Chapter 3

3

A knock on the door roused me from my restless sleep. When I opened it, the servant from the night before swept past me and deposited a breakfast tray on the table near the window. She reminded me of someone, someone I could not place in my empty past, but whom I knew I deeply cared for. As she opened the curtains, letting in the November light, I asked for her name.

She stopped and turned to me as though just realizing I was in the room. "Signorina, I am Demetra," she said with a wide smile that warmed my heart. She must have been quite beautiful long ago.

I peered down at the landscape behind her, relieved to see it looked just like it should, a pretty valley full of fields and dotted with little groves of trees in the resplendent colors of fall.

"It's a beautiful day. I hope you enjoy it," Demetra said as she made to leave.

I stopped her with a hand on her shoulder and thanked her for bringing me breakfast.

"Oh, Julia," she said as she stared into my eyes and lifted a cold hand to my cheek. The smell of her skin reminded me of damp earth. "You should not have done me wrong."

"What do you mean?" I asked, pulling away from her.

Her eyes flared with alarming intensity. "Don't you get tired of doing this over and over?"

I was stunned. What on earth was she talking about? But just as I opened my mouth to question her, the light in her eyes dimmed, and she looked at me, confused, her face once more placid, her eyes blank, as though she were staring through me. "Is there anything else you may need?" she asked, as if nothing had just transpired between us.

Shaken, I said no, and she left without another word.

There was a note with my breakfast, telling me to meet Dalí outside the palazzo at ten o'clock. After a bite of bread and cheese, I decided on the perfect ankle-length, flowing dress the red-and-pink colors of the pomegranate.

When I stepped outside, I was glad to find it was unseasonably warm and I would probably be able to forgo my cape as the day progressed. November could be rainy, but I didn't see a single cloud in the sky. It was always much warmer in fall and winter in Rome than it was in many parts of Europe, and there were still many days when I wouldn't even need a jacket.

Dalí and Gala weren't waiting outside the door as the note had said, but Jack was leaning against the wall nearby. "They're in there." He pointed down the narrow street toward the duomo, a little white church with double, curved staircases leading from the road to the door. We walked toward the church.

"I must say, you look beautiful. The maestro is lucky to have you for a model."

I blushed. "Thank you. I do like this dress."

He chuckled. "And the dress likes you."

"I wish I were painting instead of modeling," I said wistfully. "But I do hope I can learn from Dalí while I'm here."

Jack raised an appraising eyebrow. "Ah, you are a painter?"

At my nod, he grinned. "I haven't met a woman painter yet. You are a rare breed."

I gave him a rueful laugh. "I wish it weren't so."

"Well, I'd temper your expectations. Dalí is a terrible teacher."

I laughed. "Maybe I can learn from observation, or perhaps by appealing to his ego."

A dove cooed from the top of a nearby building and Jack lifted his head to look at it. A blond lock fell into his eye, and he brushed it away. "You are a smart one, aren't you? That's exactly the way to manage our maestro."

I liked Jack. I liked his American-ness, his accent, his manner, his way of dress. He was handsome but wholesome. And while he was a little flirty, he was also polite. To me, he seemed like a bit of normalcy in a place that was very strange, with people who were very strange. There was also something about him that drew me in, made me feel instinctively safe.

"Why are you with the Dalís?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Well, when Gala heard they would be here for a week, she insisted. And if you haven't noticed, she's not someone you say no to. But, in theory, I'm to help haul around easels and scare off ghosts."

"Ghosts?" I asked, concerned. I pulled my wool cape close around me, suddenly cold.

"You are too serious." He laughed. "But have you seen this place? Surely a ghost or two must roam its halls. I even heard a woman died in the garden a few centuries ago."

"I hope not."

As I spoke, one of the church bells gave a loud clang, then fell still. Both Jack and I looked up at the bell tower, startled. And, as if on cue, Dalí emerged from the duomo, Gala and Ignazio in tow, and my heart began to beat wildly at the sight of our host. Had he really placed that tarot card under my pillow?

Spying me, Dalí cried out, "My Proserpina!" Rushing across the piazzetta, he lifted my arms and twirled me around. "You are magnificent, my beautiful goddess—I cannot wait to paint you. Gala, look at this girl!"

