Chapter 6

6

"Aside from a great camera, there is nothing more wonderful than a great library," Paolo exclaimed, his eyes lighting up when I told him about the thousands of volumes I'd discovered, including Hypnerotomachia Poliphili , which had so excited Dalí. "If you ever want help reading anything in Italian, I would be honored to translate for you."

I thought of Giulia Farnese's journal. Perhaps I would take him up on his offer. But I hardly knew him... Was he someone I could trust not to tell the others? I paused to listen to the quartet—two lutists, a flutist, and a drummer, playing medieval music—wondering if I might find a quiet moment alone with Paolo. Glancing around the room, I didn't think that would likely happen that evening. By the looks of it, we were in for another night of gluttony.

The tablescape was even more elaborate than it had been the night before, the long dining table covered in an extravagant green silk tablecloth with a pearl border and gold fringes that reached nearly to the floor.

The servers, who wore green and gold to match the tablecloth, scampered about, setting up for whatever wonders were in store for us. One invited us to wash our hands in a golden basin from which a fountain of perfumed water flowed. Then he escorted us to the table, oddly placing us all on one side, me in the middle, Dalí and Jack to my sides, Gala and Paolo to theirs.

It suddenly struck me as odd that, aside from Demetra and the servants who brought us our food, I hadn't seen a single one of the help within the palazzo. How could that be? Granted, I had been away much of the day, but there were no sounds of others talking in the palazzo, no footsteps, no glimpses of someone else in a hallway. Even queerer, none of the servers acknowledged us beyond a few short words to explain the food. They did their jobs with impeccable precision, so carefully that while we were busy oohing and aahing over the food, it was easy to disregard that they seemed utterly devoid of personality. The thought set me on edge.

Two servants brought out a massive buffet cart, the front shaped like a boat, the back like an ancient Roman triumphal chariot. It looked to be made of pure gold, decorated with little sea monsters, shells, and precious stones, and it was breathtaking. How had such a treasure not been plundered for a museum? Especially during the war, when metal resources were scarce, and every piece of art was coveted by Hitler.

Dalí squealed with glee. "We should include such a cart in the cookbook of Gala!"

"A marvelous idea," Gala agreed. "But, darling, I think you have other things to accomplish before we worry about making a cookbook."

The chariot contained all manner of items—napkins, glassware, wine, flowers, candles, and the basic condiments and spices that would rest upon the table. In unison, the servers set the table before us.

"Do you think these are real?" I asked Jack, picking up my fork and waving it at him. The utensil was heavy and it, too, appeared to be made of gold.

"Of course," he said, as though gold forks were an everyday object. He seemed distracted, his head tilted to the side as though he were listening to someone other than me. But Paolo was looking away from him.

"Would they mind if I stole one?" I joked.

"Probably not," Jack said. Again, he answered as though this was a perfectly normal thing to ask.

I raised my eyebrow at him, puzzled at the response. "Are you serious?"

For a moment, Jack's gaze seemed to glaze over, as if he was momentarily lost in a separate reality. Then, with a slight start, he seemed to snap back to the present. "Look at all this gold—who would miss a fork or two? Go ahead, hide one away and see what happens. Besides, you are beyond reproach."

I couldn't tell if he was joking or not, but my shocked expression seemed to trigger a flicker of clarity in his eyes.

"I'm teasing," he said after a beat, but his voice was still unnaturally even.

Concerned, I put my hand on his forearm. "Jack, are you all right?"

He paused, his eyes briefly showing confusion, quickly masked with a forced smile. But his smile was too sudden, too bright. "Perfectly." He grinned, full of emotion once more. "And boy, oh boy, am I hungry. And you better be, too, because here it comes." He gestured toward an approaching server.

The meal began with five tiny fritters of saffron-colored dough, drizzled with a rosewater glaze and served on plates made of some sort of yellow, transparent stone. If I didn't think it impossible, I would have sworn it was topaz.

Ignazio came forward with a glass carafe. "From Elysium itself," he said, as he poured us each a glass of the golden wine.

"You jest," I said, catching his eye.

"Do I?" Again, that dazzling smile.

A jolt ran through me, and I looked away, heat rising to my cheeks. Picking up the glass, I buried my nose in it, wishing for him to depart. I let out a breath when he finally did.

The bouquet of the wine was truly divine. I thought it smelled of apricots and toffee, although Gala patently disagreed with me.

"Sandalwood and lemongrass," she declared.

"Candied walnuts. Fallen leaves," Dalí said, sipping the wine and closing his eyes. "Pure hedonism."

