My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century Page 3

  I have definitely seen one too many movies.

  Staring into the flames, Reyna chants, “Powers that be, powers of three, let Caterina’s destiny be all that I see.”

  She repeats it two more times before grabbing my hands and closing her eyes.

  Nothing happens, and I assume whatever voodoo stuff she tried to do failed. Surprise, surprise. I go to get up, and then the table begins to shake.

  Reyna’s cool fingers snake up and grasp my wrists.

  I try to wrench them away, but Reyna’s grip tightens as she pulls me forward and throws her head back.

  Suddenly the flame snuffs out and the room goes black.

  Every sense I have goes on red alert as I try to remember any of the moves from the self-defense class Dad made me take. I can see the headline now: DAUGHTER OF HOLLYWOOD MURDERED BY NUTCASE GYPSY.

  She frees my wrists, and I cradle them to my chest even though they don’t hurt. A queasy feeling churns in my stomach. My skin prickles, and there is a subtle yet undeniable roar in my ears.

  I sense Reyna moving around in the dark, and my muscles clench, ready to bolt. She strikes a match, and a spark ignites. When the large candle is relit, Reyna is standing over me, eyes glittering. I spring from my chair, my hand at my throat.

  “Dude, are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

  Reyna ignores my gasps for air and nails me with an eerie stare. “Caterina, a great adventure is in store for you. Be sure to keep your mind open to the lessons ahead.”

  She nods toward the front of the tent, almost dismissively. I stand there disbelieving—and to be honest, more than a little frazzled—waiting for more. Surely she’s going to explain what all that was about.

  Or not. Instead of giving any semblance of an explanation for the creepy parlor trick I just witnessed, Reyna just continues to stand there smiling, bouncing on her toes.

  Okay, then.

  With a shake of my head, I move to the front of the tent. “Well, thanks. For the free reading. That was…interesting.”

  I grab my bag and slip my feet into my sandals. As I slide my sunglasses on, I keep waiting for her to say something, anything, but she remains silent.

  This chick is two French fries short of a Happy Meal.

  I stop just inside the tent, a hand on the front flap, to look at her one last time. Even from this distance, Reyna’s eyes visibly dance with emotion. I give a stilted wave, and she nods again, but as I turn around, she whispers, “Latcho Drom, Caterina.”

  With chill bumps racing down my spine, I pull back the flap and step outside.

  …

  My first thought as I take in my surroundings, squinting at the bright sunlight permeating my shades, is that I must’ve been in the tent for a lot longer than thirty minutes. My next thought is that Italians are crazy.

  The street is inexplicably filled with reenactors, dressed as if they’re at a Renaissance festival and taking their jobs way too seriously.

  I stand there blinking, watching a donkey-drawn cart full of produce roll past me down the narrow road. The clattering of the cart’s wheels on the cobblestones echoes off the buildings, and all of a sudden, I am hit with the powerful stench of animal feces.

  Lovely. Definitely time to head back to the hotel.

  Stepping away from the tent, I feel soft fabric brush across my leg. Absently, I look down and freeze.

  I’m wearing a flowing golden gown.

  What the heck?

  Flipping my sunglasses onto my head, I whirl back around to interrogate Reyna, but instead of the tent I just stepped out of, I see a goat. A freaking goat. Both the tent and Reyna are gone.

  What was in that gypsy tea?

  Mystified, I think back to the last half hour and try to make sense of what’s happened. All around me, people are dressed in similar period outfits, without a single badly dressed tourist in the bunch. The buildings look the same but cleaner, and somehow everything seems brighter, the colors sharper. There are no rumbling engines to drown out voices or the rasping click of cicadas.

  I wander absently down the road, past reenactors hawking food from makeshift stalls, searching for any type of reflective surface to look into—perhaps a sideview mirror of a car or a shiny window—but the polizia must have cleared the streets for the weird reenactment. Maybe it’s a national holiday. How that explains my wardrobe change, however, is completely beyond me.

  I spin around, disoriented, and my backpack slaps hard across my back.