"Charming," Gala said dryly, her lips pressed into a thin line as she looked me up and down with a critical eye. She'd latched on to Ignazio's arm, which he tolerated only until they reached the bottom of the stairs. Then he discreetly disentangled himself from her. "Though a goddess shouldn't need costume jewelry and gaudy fabric to make an impression," she added dismissively, toying with her own ostentatious necklace.

"A goddess can wear whatever she likes," Ignazio said. He eyed me intently.

"Can we see the garden now?" I asked, hoping to take the attention off me. After seeing the green light the night before, I was nervous about entering the garden, but having Ignazio's attention was even more nerve-racking.

"Certainly. Come." He strode forward and we followed dutifully behind, like the story of the Pied Piper leading along the rats.

Paolo joined us just as we were heading down the lane toward the parking lot. He carried a big camera bag on one shoulder and a tripod on the other.

A new Lancia Ardea pickup, with benches built on both sides of the open truck bed, waited to take us down the hill to the boschetto . Ignazio extended his hand to help Gala up into the truck, though she still managed to stumble—clearly on purpose so he'd have to catch her, which he did, righting her without ceremony or any sign of emotion. Then he motioned toward me. I wished I could climb into the truck myself—I didn't want him touching me again—but the dress I was wearing restricted my movement, and I, too, would stumble without assistance. Fortunately, he extended his arm rather than one of his peculiarly hot hands, and I held the white canvas of his jacket as I raised myself up. He was staring at me, adulation in his blue-green eyes, as though I really were a goddess. I turned my head hastily, just in time to see Gala stiffen. She must have seen how Ignazio had looked at me and didn't like it.

"Here we are. The Sacro Bosco—the Sacred Wood," Ignazio announced when we stopped in a little clearing mostly overgrown by vines and half covered by bushes. I looked at the high grass and noted that I shouldn't have worn one of my nicest pairs of heels.

This time, Jack helped me out of the truck. He nodded at my shoes. "If I have to carry you, I will."

"I hope it won't come to that," I said. But looking at the vines ahead, I thought it might. "Besides, you have all the equipment to bring." I indicated the French easel and stretched canvas that Paolo was unloading from the truck.

"For you, I would drop it all."

I smirked but was secretly pleased by his gallantry.

Ignazio started down the thin, overgrown trail. He stopped when we were a few dozen or so paces away from the dirt parking area. "Now we are officially in the garden of monsters," he warned us with a dark grin. "They're monsters made of stone, but sometimes the creatures may appear quite sinister. Worry not. For the most part, you have nothing to fear."

I couldn't tell if he was joking or not. Considering the green glow I had seen the night before, he might not be jesting after all.

"Have you had to rescue many of your guests?" Gala asked, her tone teasing.

"You are the first visitors we've had in years, though there are curious trespassers on occasion." Ignazio pointed down the path ahead. "This is a back passage into the Sacro Bosco or, as it is often called, the boschetto , the little wood. The original main entrance, now unused, is on the other side of the garden. There you'd have been greeted by two worn sphinxes, one of which bears an inscription that reads ‘You who enter here put your mind to it part by part and tell me then if so many wonders were made as trickery or art.'"

"So, the statues are riddles to decipher?" Jack asked.

Ignazio gave him a brilliant smile. "Or are they just art? Come, let us find out."

I fell in step behind him, marveling that we were walking along paths that were centuries old. The air felt charged with magical energy, although I was sure it was only my excitement to be sitting for Dalí. Then I stumbled, nearly crashing into Gala, who grunted as I used her arm to steady myself. Regret washed over me for having worn my best pair of heels; it was an attempt to make an impression. And indeed, an impression was being made, but not in the way initially intended.

A bleat emanated from somewhere deep in the garden. "That didn't sound like a monster," Jack remarked.

"There are a few locals who let their sheep graze near here," Ignazio explained. "They think the monsters scare away the wolves."

Jack and I exchanged looks. He clearly thought the same as I—Italian superstitions truly made no sense.

"Wait," I called out to Ignazio as he started forward. "We were told that the locals are afraid of this place, because of a woman who died in the garden. Is that true?"