To sip it was heavenly, transporting even. If it had been the last thing I ever drank, I would have died happy.

After this welcome refreshment, the tablecloths were changed to a purple silk, the same color the servants now donned. How had they found the time to change? I marveled as one of them scattered white rose petals across the table while two others brought each of us five cuts of fat capons, roasted and shining with flecks of gold, accompanied by a snow-white bread and a sauce Ignazio informed us consisted of lemon, sugar, pine nuts, and cinnamon.

"This must have cost a fortune," I said, shocked at the display before me.

Gala chuckled. "My Dalí makes money every time he twists his mustache."

Dalí twisted the end of his tiny mustache and winked at me.

They were smiling and laughing, but something felt unnatural about his response. Gala was impressed by the display of luxury before us, but Dalí was not nearly as amazed at the meal. While I knew the Dalís were wealthy, this was beyond opulent. I wanted to understand how he could possibly take such excess for granted. "Why go to such lengths for so few of us?"

Dalí gawked at me in the same way that Jack had when I asked him about the gold forks. "This is what Dalí deserves! It is not extravagance," he finally answered. "This is how gods and goddesses dine. You should know that, little Proserpina."

Though Gala laughed, a wild laugh, I found Dalí's conviction unnerving. Did he actually think of us as gods?

Giving him a weak smile, I cut into the capon and took a bite. I wasn't ready for the explosion of flavor upon my tongue. This was no ordinary chicken. I was torn between savoring the dish and devouring it. It was tender, smoky, and juicy. And the rest of the meal promised to be just as sublime.

As we waited for the next course, the conversation turned to current events. Dalí made an offhand remark praising General Franco's leadership in Spain, which immediately soured my mood, knowing the dictator's brutal tactics during the civil war.

Sensing my discomfort, Dalí continued, "Of course, I do not agree with all his methods, but a firm hand is sometimes needed to bring order."

I chose my next words carefully. "Order through fear and oppression rarely leads to anything good. We all saw the costs of fascism during the War."

Dalí waved his hand dismissively. "Politics is boring. Controversy and shock—that is what really motivates the masses."

He leaned in with a gleam in his eye that I found unsettling. "Imagine a painting of Hitler. Now imagine Hitler engaged in a most personal and private act. What a delightfully outrageous idea!"

An uncomfortable silence followed. Dalí chuckled. "Now, drink up. We should enjoy this night. The only ‘politics' an artist should care about are those of the unconscious mind. That is the only truth."

I murmured agreement, though his cavalier attitude toward oppression and his provocative hypothetical unsettled me. It was my first glimpse of the moral—and, to my mind, dangerous—flexibility behind Dalí's genius. Dalí did not actually stand for or against any political ideology. He was not interested in moral outcomes. His provocative art stemmed from a relentless desire to shock and court controversy by any means, not explore deeper truths. Dalí's primary motivation was garnering attention for himself, not any sincere political position. He leveraged the names of leaders and ideologies opportunistically to further his artistic career, apathetic to real-world consequences. His amoral approach troubled me but revealed the cunning pragmatism behind his success. We spoke no more of politics, but the conversation left a shadow over my impression of him.

Fortunately, we were distracted by the next part of the magnificent dinner show. The servers, now in yellow, dressed the table in a satin cloth of the same color, and brought out a roast partridge with another yeasty milk bread, and a sauce that smelled of almonds. The plates appeared to be made of peridot. The fourth course was brought by servers in crimson and the table was relaid in crimson cloth. The dish was succulent slices of roast pheasant on plates of emerald, dressed in a sauce of pine nuts, orange juice, and cinnamon.

"This is ridiculous," I said to Jack when Ignazio announced the fifth course, exactly nine mouthfuls of peacock in a pistachio sauce. "Kings don't even dine in this sort of luxury."

Jack smirked at me. "And you know that how?"

He had me there. "Really, Jack, who eats peacock anymore?" I asked, looking down at the sapphire plate before me.

"It's rather amazing, I have to admit," he said, placing his hand next to mine on the table, now laid out with a violet linen tablecloth. "But I've seen many unexpected things since I met the Dalís. I've learned to just enjoy." He smiled, gently stroking my fingers, and a thrill shot through me. A normal thrill—the bubbly, happy kind, not the hot, dark-edged, dangerous kind that infused Ignazio's touch.

Gala noticed immediately. "Jack, come here," she barked, and he dutifully got up and went to her, bending down to let her whisper in his ear.