  Normalcy.

  I’m not crazy. I have my backpack, my white-knuckled grip on sanity. I stoop down and tear into it, grateful it’s loaded with so much crap. I unzip my makeup case and pull out my compact. When I glimpse my reflection, I do a double take.

  The first thing I notice is that my zit is gone.

  Hallelujah for small miracles!

  Then I notice the scrubbed face. Every lick of makeup that I painstakingly applied a few hours ago is gone. I like to think of the face as just another canvas to paint on, and right now, mine is completely blank. It’s like I’m auditioning for a Neutrogena commercial. Tilting the mirror farther and sliding off my shades, I see my hair is twisted on top of my head in a braided crown, a vibrant red ribbon threaded through it. Definitely not the way I fixed it—I stopped doing ribbons in kindergarten.

  Maybe I’m dreaming.

  I pinch myself. Hard. “Freakin’ A!”

  Nope, not a dream.

  Enrapt in the enigma that is suddenly my life, I rub my arm and stare at my backpack, the one thing that still makes sense. I don’t hear the man dressed like a crazed Shakespearean fanatic until he is standing right in front of me. He touches my hand and looks at me with concern. “Signorina D’Angeli?”

  My spine tenses, and my teeth clench, but I paste on a sunny smile. Someone was bound to recognize me or see the resemblance eventually. I yank my hand back and open my mouth to inform him he’s wrong—that I’m not my mother—but out comes, “Vi sbagliate.”

  Holy crap!

  Do I know what I said? I think for a moment and realize I do. I’d said, “You are mistaken.”

  Since when do I know Italian?

  He gives me a puzzled look and motions with his cane toward a carriage that is sitting on the side of the narrow road. I look at the people traipsing about and realize I’ve become the center of attention—as if I’m the weird one!

  My worst nightmare is coming true, standing in the middle of their scrutiny with no place to hide. Having one parent in front of the camera and the other behind it, you’d think I’d relish the attention. Or at least be used to it.

  I hear their muffled whispers and understand every Italian word. Every witty comment made at my expense.

  It’s like my brain is automatically translating.

  I bunch the soft fabric of the dress in my hand and then reach up to feel the ribbon in my hair. I lightly skim my fingers over my chin and feel my lack of zit. I take in the costumes of the crowd, the stench of the animals, and the Italian I can now speak and understand. And suddenly it hits me.

  Reyna must have pulled some kind of gypsy mojo.

  Maybe this is one of those nifty “change your life” magic scenarios like in the movies. I mean, mostly I’m still expecting to blink and be right back in the midst of overpriced, gaudy tourism, but for now, the gypsy-time-warp explanation is infinitely better than thinking I’ve lost my mind. As I decide to go with that option, I feel my frantic tension melt away.

  The growing crowd seems to notice my change in demeanor and begins shooting one another amused looks, but I don’t care anymore. A smile stretches across my face. Evidently I was wrong earlier; Reyna is a psychic mind reader, because if this is her special brand of bibbity-bobbity-boo, than she made my exact daydream from earlier in the courtyard come to life.

  The long gold gown, the braided hair, the Italian merchant’s daughter, the time period. I am in Renaissance Florence.

  I stare dumbly at the ground, the words and reality
sinking in.

  I’m in Renaissance Florence!

  Cane Man clears his throat and points toward the carriage again. I glance at my surroundings with new eyes and suddenly remember Reyna’s words. It’s as if they float in the air around me. Caterina, a great adventure is in store for you.

  A maniacal laugh escapes, and I don’t even try to stop it. The man shoots me a look of terror, and I wave him off. Reyna was right, this is an adventure, and there’s no way I’m letting it pass me by without reveling in it. Gypsy’s orders.

  Part of me wishes Dad could be here, too. He’d probably come back with killer ideas for a new historical or something. But being without Jenna for twenty-four whole hours (or I’m assuming, anyway, since that’s how long fairy-tale magic usually works, the whole stroke-of-midnight thing)? A mini-vacay from being the third wheel in my own pseudo-family? Yes, please. Sign me up for that kind of gypsy voodoo.