"Yes. A long time ago. Several women are rumored to have died in the garden. The details are lost to history, but superstition remains long in the mind." Ignazio's eyes did not leave mine as he spoke, and it was as though he was imploring me to discern some hidden meaning in his words.

My heart skipped a beat.

"It's a shame," he continued. "The boschetto was once a place of great wonder and beauty that was much talked about among the Italian nobility."

"Are there ghosts?" Jack asked, elbowing me playfully in the ribs.

"Perhaps." A fire seemed to light in Ignazio's eyes, but he said no more.

Jack elbowed me again. "I told you there were ghosts."

I gave him a little chuckle, but it was a nervous laugh.

We had come to a small stream banked by bushes colored with autumn's brush. A wide board had been placed across the shallow water. As we traversed the wobbly bridge, I felt that I had somehow pierced a veil of light, shadow, and something indescribable. This feeling was coupled with an intense sense of déjà vu. It was as though we were entering someplace that was not part of our real world, but despite that, it was as familiar to me as if I were walking into a home of my own. I had a distinct impression that I had trodden this path before, many times.

Arriving at a fork in the trail, Ignazio steered us down the short trail to the left, which brought us to an enormous monster with a wide-open mouth and several square, chipped teeth. Upon its head was a striped globe topped by a small castle.

"I think he wants to eat us," Gala said.

Dalí stood in the monster's open mouth, touching its chipped teeth. "Let him eat," he declared as Paolo began snapping photos.

"This is Proteus Glaucus," Ignazio explained. "He became a sea god after eating a magical herb."

"What is that on his head?" Jack asked.

"You've seen the Orsini bear and the double roses throughout the palazzo—the globe and the castle are also family symbols."

"But what does it mean?" Jack eyed the statue, clearly puzzled.

Ignazio shrugged. "It's set apart from the rest of the statues on this dead-end path. Perhaps it's meant as a sign that one has lost their way. Or perhaps it's a warning?"

"A warning?" Gala folded her arms across her chest and tapped her fingers against her arm as though she didn't believe anything Ignazio was saying.

"A final warning to turn back, away from this garden of monsters."

"Should we?" I asked without thinking. After I spoke, I had an odd feeling that perhaps we should. All my conversations with Lillian came flooding back to me. Was it really wise that I was in a creepy garden with complete strangers? And one of them a known freak of a sort?

I stared at Proteus Glaucus. For all my lost memories, somewhere in my past I had absorbed the depths of the myths. Glaucus had loved the nymph Scylla, but she was repulsed by his scales and webbed hands. He asked the witch Circe for a love potion, but his charms had already enraptured Circe. When Glaucus rebuffed her, she took revenge, turning Scylla into an oceanic form of a hydra.

Ignazio shook his head, his eyes catching mine. "There is no reason to turn back. The boschetto welcomes you, Julia." Then, almost as an afterthought, he waved a hand at my companions. "All of you."

He moved back down the path and the others followed dutifully behind. But I paused to look back at Proteus Glaucus and his empty stone eyes and big square teeth. His mouth was wide open, as if in a shout. Scylla's twelve feet and six heads came to my mind, sharpening the warning he was casting into the garden.

To not fall in love.

I thought of Jack and his bright blue eyes and of the heat of Ignazio's touch. And almost on cue, they both paused and turned back to look at me. When Gala realized the reason for their halt, she screamed at me, her mouth open wide like the stone sea god.

"You stupid girl, keep up!"

I swallowed hard and picked up my pace.

Farther down the footpath, we came to another fork, three thin trails in the brush. One of the forks led down a perilous set of stairs. On that lower trail, an enormous head rose above the stone retaining wall. Dalí gave a cry of excitement before charging down the steps, and we followed after him. As we neared, we could see the giant held another man upside down by the legs. The giant's face was well wrought, etched with lines. His hair was curled, and his carved beard was lush and full. His body was thick with muscle. The man he held showed his agony, his mouth open in a scream, his eyes empty and wide. Gala knelt to pick the moss off his face.

"There is more going on here!" Dalí went close to the statue and pointed up between the two stone men.