"What did she say?" I whispered when he returned to his seat.

"To stay away from you," he said, covering his mouth with his hand.

But his foot found mine under the table, and my cheeks grew hot with the notion that I might be a rival for Jack's affection.

Despite enjoying the attention from Jack, I couldn't help but drink Ignazio in when he appeared before us to announce the dessert course. Dear god, he was beautiful. He wore a black suit with red embroidery—a stark contrast to the servers, now in white, who waited at the edges of the room, ready to take our plates. His dark hair was a little wild, but everything else about him was perfectly tailored and groomed. He gave us a graceful bow, and when he stood again, his eyes were fixed on me. Perhaps it was because I sat in the middle of the table, but it seemed as though I was the primary person he honored with that bow. He flashed a smile at me, and again, the urge to reach for him conflicted with the simultaneous urge to run from the room and never look back.

Jack's touch on my upper thigh broke the spell. I must have let out a little gasp, for he quickly withdrew his hand and looked toward Gala. She wasn't paying attention.

"Are you okay?" he asked me, but there was a mischievous look in his eye.

I was unable to answer. The air in the room felt heavy, and I had the distinct sensation that I was caught in a hopeless trap between these two men.

Ignazio moved toward us. "For you, my queen," he said, laying a semitransparent red plate before me.

"Jacinth!" Dalí waved a hand in the air in a gesture of approval.

The jacinth plate contained four bite-size confections, each topped with a single pomegranate seed and covered in powdered gold.

"I am not a queen," I managed, though the notion did give me the strangest thrill. I brushed the seed aside and bit into one of the sweets. "Oh, heavens." I determined they were made from dates, pistachios, rosewater, and perhaps a healthy dose of magic. I took another bite. If I thought I could have died happy from the sweet wine, I was even more convinced I could from this treat. I glanced up at our host to share my appreciation, but he was looking in Dalí's direction.

"Proserpina," Dalí admonished me. "You have not eaten the pomegranate seed." He pointed at my plate, the discarded aril glinting in the candlelight.

"Why do you care?" I asked him, unamused. "And you realize my name is Julia, don't you?" I said it teasingly, hoping not to offend, but then I wished I had put more force into those words, because he seemed to miss my point.

"Yes! Julia of the Julii," he cried out, raising his hands toward the heavens.

I didn't understand what he meant, but at least he seemed to acknowledge I had an actual name, though he wouldn't let up on my eating the pomegranate aril.

"Now, Proserpina, you must eat the seed," he begged me. "How else will you return to your Pluto?"

"I don't have a Pluto," I said, exasperated.

Ignazio cleared his throat. "While you may not believe in Pluto, you're missing out on the true delight of this confection, Julia. The chef prides himself on creating the best possible combinations of flavor, and without the pomegranate seed, you will not understand the true measure of his genius." He nodded at the remaining candies on my plate. "Please, try it as the chef intended."

At least he had the courtesy of getting my name right, I thought as I considered the dessert before me.

"Don't eat it if you don't want to," Jack said in an exaggerated whisper. "But you know you want to."

Don't... Another whisper echoed in my ear, the same whisper I had heard in the garden and the library.

All eyes were upon me. I wanted to eat the sweets—the first had been delicious—but not under such duress and not with the seed on top.

"I can't possibly eat them all," I finally said. I offered a compromise to our host. "I will have one if you will help me eat one."

Ignazio eyed me hesitantly.

"I will help you, Proserpina." Dalí reached for the candy.

"Perfect. I'll have one, you have one, and Ignazio can have the other." I looked back at our handsome host, daring him to defy this wish of mine.

"I have already eaten my fill tonight," Ignazio said with a slight shake of his head.

"Very well." I lifted the plate to pass the confections to Dalí.

"Fine, fine." Ignazio stopped me with a note of concern. "I'll eat one."

I smugly took one of the sweets, and after Dalí had taken up his morsel, I tipped the plate toward Ignazio. He gingerly accepted the remaining candy.

"Together," I said, lifting the morsel to my mouth.

A brief emotion akin to fear flashed in Ignazio's eyes, but then it was gone, and I wondered if I had been mistaken. In unison we ate the candy. When he closed his eyes to savor it, I shut mine.

