My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century (10 page)

Despite the high ceilings and row of windows, the kitchen is a sweltering sauna. Frustrated and sweaty, I escape into the hall and nearly run over a servant carrying a huge woven basket piled high with fresh linens.

“Whoa,” I say, reaching out to keep it from falling out of the girl’s arms. “Didn’t watch where I was going. Sorry about that.”

“Patience?”

I pluck the basket out of the girl’s arms and look into Lucia’s shocked eyes. “Hey! I was just looking for you. Need some help?” I wrap my arms around the basket and glance down the hall, looking for a laundry room.

“No,” she whispers, snatching it back. “And you should not be up here.”

I stagger back at her open hostility and fold my arms. “I was just trying to help. You don’t have to be so nasty.”

Lucia’s furrowed brow relaxes. She sets the load on the ground, looks around, and motions with her head for me to follow her down the hall. Annoyed with her snippiness, my inability to get away from memories of home, and severe boredom, I tromp behind her. We stop beside a wooden staircase.

“It is not right for you to help servants,” she tells me in a hushed voice. “Your aunt and uncle would be displeased.”

I prop my foot against the stone wall behind me and close my eyes. This day is not turning out the way I’d expected after waking up holding Lorenzo’s hand. To be honest, it kinda blows. But I can’t blame Lucia for looking out for me, even if she does insist on doing so in her own rude-mannered way. “Fine, I’ll go. But I want brownie points for trying to help a sister out.”

Lucia shakes her head, but I see her lips twitch as I turn toward the stairs with a huff. “Patience,” she calls after I take a step, and I look back, hopeful. Maybe she’ll give me the distraction I need, after all. “We shall meet in your room shortly to prepare for dinner. Do not tarry.”

I sigh and roll my eyes.
Please
, I want to tell her,
Cat Crawford’s never been late for anything in her life
. I live with precision and punctuality—or at least I did before I came here, the land of no watches—but the pointed look Lucia tosses my way tells me she doubts that.

Whatever. It’s not as if she knows anything about the
real
me.

I stomp down the stairs, still thinking about home, and decide I may as well start the tour all over. I can’t exactly flip on soap operas or anything.

Exploring the first floor again, I trudge through the atrium and pause to study the log-cabin appearance of the wood ceiling. When I look down, my eyes fall on a hallway I somehow missed earlier, tucked away in the back of the room. Intrigued and wondering what secret places the hall will lead to, I cross the room.

When I turn the corner, I hit the jackpot. Dozens of paintings on canvases larger than most cars back home line the walls—but it’s not the artists’ talent that freezes me in place. The entire house is filled with beautiful paintings of random pastoral scenes, celestial beings, and biblical depictions. No, the reason my pulse is racing and my mouth is gaping open is because these paintings are of people. D’Angeli people.

My people.

I stand before them reverently, analyzing each brush stroke, each detail, wondering if somehow the paintings hold clues to get me home again. Could the reason I’ve been sent here be as simple as an ancestry lesson?

My shoes
clack
against the fired-brick floor—no soft rugs here—as I follow my family line down the hall. Generations of D’Angelis stare solemnly back, and I can’t help wondering what’s happened to these portraits in the future. When I get home—because I
am
getting home—I’m so googling them.

The final portrait at the end of the gallery is of three men, standing together regally and looking important. And smack dab in the middle, staring back, his eyes shining with barely withheld amusement, is Uncle Marco.

“These must be the D’Angeli brothers,” I whisper, running my finger along the rough, dried paint. “Which means one of these men is Patience’s father.”

For the first time since taking her place, I let myself imagine what it would feel like to be the real Patience. Alone in a new city, with a family I don’t remember, starting over after losing both of my parents.

Mom
chose
to leave me, but I can’t even think about losing Dad, too.

Another sharp pain hits my stomach, and the force of it hunches me over. The narrow hallway presses even closer, the air sucked out as if by a vacuum.

I frantically search the long hall for an open window, needing fresh air, and see a closed door across from me. If the rest of the house is any indication, it’ll lead to yet another empty bedroom filled with windows.

Wrapping an arm around my stomach, I tear at the knob and throw the door open—and stumble into my uncle’s personal chambers.

“Oops.”