Indeed, it did look as though the giant might be performing some intense sexual act upon the other man.

Ignazio pointed to a partially eroded plaque on the nearby wall. He put his finger on the word Anglante .

"If you know Ariosto's epic poem, Orlando Furioso , then you know that Orlando was the Lord of Anglante. The story is that Orlando was driven mad when the beautiful Princess Angelica did not return his love. In his fury, he raged through the land, destroying anything in his path. In this vengeful state, he met two woodsmen with a donkey pulling a cart of logs. Rather than waiting for them to move aside, he kicked the donkey so hard it landed over a mile away. Then he took one of the terrified woodsmen by the legs and tore him in half. And clearly, you can see here the giant is ready to tear this man in two."

Ignazio paused to watch Gala stroke the tortured man's face. When he continued, his voice took on an ominous tone. "This is one of my favorite statues in the garden. I think of it as a warning, that passion may render love into something evil. It can light the fire of desperation, anger, or even hate."

Ignazio looked off into the depths of the garden. I followed his gaze through the greenery but did not see anything. I wondered who among us this warning was for—it seemed more than just a story to me.

Dalí startled me with a shout. "Paolo, get your camera!" Dalí and Gala posed with the giants, then motioned for me to come forward so Paolo could take a couple of photos of me standing next to the statue before we went back up the crumbled stairs.

To my dismay, Ignazio walked with me. My body hummed with his nearness, a humming that filled me with conflict. It may sound like a terrible cliché, but he truly was the most attractive person I had ever laid eyes on. Still, there was something about him that seemed off, wrong , even, and I wasn't sure I wanted this man's attention. And yet he was all I could think about, especially since I had found that damned tarot card under my pillow. I wanted to ask him about it, but I hesitated, thinking that by doing so I might encourage him, which was certainly not what I wanted.

"How long have you lived in Bomarzo?" I asked to cut through the silence between us.

"A long time. It feels like centuries."

"You don't like it here?"

"This is where I need to be—now. With you."

Distracted by this proclamation, I stumbled on the stairs. I don't know how he caught me so quickly, but suddenly his arm was around me, preventing me from pitching forward and breaking my face or, at least, mucking up my dress. His warmth spread through me, quick and hot, pooling in all my limbs, making me think of lava bubbling inside a volcano. I made a strangled noise and he let go, and the sudden absence of such heat was even worse. I shivered despite my cape and the sun upon my face. My head swam with dizziness, and I began to wonder if perhaps I was coming down with something.

We continued up the stairs, and at the top was a massive, decrepit rectangular rock, covered in moss. "A toppled mausoleum with Etruscan images," Ignazio said as we neared. It didn't look like a mausoleum, but rather it seemed to be a broken block of stone with carvings that were difficult to make out. "A woman is buried beneath it."

"Really?" I couldn't see how the rock could be moved at all, much less to bury someone there. "Who?"

His eyes found mine. "Her name was also Julia." He smiled at me, a smile that would melt any woman's heart. But his words chilled me to the bone. He didn't explain further, instead leaving me there, staring at the massive block of stone, as he went up the path the others had taken.

I didn't know what to do. Was he threatening me? Something told me he didn't wish me harm and was merely imparting information. Compelled to touch the moss-covered sculpture, I laid my fingers against a spot where the tufa was bare of moss.

Julia... A woman's voice whispered in my ear. Dear god, was Jack right about the ghosts? Was she saying my name, or the name of the woman buried beneath the heavy rock?

"I'm here," I whispered back, hoping if I made light of the situation, I would dispel the ridiculousness of my imagination.

Attenti al mostro...

Beware the monster. I jolted back from the stone, short of breath, thinking my heart might never slow again.

Julia...

The whisper grew louder, seemingly coming from somewhere on the trail in front of me. I moved toward it.

"Julia," Gala said, louder, appearing at the top of a little hill. Her anger rang out across the boschetto . "Don't dawdle. There are pictures to take!"

Though I didn't appreciate being scolded like a child, I was relieved to know it was only Gala calling my name. I looked back at the destroyed mausoleum behind me.

But if Gala had been calling for me, why had she been warning me about a monster?

We were in a garden full of them.