As the sweetness melted on my tongue, an intense, warm darkness enveloped me. I found myself in a shadowy, labyrinthine garden where the scent of roses and night-blooming jasmine was intoxicating. I sensed rather than saw a presence, a formidable figure lurking just beyond my vision. Though the feeling of love and passion overwhelmed me, there was also an unsettling undercurrent, like the rumble of distant thunder. Whispers seemed to dance around me, seductive yet laced with something I couldn't quite place—danger, perhaps, or even betrayal. A voice called out, deep and resonant, uttering words I couldn't understand but felt I should. Just as I was about to turn, to glimpse who—or what—was behind me, the vision shattered.

A massive crash against one of the windows caused Gala to scream. When I opened my eyes, Dalí had jumped to his feet and was staring wildly in its direction. Paolo and Jack ran to the window, yanking open the velvet drapes, but Ignazio didn't move or even open his eyes. He stood as if locked in a spell.

"Well, will you look at that," Jack said, pointing to the detailed dust marks of five birds that must have slammed up against the panes.

"My lord," Gala exclaimed, her hand upon her chest as if to protect it.

"They must have hit at the exact same time," Paolo observed.

Jack shook his head. "How could they do that?"

There was a brief silence as we stared at the impressions on the window. Ignazio stood next to me, his fists clenched, his normally calm demeanor replaced by a visible tension in his body and an angry fire in his eyes. "Poor doves," he said finally.

I wondered why he assumed they were doves.

"Should we go see if they are all right?" I asked, horrified.

"This side of the castello is on the edge of a cliff, remember?" Gala said.

"When a bird hits the window, it means death is nigh." Dalí waved his walking stick around wildly. "Someone is going to die," he squealed.

"That's just a superstition," I said, but as the words passed my lips I wondered if I believed it.

"But there are five bird marks," Jack pointed out. "Does that mean five deaths?" He was being facetious, but it was a chilling thought, and no one responded.

After a long moment, Ignazio stepped forward and closed the curtains. When he turned around, all concern had disappeared from his face, and he was smiling. "We must not let a freak accident mar our evening." He briefly touched Gala on the shoulder and led her away from the window.

"The musicians," I observed, suddenly noting that they'd never stopped playing. "The disturbance should have broken their song, but it's like they didn't even notice it."

Jack looked back at the quartet, who were not far from the window. "That is weird," he agreed, but he didn't offer a guess as to why they didn't react to the crash. Instead, he put his hand on my back. "Maybe we can dance later..." he said in a low voice.

I didn't picture the group of us doing much dancing, and besides, Gala had warned him to steer clear of me, but his touch gave me comfort.

Ignazio led us to a smaller salon decorated with accents of red and gold, but the mood had shifted, so much so that Paolo announced he was retiring for the evening.

I sat on one of the love seats, and to my surprise, Gala joined me—I assumed to keep Jack and me apart. It worked. Jack deposited himself across from us in a chair next to Dalí. Ignazio brought us goblets made from pink glass and poured us a much more significant portion of the golden drink than he had given us earlier. Then he said good-night, and the music in the other room stopped, replaced by only the crackling fire in the fireplace.

"Please, stay," Gala implored him. "Have a drink with us."

"I cannot. But thank you, Signora Dalí, for the offer."

"What if we want more wine?" Dalí asked.

Ignazio raised an eyebrow. "You won't."

Then he was gone, and I could have sworn the room temperature dropped a degree or two.

I didn't feel up to drinking much, but it was hard not to indulge in the wine, which I was beginning to believe may have actually come from the gods. It made us jovial, giddy even. And as the conversation jumped from art and surrealism to Jack growing up on his grandparents' farm on a ridge overlooking the Snake River in a forlorn place called Burley, Idaho, I found myself thinking that perhaps the peculiarity of the day wasn't all that peculiar, that it was just me, because this moment with these people felt good, and I was happy.

Eventually, though, I set my wine aside. I didn't want to destroy my good feelings by taking them a step too far.

Gala motioned at my glass. "I'll have that if you don't want it."

"By all means," I said, picking it up and pouring my wine into hers.

"This wine is outstanding, isn't it?" She leaned over to me, giggling.

I giggled with her. "It's the best I've ever had."

Her smile dissipated. "But something is wrong," she said, slurring her words slightly. "With the wine. With this place. With all of it." She waved her arm wide.

"I know what you mean," I said, feeling my world tilt back to the stranger side of the day.

She put her hand on my cheek, an intimate caress. "No, you don't. Because something is wrong with you too."

"What do you mean...?" I began to ask, but she leaned in and stopped my words with a kiss. Although I was a bit shocked, I was tipsy and feeling a new affection for Gala, who had been somewhat mean and cold to me until now. I let myself get lost in the sensation for a moment, but she pulled away abruptly.

