My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century Read online

  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 dini
ng 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.

  I decide to pass on that.

  “How about you, Signor di Rialto?” I ask to get the heat off me for a while and hopefully to learn more about this mysterious person doing business with my uncle. “How do you spend your time?”

  He takes a sip of wine and looks at Uncle Marco. “Before I answer, if I may, please call me Niccolo. I believe I am among friends here.” Uncle Marco nods, and they exchange a weighted glance. He then turns back to me. “As for entertainment, I, too, enjoy dancing.”

  “Niccolo is also a great patron of the arts,” Uncle Marco tells me.

  I swing my eyes back to Niccolo to catch him sitting up straighter in his chair. “It is true, though I do not wish to boast. However, if Signorina Patience wishes, perhaps I could take her to see the David sculpture by the artist Michelangelo?”

  And my mouth hangs agape.

  I mean, sure, I saw it a few days ago, back in my own time and at the Accademia where it was eventually moved, but not at its original location right after its completion!

  I nod like a bobblehead.

  Niccolo smiles triumphantly and raises his eyebrows at my uncle. Then he turns to me and says, “It would be an honor to escort you to the Palazzo della Signoria after our business has concluded this afternoon. If you are, indeed, interested?”

  I slap a hand over my mouth in awe. “Are you serious? That would be amazing!” I realize I’m shouting, and I wince, putting my palms up. “Sorry, I got a little excited there. But seriously, I would love to.” I catch Alessandra’s eye, and she gives me an odd look. “Um, but can Alessandra come, too?”

  With another nod from my uncle, Niccolo turns back to me. “Of course.”

  The rest of the meal, consisting of fish, omelets, a cheese platter, pasta, and flan for dessert, flies by as my body thrums with anticipation. I wish I could go with Lorenzo instead, but the idea of seeing David mere months after Michelangelo finished it with anyone makes me antsy. So antsy that I almost don’t hear what my aunt tells Niccolo over the din of servants collecting plates.

  “We must introduce her to society, and it has been entirely too long since we have held a ball in our home.”

  I swallow and turn to Aunt Francesca. “A ball? You’re having a ball? When?”

  She beams at me as though she’s divulging fabulous news. “We are having a ball. Tomorrow. And it is for you, Patience. Once word of your impending arrival spread, I was hounded like a fox about the details. It was meant as a surprise.” She turns back to Niccolo, unaware of my lack of enthusiasm. “It shall be the talk of the town!”

  “Mama hosts the most splendid balls,” Alessandra says, every bit as excited as my aunt. She leans in to whisper in my ear, “And I am sure Lorenzo will look dashing as always.”

  Happy chatter springs up about dresses, guest lists, food, and music. Alessandra carries on an animated conversation with my aunt about the last ball’s gossip. Cipriano and Niccolo discuss the dignitaries, nobles, and merchants they expect to attend. My uncle remains stoic as always. And no one notices my silence.

  I clear my throat. “But I do not want a ball,” I tell the table, my shaky voice growing stronger. “Or to be introduced to society.”

  Alessandra places her hand on my arm and frowns in confusion. “But it is expected. And why would you not want a ball? You said you enjoy dancing.”

  “Dancing I like. Being gawked at and having everyone stare at me? Not so much.”

  Palpable tension radiates off Uncle Marco, reminding me we have a guest at the table. My teeth click shut, and I hold back my next rebuttal.

  Is it my destiny to have to put up with unwanted galas and to be thrust under microscopes? Is this why Reyna sent me here, the lesson I’m supposed to learn? That I just need to accept it and go with the flow? I don’t think so.

  Aunt Francesca clears her throat and looks at me with concern. “I can assure you, no one will be gawking at you.” The way the word rolls off her tongue in Italian, I can tell she has no clue what it means. “But I shall be by your side when you are introduced. You will do beautifully.”

  Beautifully. Right. Because my previous experiences in the spotlight have led to such an obvious conclusion.

  But we have company, so I nod curtly and shovel the last bite of flan into my mouth, swallowing my argument. As I devour the sweet cus
tard, I contemplate my options. I don’t have many. The only thing I can think to do is go along with the idea for now, then claim to be sick the night of the ball. By then it will be too late to reschedule or postpone, and it’ll have to go on without me.

  I smile at Aunt Francesca and see her relax.

  I settle back in my seat and lick my spoon. I’ll placate my aunt for now, but I’m still in control here. I’ve come five hundred years to escape a Sweet Sixteen. I’m not about to get stuck with a Renaissance ball.

  Chapter Ten

  Outside, the Via della Condotta is bustling. It’s smack dab in the middle of the fashion district of Florence, with most of the seven clothing guilds surrounding it. Sixteenth-century fashionistas flock here when they have money to blow on satin and velvet gowns sewn with pearls or precious jewels, or when they’re in the market for the finest wool or leather tunics.

  All of this I learn from Niccolo, who continues a running commentary on every single building or street we see, as if he’s my newly assigned tour guide. As he pontificates about the importance of whatever building is in front of us, I completely tune him out. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the information he’s giving—parts of it have actually been interesting—but his know-it-all aura is suddenly getting completely under my skin. I can’t wait until we reach David so I can teach him a thing or two.

  The cool autumn breeze blows my skirt around my ankles and tickles my skin, and I shiver. I rub my arm and accidently bump into Alessandra. The girl’s been walking next to me the entire time, but you’d never know it. She’s been uncharacteristically quiet.

  I grab her elbow and let Niccolo walk a few more steps in front of us. “What’s up, Less? Are you okay?”

  She glances at our escort still yammering on several feet in front of us, then back to me. “I am fine, cousin.” She forces a smile. “Merely thinking.”

  Though her acting skills are commendable, I don’t buy it. Whatever is bothering her obviously has something to do with Niccolo, and I make a mental note to ask her about it the moment we’re alone. But until then, I’m still determined to shake her out of this eerie silence.