Uncle Marco’s out of his chair and walking around his heavy wooden desk before I can bolt. “Patience, please, come in!”

I give him a tight smile and hide behind the large chair in front of me, fidgety and claustrophobic. I twist the frayed edge of the rug covering around my finger.

Renaissance upholstery. Interesting style choice.

“Sorry to disturb you, Uncle,” I say, rocking in place and eyeing the door. “I, uh, took a wrong turn, but I’ll get out of your way now.”

I turn to leave, but a dark head pops up from the chair in front of me, scaring the crap out of me. I thought we were alone.

Uncle Marco walks over and puts a hand on my shoulder, anchoring me in place, as he turns to Niccolo. “Patience, you remember Signor di Rialto. He will be joining us for dinner.”

“I-It’s nice to see you again, Signore,” I stammer, attempting politeness in the midst of my panic attack. On autopilot, I raise my hand to shake. Niccolo quirks an eyebrow and lets his gaze dart from my hand to my face and back to my hand before I realize my mistake.

Faux pas number 1,008. I’m guessing ladies didn’t shake hands with gentlemen back in the day.

Niccolo winks his icy blue eyes and takes my hand in his. Squeezing my fingers, a slow smile stealing across his face, he says, “The pleasure is mine, Signorina.”

The suffocating claustrophobia that’s been clawing at me dissipates by a degree. Grateful for him covering my mistake with the handshake, I return his smile.

Despite being at least in his late thirties if not early forties, Niccolo definitely has the whole good-looking-Italian-male stereotype down. And he’s certainly polite. But knowing he’s an important business associate for my uncle—and aware of how badly I messed up the other night at the party—I can’t help fidgeting in front of him. Homesickness has me off my game, and the perfect mask of aloofness I usually pull on in situations like this is eluding me.

He releases my hand, and I twist it behind my back.

Niccolo bows his head. “Signorina Patience, your uncle has told me much about you.” He looks up and his gaze cuts through me. “But he failed to tell me how charming you are.”

Charming?
Could that be Renaissance code for
spastic
? I glance at my uncle, hoping for a clue why they were talking about me or a sign that I ruined his negotiations, but Uncle Marco gives me nothing.

“Um, thank you,” I murmur. Silently I add,
I think.

The clanging of church bells floats through the open window behind Uncle Marco’s desk, proclaiming to all of Florence that it’s time to eat, but no one moves. Niccolo continues to stare at me, and Uncle Marco watches us both, a small smile on his lips.

“Um, did I interrupt something?”

If the strange looks weren’t enough to confuse me, their lack of urgency completely throws me. In the short time I’ve been here, I’ve learned the entire city of Florence stops on a dime when the church bells ring at this time; it’s the universal signal for food. People here often skip breakfast, and suppers are usually light unless there’s a party or banquet, but no one misses lunch. It’s the biggest meal of the day.

The bells chime for the twelfth and final time, and Uncle Marco takes his hand off my shoulder. “Not at all. We shall see you in the dining room.”

Slowly backing away, I stop at the opened door and curtsy. “Uncle. Signore.”

They both nod, and I quickly shut the door behind me. Rushing to my room, I know Lucia is waiting for me, fuming. So much for my declaration of never being late.

The meal they call dinner here is not the simple lunch of sushi or ham on wheat I’m partial to back home. In Renaissance times, it’s an entire six-course extravaganza. And today we have company. Just the thought of how many ways I can screw this up, like the choking the other day or the handshake earlier, makes me break out in a cold sweat.

Lucia stands at my open door with a scowl on her face. “They will be waiting.”

“Sorry,” I tell her, plopping down on the stool and handing her a brush. I know the drill by now. “I got caught up.”

Her harsh brushing tells me she doesn’t care. It also clues me in to how important this business arrangement with Niccolo must be. Her nimble fingers twist my hair into a complicated, elaborate updo, and she places a jeweled wreath on my head. She then clips an ornate necklace around my neck and backs away.

Lucia nods curtly and walks out, giving me a few stolen moments alone before I face the firing squad.

“Breathe, Cat,” I tell my reflection. “It doesn’t matter if you mess up. No one
here
expects you to be perfect.”