"Eww," she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as I sat there, horrified and embarrassed. "Now I remember why I don't like women." She stood and deposited herself into Jack's lap.

"Now, now, Gala, I'm sure Julia is a perfectly fine kisser," he said to her as she slid a hand into his hair. But he only had eyes for me. "You just don't have enough practice with the fairer sex. Let me try—I would like to find out the truth of the matter."

"I would observe this and declare judgment," Dalí said, his mustache twitching.

But I wasn't about to have my sexual prowess tested in such a way. "That won't be necessary," I said, getting up. "I'll leave you to your games."

Dalí and Jack protested, but Gala only muttered something in Russian that I thought was probably akin to good riddance .

I stumbled back toward my room, the effects of the wine hitting me even harder after I stood. The castello was creepy at night, silent, the fixtures in the hallways far enough apart that there were little dark spots between the splashes of light. If I hadn't drunk the wine, I probably would have been terrified. I wasn't drunk , not like I had been at some of the art school parties I had attended with Lillian. But everything around me was slightly fuzzy, and as I neared the library, I decided it would be a good idea to retrieve Giulia's diary and take it back to my room with me. The curtains were open and there was just enough moonlight for me to see the switch on the wall. I pressed it and went to the shelf, and although there was likely no one in the castle that might have taken it, I was still relieved to see it there. I had just shut off the light and was turning the corner when I ran smack into Demetra.

"Oh!" I exclaimed, angling my body so she couldn't see me slide the journal into the deep pocket of my wide-legged trousers. For some reason, I didn't want her to know I had borrowed it.

"It's rather late to be in the library, signorina," she said, her voice devoid of emotion.

"I thought to borrow a book to read in bed, but they're all in Italian." I wasn't about to tell her I could read a little of the language.

She pushed past me and shut the door to the library, staring at it intently for a moment. Then, without another word, she headed down the hallway.

Back in my room, I locked the door behind me. I considered looking out the window to see if the mysterious green glow was there again but decided I would rather not know. Instead, I pulled on my pajamas and settled into bed with the journal. If only I had an Italian dictionary with me. So many of the words were unfamiliar, though I understood enough to glean that Giulia's stories sounded an awful lot like they were about the monsters in the garden. I reread the pages a few times and determined that she was perhaps dreaming them, not describing the statues in the boschetto . One phrase in particular jumped out at me: Abbiamo preso il passaggio segreto per il boschetto. We took the secret passage into the little wood.

Secret passage? Many castles of the time period had subterranean passages to enable the nobles to escape if the keep was besieged.

A knock on the door startled me. I sat up in bed, my heart pounding.

"Julia?"

At Jack's voice, I breathed a sigh of relief, slid the journal into my nightstand drawer and opened the door to find him leaning inward on the frame, one arm above his head. He had a sweet drunken smile on his face. "Julia."

"What are you doing here, Jack?" I asked. "Where are Gala and Dalí?"

He waved a hand down the hallway toward their room. "I had them go ahead."

"But they're expecting you," I said. It wasn't a question so much as a request for confirmation.

"Gala is always expecting me. But I don't always give in to her." He looked down at me with a wide smile.

"I see," I said, backing up a step as I realized that he was at least a foot taller and could easily see down my top, which was rather revealing. He took that as an invitation to come in, but I put a hand on his chest to stop him.

"I can't stop thinking of you kissing Gala," he said. "There is nothing wrong with you. She's a fool."

"Humph. I think I might be the fool," I said, the humiliation of that moment coming back to sting me. Worse, I knew she was right, not about me being a bad kisser, but about there being something wrong with me. The blackness of my past covered me like a cloak.

Jack cupped my cheek with his hand. "Would I be a fool if...?" He leaned down to kiss me, and I decided to let him.

His kiss was different than Gala's—harder, more purposeful, but still tender. He wrapped his arm around me, pulling me close, then laced one of his big hands in my hair, heightening the moment's intensity.

When the kiss broke, he looked at me with a goofy grin. "Not the fool," he said.

I knew he was hoping to step farther into the room, shut the door, and take me to bed. And a large part of me wanted that too. Gods knew I didn't like sleeping alone in that room. But I had just met Jack, and I needed more time to assess his worthiness for my bed.

"Not the fool," I agreed. "But not tonight," I said, keeping my hand firm on his chest.

"One more?" he asked. "For the road?"

I had to laugh. "Just one."

It was a long, lingering kiss. I almost gave in. Perhaps next time I would.