wasn't there.

"Come, it's getting dark," Dalí said, putting a hand on my shoulder and looking down at Jack's body. "Let's find Lillian before he wakes up."

"What happened to him?" I sighed as I stared down at the prone figure. He looked like the sweet brawny boy I had liked the moment we met, not the twisted creature that Ceres had turned him into.

"It's this place," Dalí said. "It gets into your head. Even I, the great Dalí, have felt its sinister pull. Come. We need to find your friend." He guided me down the pomegranate-lined path.

As we made our way farther into the heart of the garden, an even stronger sense of dread began to rise within me. It wasn't just Jack's terrifying actions, but the fact that I already knew what we would find. I was anxious to get away from Jack and the pomegranates, but we were being herded in a specific direction—and I knew it was a trap, set with Lillian's body as the bait. We would find her inside the Mouth of Hell.

The promenade before the statue of Neptune had a wall with dozens of large vases around its perimeter. One had to walk down toward the Casa Pendente, then past the statue of Ceres, before turning back toward the ominous orco in the hillside, passing Hannibal's elephant and the fighting dragon on the way. If we wanted to avoid Ceres, we would have to climb the wall, which wasn't convenient—or possible, with the newly grown wall of pomegranate bushes.

As we came close to the statue of the goddess, I saw a ghost of myself standing near the path in front of her. It was growing dark, and her blue glow was faint as she flickered in and out of my vision. She—or I—wore a dress right out of the Renaissance, with a long, full brocade skirt, belted under the bust, the billowing sleeves slashed elegantly to show through the camicia underneath. Her hair was intricately braided with ropes of pearl.

Suddenly, a memory surged through me, so vivid it was as if I'd been plunged into another lifetime. I found myself in my bedroom in Bomarzo, but everything was new, the walls adorned with tapestries and fine art, and the soft glow of candlelight filling the room. The door opened, and he walked in—his face a composite of lifetimes and love, the lines of Aidoneus, Ignazio, and Pluto woven into one countenance.

He approached me cautiously, holding a small vial filled with a dark liquid. "This is the last pomegranate potion," he said softly, his eyes brimming with a cocktail of love, regret, and something I couldn't quite place.

I nodded, knowing that in the society of that lifetime, an illicit child would spell doom for both of us. I trusted him, loved him, across all lifetimes. With trembling hands, I opened the vial and drank its foul contents. As I swallowed, I felt the familiar texture of a pomegranate seed slide down my throat.

Almost instantly, pain enveloped me, racking my body in torturous waves. His face, so full of contradictions, was the last thing my eyes grasped before darkness overwhelmed me. In that terrible moment, I realized it wasn't just an unwanted pregnancy I was erasing—it was my very life, my existence in that cycle, sending me spiraling back to the Fields of Mourning under the weight of an eternal curse.

Back in the garden, the Renaissance ghost of me suddenly raised a single finger, a haunting warning echoing across the fabric of time itself.

Dalí obviously didn't see her since he walked by without acknowledgment. I could almost hear the rustling of her gown as she disappeared into the fading light. Thankfully, the stone goddess behind her did not move.

Another version of me waited near Hannibal's elephant. This ghost was clad in medieval dress, with flowing skirts, a corseted bodice, and long, belled sleeves. As I approached, I felt a strange pull, a kind of magnetic force that beckoned me into the depths of a forgotten memory. There I was, in a castle's stone-walled chamber, standing near an expansive wooden table laden with rustic dishes—bread, meat, cheeses, and fruit.

This time, it was a goblet of wine that was handed to me by the same man, whose soul stretched over lifetimes. His eyes met mine with an inexplicable mix of love, sorrow, and inevitability. "For your health, my lady," he said softly, urging me to drink. "Pomegranate wine."

Hesitant but not wanting to offend, I lifted the goblet to my lips and took a sip, the single pomegranate seed sliding over my tongue. I was surprised by the taste for an instant, followed by a feeling of dread as I swallowed. A crushing weight settled over my chest, heavier and colder with each passing second. I looked at him, desperation flooding my eyes. "What have you done?" I wanted to scream, but no words escaped.

The room spun around me, and just like before, my last sight was his face, stricken with unbearable grief as he watched me collapse, my life extinguishing like a candle snuffed out by an unforgiving wind.

As we passed the medieval ghost in the garden, she, too, raised a single finger. The fabric of my reality began to unravel as I started to understand the threads of my past.

Again, Dalí passed without as much as a glance. She winked out as I passed her.

At the dragon fending off the wolves and lions, another ghost waited, arm outstretched, one finger pointed toward the sky. This version of me was dressed like all the women I had ever seen in ancient Roman statues, with drapes of fabric about her body and over her head like a hood, with sandals and bracelets ringing her thin wrists. I was reminded of something Dalí called me on one of the first days—Julia of the Julii. I didn't understand why then, but upon seeing this ghost, I did, as some odd memory lit up in my mind. The Julii were an ancient Roman family of great nobility—the clan that Julius Caesar himself came from. This was a Julia from centuries past.

As we grew close to this Julia, a vision overtook me so powerfully that I nearly stumbled. I was in an elegant atrium, adorned with frescoes and opulent decorations, the kind that would be found in the house of a Roman patrician. The same man—this time dressed in a toga and wearing a laurel crown—offered me a plate of stuffed dates. His eyes were a deep well of mixed emotions: love, regret, and sorrow.

"Try one, Proserpina," he said, the name as strange and familiar to me as the earlier incarnations had been. "They're made just for you. I know you don't like pomegranates, but try one more... You may just like this one."