Maybe not, but as they say, old habits die hard.

A spritz of contraband perfume for luck, and a quick mirror check confirms I’ve done the best I can.

With a sigh, I begin the long walk to the dining room.

La sala dei pappagalli
—quite literally “the room of the parrots”—is a huge space with walls painted in patterns of diamonds and tropical birds. It’s so bright, and the shapes so dizzying, I find it hard to eat much. A good thing, considering the sheer volume of food provided.

I take my place at the massive oak table next to my aunt, not finding it at all humorous that Niccolo is seated opposite me. There certainly won’t be any hiding out for this meal.

Here’s to hoping I at least mess up in new and creative ways this time.

The servants bring out our first course—
ribollita,
a soup made of Tuscan bread, vegetables, and beans. I scoop the steaming broth, the sweet smell of onions, carrots, and tomatoes bringing me right back to my nana’s dining room table, and slurp.

“How are you enjoying Florence, Signorina Patience?”

I nearly choke in surprise. Putting down my spoon, I smile at Niccolo. “It’s beautiful. Everyone’s been very nice and welcoming.”

Well, maybe not everyone
, I think, a vision of Antonia flashing before my eyes. But then Lorenzo’s side grin replaces it, and I bite my lip to keep from smiling. Heat creeps up my neck.

“I was sorry to hear of your parents’ deaths. My mother also died from an epidemic.” Niccolo leans forward in concern. “I met your brother once. He is a fine man. I am sure he is at a loss without your company.”

Aunt Francesca pats my hand. “I am sure of that as well. But he is just twenty-four and ill-prepared to take over the business along with seeing to Patience’s future, finding her a suitable match, and providing a dowry.”

She squeezes my hand, and I nod in fake gratitude. As long as all that mess happens way after I quantum leap back to my own time, we’re all good.

Niccolo nods at my aunt, then turns his clear blue gaze back toward me. “London’s loss is Florence’s gain. Tell me, Signorina, how do you spend your time?”

The question takes me off guard. No one, not even sweet Alessandra, has asked me about
me.
For that matter, no one in the twenty-first century really ever asked, either. I start to panic, wondering how the real Patience D’Angeli would answer, before I remember that no one here really knew her. My aunt and uncle hadn’t seen her in years.

“Well, I like music. And I like to dance. But my passion is art. Paintings, sculptures, jewelry, architecture—anything creative, really.”

A strange sort of high hums in my veins. Back home, I tried so hard not to talk about anything personal or anything that could be used against me later. Opening up now to a table full of people, all eyes focused on me, is completely new territory. I mean, I don’t even really talk about my art with Dad. It’s not that he doesn’t try to understand, but he just doesn’t get it.

“Do you sing as well?”

From the corner of my eye, I see Aunt Francesca suck in her lips. Alessandra fidgets with the folds in her skirt, Uncle Marco looks down at his plate, and Cipriano coughs uncomfortably.

Then a snort escapes, and five pairs of eyes lock on a shocked Cipriano.

“M-My apol—”

Another snort of laughter cuts his apology short, and his cheeks flash red. He makes a valiant effort to stop, but the image of my horrendous performance floating before his eyes must be too much. He chokes, sputters, and squirms before a full-force cackle of laughter bursts from his mouth. He slaps the table and sends a spoon flying. He looks to the floor in horror.

If it were anyone else, it would be different. But Cipriano tries so hard to be stoic and reserved, at least in public. We all stare at one another, them knowing it’s wrong to laugh at me, and me trying desperately to hold onto the mortification of that night. But it’s useless. The dam breaks, and everyone cracks up—including me—while a confused Niccolo looks on.

“Uh, that would be a negative,” I explain, wiping tears from my eyes. Alessandra erupts in another fit of giggles. “I take it the Stefani rumor mill hasn’t reached you yet, but let’s just say you’re lucky to have escaped their little soiree early the other night. My singing left much to be desired.”

Niccolo shakes his head as if to wave off the ridiculous notion. “I am sure your voice is like a bird.”

I catch Cipriano’s eye, and he smirks. “Unfortunate bird.”

The silent servants enter the room again, this time carrying trays of roast beef and a strange version of salad with cooked vegetables and some kind of weird clumpy meat.