  Nodding at the man, I take a step toward the carriage. There has to be some type of timer set on how long the magic will last, and I don’t want to waste another second. His shoulders visibly relax, and his anxious expression clears.

  Then he shoots a pointed look at my backpack—obviously not the usual Renaissance accessory.

  To distract him, and to figure out exactly what I’m dealing with here, I ask him in Italian, “Excuse me, but can you tell me what year it is? For the life of me, I just can’t seem to remember at the moment.”

  The man’s anxious expression creeps back, and I stifle a laugh. He hesitates, as if he’s hoping to see I’m joking, and then replies, “It is the year of our Lord 1505. Are you ill, Signorina?”

  I laugh and throw my arms around his stiff shoulders. The year is 1505! Michelangelo finished David in 1504. He was still in Florence in 1505, along with Leonardo da Vinci and Raphael. The artists at the heart of the Italian Renaissance, my idols, are walking in the very same city I am at this very moment. I look around eagerly, half expecting to see one of them pass by with an ancient paint set and easel.

  The man steps back, seemingly scandalized by my overzealous behavior. I’m thinking hugging servants isn’t exactly par for the course in the sixteenth century, but I’m too giddy with excitement to worry about details. I take the man’s hand and practically drag him back to the carriage. People around us continue to stare, but I just smile and wave. Let them look; I don’t care.

  I’m in Renaissance Florence, baby!

  Chapter Four

  Outside my small window, it’s as if someone ripped a page from my history book and brought it to life. The inside of the carriage smells musty, but I lean out of the open window, and the warm aroma of fresh baked bread fills the air. Uniformed guards stand at regular intervals, perched beneath colorful banners in front of familiar ancient buildings, and nod as we roll past. Hordes of people dressed in a wide variety of period clothing shop in open-air markets comprised of makeshift tents and stalls. Peasants hobnob near aristocrats, vying for the freshest fruits and vegetables, and the streets are chaotic as patrons scream over the clamor of sellers calling out their wares. A herald gallops alongside the carriage, proclaiming the news of the day.

  Even though I know I’m in the midst of gypsy magic, I still can’t believe it’s real.

  Sitting opposite me is the man I assume is my chaperone for this journey. He hasn’t said a word since we climbed on board the carriage, but I catch him stealing glances and shaking his head. Damage control is obviously in order. If I want to enjoy this trip to the past and not be thrown into the loony bin or cast aside as a cultural ignoramus, I’m going to have to call upon the acting genes I inherited from my mother and play the role I’ve been given.

  Luckily, I’ve picked up a thing or two about the process from visiting Dad’s sets, so I know the first thing any actress worth her salt does when prepping for a role is create a backstory and then conduct research. The backstory will have to be filled in as details become available, but here’s what I know about the Renaissance: it began in Florence in the Middle Ages and spread throughout Europe. Crazy-talented artists like Michelangelo, da Vinci, Raphael, and Botticelli exploded during this time. And last but certainly not least, a little-known playwright was born. A man named William Shakespeare.

  From my carriage window, I watch period costumes parade by and thank the stars that fashion improved from the drab frocks people wore in the Dark Ages. But period trendsetters are still making quite a few faux pas. Men have on colored tights and puffy shorts—though honestly, it’s hard to complain about the yum-a-licious views of their well-toned legs—and the women aren’t much better, sporting sickly white makeup and garish scarlet cheeks.

  I’m in the middle of trying to remember how close Verona, the setting for Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, is to Florence when the carriage rolls through the arched doorway of a four-story, tan stone building and stops in the middle of a lush courtyard.

  And just like that, all thought of role preparation is forgotten.

  My chaperone steps out of the carriage and turns to take my hand. He guides me down, and I stroll in a trance-like state to the center of the space where a marble fountain sits. The gentle trickle of water coaxes me closer, and I walk up the delicately sculpted steps to peer over the edge.