Reluctantly I took a date and bit into it. The sweetness enveloped my senses, but then my tongue touched something different—a pomegranate seed hidden within the treat.

My vision began to blur; my limbs felt weak. "What's happening?" I gasped.

His smile faded into a look of terror, the joy in his eyes giving way to realization and then unbearable grief. "No, no, no," he cried, rushing to catch me as I fell to the ground.

"Stay with me," he pleaded, holding my limp body. "Please, stay with me. This wasn't supposed to happen. Damn you, Ceres."

I wanted nothing more than to stay with him, but a force stronger than both of us was pulling me away. The last thing I saw was his anguished face, immortalized in that moment, forever to be repeated over a string of lifetimes. My vision tunneled, the edges darkening. My spirit was being pulled away, traveling at an unimaginable speed through the fabric of existence, into the place where love had been thwarted—the Fields of Mourning.

When the memory cleared, I was back in the garden. The Roman ghost before me raised her single finger, a signal that reverberated through time, wrapping my newfound understanding in layers of tragic, eternal truth. It was a curse, a hundred-year cycle, and unless broken, it would carry on infinitely. My resolve hardened; something had to change. I would not endure this again.

We reached the base of the stairs leading into the open maw of the orco . If Lillian was in the Mouth of Hell, she wasn't lying on the table that also served as the monster's tongue.

Dalí led the way into the orco . We had only climbed a couple of stairs when Orpheus ran up beside me. He gave me an agonized cry. I stopped, my heart full of relief that he was alive.

Bending down to pick him up, I hugged him close. He licked my cheek and a burst of understanding washed over me. I saw myself in a black and beautiful palazzo in the Underworld, and Orpheus, the man, rushed into the room, his lute bouncing against his back. "Ceres is coming for you." His voice was urgent, explaining that Ceres stood on the banks of the Lethe, ready to cross, raging about a curse.

"I brought this for you," he said, holding out his hand.

Oh, Orpheus. He had brought me a pearl from Mnemosyne's pond.

I gathered my courage and went to Ceres, carrying the pearl from the goddess of memory under my tongue to help me hold a shred of remembrance, a glimmer of truth through countless lifetimes. It was this pearl that helped me remember just enough to leave the ghosts, providing cryptic warnings and guidance across the veil separating life and death.

Orpheus the cat meowed softly, jolting me out of the memory. He rubbed his face against mine, as if acknowledging the immense tapestry of events and emotions that had led to this moment. I knew that there was an essence of the real Orpheus within the beast, helping me, like I had once tried to help him.

Dalí's shout rang out from the interior of the orco .

"She's here."

I ran up the stairs. Dalí was at the back of the mouth. Past the central table, in the last light of the dusk, I could make out Lillian's bare feet. She was lying on the carved bench that lined the interior.

I was about to go around the table toward them when suddenly a rough hand spun me around. Jack. Pushing me into the table, my lower back connecting with the stone, he pinned me there with an elbow—because his hand held something.

A pomegranate, burst on the side, a tiny mouth of ruby seeds gaping at me. Jack shoved his fingers into the fruit, ripping out a chunk of arils and pith.

He shoved the seeds into my face, pressing them against my closed mouth. His fingers parted my lips, and before I could understand what was happening, he forced apart my teeth. I bit at his fingers, and he pulled his hand back, but he had done what he set out to do. The seeds were in my mouth. I held them under my tongue, refusing to swallow. I could taste blood, and my lip hurt where it had cut against my teeth as he pressed the seeds into me.

"Swallow!" the voice that wasn't Jack's said.

Then Jack was yanked backward.

A shout rang through the orco . "No one touches her with violence."

Jack howled when he hit the stairs outside the Mouth of Hell. Then there was no sound. I sat up in time to see his body roll to a stop on the path.

Ignazio stood there, a dark shadow against the lighter shadows of the dusky garden behind him. "Are you all right?" he asked. He was only a few feet from me, and I could feel his heat radiating, a sharp contrast to the cold stone of the table.

Outside the orco , Orpheus cried. His little blue eyes implored me. The Julia of the Julii ghost stood next to him. She balled her hand, held up one finger, and then pressed it against her lip. One more.

I knew what to do.

I pulled Ignazio to me, one hand on the lapel of his jacket, the other around his waist. He didn't resist. I lifted my face to his and his lips met mine and parted, his tongue searching.

I blew an aril into his mouth. Then I pulled back and took a fist to his chest, hitting hard, forcing him to gasp and swallow the seed.

Ignazio's eyes grew wide, then found mine. They flared, bright fire in his pupils. Everything about him transformed, hot, white, yellow fire. His arms wrapped around me, and he kissed me. His heat became my heat.

The ground beneath us shook. I heard Dalí yell something in Catalan, felt Orpheus rubbing against my leg, and the brush of ghostly fingers across my cheek, and somewhere beyond us, I heard a woman crying, a woman I knew was Ceres.

The kiss tasted like home—a home I had forgotten and yearned for in every fiber of my being, through every incarnation. It tasted like the sweetest pomegranate, which I now knew that I loved, its juice both tart and sugary, complex yet straightforward. In that instant, the weight of our shared histories lifted, as if the air around us had become less dense, more forgiving. I felt the redemption of our love in its purest form, a love that had battled against the trials of immortality and the spite of a jilted lover. Pluto's breath caught, a moment of vulnerability as our lips parted, and I knew then that he felt it too. It was as if we had ventured into some sacred space, a sanctuary that could only be unlocked by our union. We had returned to each other, and there was no curse, no vengeance, no mortality that could ever pull us apart again.

Then the whole world fell away. There was no Julia or Ignazio, no Dalí, no Jack.

Only Pluto and Proserpina.