  I have no idea why we stopped, why we’re here, or even where here is—but it’s gorgeous. My hand snakes into my backpack, and I pull out a quarter. Before tossing the coin into the watery depths, I close my eyes.

  Let this not be a dream.

  Chaperone Man clears his throat behind me. I turn my head to see him giving me the same weird, pointed look again, and I stifle a laugh. I really need to do a better job of being more sixteenth century–like.

  I take a seat on the top step and lean against the cool stone, breathing in the scent of wet earth and flowers from a nearby garden. Carved columns and sculpted arches frame the courtyard along with countless rounded windows. The same peaceful feeling from the previous palazzo rushes over me.

  A moment later, the slow build of click-clacking forces me to stand. I turn with a sigh as a simply dressed servant rushes across the stone floor. She bows at my feet before turning toward Chaperone Man and asking for my name.

  “Pray tell your master that Signorina Patience D’Angeli has arrived.”

  The servant scurries away, I assume to announce my arrival, and I consider this newest development.

  Patience. Is that, like, an actual name? More importantly, is that seriously what they believe is my name? Even in the beautiful Italian language in which my chaperone spoke, the name is horrid. It figures the universe would pull this kind of cosmic joke. Having a cool or exotic name, like Margherita or Bella or Anastasia would be too perfect. Instead, the powers that be stick me with boring old goody-goody Patience.

  Sounds like a girl who knows how to party.

  A chirping voice above interrupts my internal rant, and I peer up to see a dark head scamper past an open window. The servant returns and motions us toward a huge stairway.

  Suddenly I’m nervous. I let the two of them walk ahead, realizing I don’t know anything about the people who live here. I don’t even know if Patience is supposed to know them. A masculine voice floats from inside the house, and my breathing escalates.

  What if they already have expectations of me, like everyone else in my life?

  My heart hammers in my chest, but before I can get too carried away wondering how I should act, a man descends the stairs with open arms. He has salt-and-pepper hair and wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, the kind you get from years of smiling. He steps in front of me and envelops me in a hug.

  “How beautiful you are, Patience. You are an honor to your father and mother, Signore rest their souls.”

  I pat his back awkwardly and rush to process the incoming information like puzzle pieces. This family is rich. The man of the house—besides having no concept of personal space—is obviously kind. A definite plus. And apparently my parents, or Patience’s parents, are dead.<
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  The chaperone trudges past us, carrying a huge black trunk in his arms. He nods at the man still hugging me and carries the load up the stairs.

  The owner of the house finally steps back and points to himself. “I am your uncle Marco. I am sure you do not remember me. It has been many years since your family moved to London, but I once held you in my arms.” He tightens his lips into a straight line and looks up to the sky for a moment before continuing. “The loss of my brother and his wife is great, but it is my honor to welcome you into our home and family.”

  I open my mouth, unsure of what to say or how to respond, and am saved by the pitter-patter of several pairs of feet on stone steps. Anxious, I straighten my shoulders, preparing to meet the rest of the welcome wagon. I stand on tiptoe for a glimpse, and a jolt of fear shoots through me.

  Behind my uncle, my mother approaches.

  I blink. Same dark hair, dark eyes, and beautiful face. But there is one striking difference, and that’s what allows me to begin breathing again. Plastering this woman’s face and shining in those dark eyes is an authentic smile—and there ends the uncanny resemblance. That particular expression has never graced the face of Mommy Dearest, aka Caterina Angeli, the temptress of Hollywood.

  If anything, this woman’s smile reminds me of Jenna.

  The Caterina/Jenna mismatch pulls me into another hug. Great, I’m surrounded by a family of huggers.

  She shakes me back and forth and kisses both cheeks. “What a beauty! Oh, look at you!” She leans back and grabs my chin to scrutinize my face. I struggle to look away from her intent gaze, but she has a ninja grip. “Oh, how I have eagerly awaited this day!” Then she giggles and throws her arms around me again.

  “Pray, Mama, give my cousin some air. Do you wish her to suffocate on the day of her arrival?”