My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century Read online

  My aunt laughs, unwraps her arms from around my neck, and then throws them around the girl beside her. The girl rumples the skirt of her celadon gown in one hand, fidgets with the flowers in her auburn hair with the other, and offers me a nervous smile. She appears to be about my age, maybe a little younger, and is astonishingly beautiful—the kind of girl guys back home would drool over and girls would hate, if not for her obvious awkward shyness.

  The woman squeezes the girl’s shoulder. “You are right; that would not do at all. Patience, please excuse my exuberance. I am your aunt Francesca, and this is your cousin Alessandra. And this,” she says, pausing to grab a young man’s hand and pull him forward, “is your cousin Cipriano. You are a most welcome addition to our family.”

  Alessandra and Cipriano. Two fancy Italian names—both complete mouthfuls. I decide to christen them Less and Cip, and then move onto appraising the boy before me. He’s a few years older than I am, and while he seems friendly enough, he definitely takes after his more reserved dad. He nods at me, and his dark hair brushes the shoulders of his cobalt-blue doublet. He’s cute in an aloof, boy-next-door sort of way.

  I scan the smiling faces before me. Besides a few strange glances at my backpack, they certainly have the whole welcome-committee thing down. But they can’t be for real. No one just invites a complete stranger into his or her home, right? I mean, I know they think I’m their niece, but I could be anybody off the street…and I kind of am.

  Ever mindful of my role, however, I nod at the perfect little family unit in front of me. “Thank you for your kindness. It is greatly appreciated in this time of sorrow. But if you do not mind, I am quite tired after my travels.”

  Heh, how’s that for acting on the fly? I’m totally nailing this old-world gig.

  Aunt Francesca’s face crumbles, and I stare, wide eyed. Having avoided female emotional drama for most of my life, I’m clueless as to how it all works. Was it something I said? Should I apologize or, since I’m supposed to be English, offer a “spot of tea”? I dart a worried look at the girl, Alessandra, but before I can stress too much, Aunt Francesca thumps her hand against her chest.

  “Oh, dear, I am so sorry. Please come inside.” She grabs my hand and begins pulling me up the stone steps. “Your exhaustion is to be expected. You have endured a long journey.”

  Longer than you know.

  The rest of the family follows us up the stairwell that leads to an elegant second floor. I try to take in the impressive high ceilings, dark wood furniture, painted walls, and tapestries, but suddenly I have difficulty just keeping my eyes open. Honestly, I’d only thrown out the excuse about being tired to get time alone to process, but knowing there’s a bed now looming in my very near future, I realize how exhausted I am. Gypsy magic must take a lot out of a girl.

  Aunt Francesca pulls me down a long corridor and stops before a thick, heavy door. When my uncle pushes it open, I have to squint at the sensory overload. Frescoed walls in a dizzying display of geometric shapes jump out at me, colorfully and loudly begging me to run my hand along the bumpy plaster. I blink to adjust my eyes and touch the wall, letting the texture tickle my fingers. The black travel trunk my chaperone carried up sits beside a painted chest in the corner of the room that completely dwarfs it. I wander over and feel my eyes practically bug out again at the delicate biblical scenes and images, each crafted in meticulous detail. It’s like having a mini Sistine Chapel right in my own bedroom.

  Across the room, near a large open window, are an elaborately carved, dark oak table and matching stool, both inlaid with an intricate mother-of-pearl design. A gold comb-and-brush set rests on the tabletop next to a small round mirror. And pressed against the back wall and swallowing up most of the floor space is a massive four-poster bed, complete with suspended royal-blue velvet curtains looped in knots.

  Besides the sparse furnishings, a few tapestries, and a family crest on the wall, the room is empty. Yet it feels more luxurious than most of the finest hotels I’ve stayed in.

  And I thought the room back at the hotel was impressive.

  My jaw drops as I take it all in, and Aunt Francesca smiles. “We will put away your belongings in here,” she says, placing her hand on the painted chest, “but it is my intention to indulge you now that you are with us. I insist upon you having the finest fabrics, done up in the latest Italian fashions.” She sits down on the chest and stamps her feet rhythmically. “I am so pleased to have another girl in the house to dress!”

  My uncle sidles up to my aunt and places his hand on her shoulder. “Come now, dear. We have all the time in the world to play dress-up. Patience is not going anywhere.” He looks back at me and winks, and I immediately decide I like him. “In the morning, the three of you may talk of fabrics and surcoats and all sorts of women’s matters. But this night, we shall let the girl rest. Now, Patience, is there anything you require before we leave you to catch your breath?”

  I shake my head and give him a grateful smile. “No, I’m good.” My uncle furrows his forehead, and Alessandra crinkles her nose. “I, I mean, I fare well. Thank you, Uncle.”

  The confusion washes from their faces, and I exhale in relief. We stand around staring at one another, them smiling politely, me waiting eagerly for them to leave. My uncle takes a step toward the door, and then, just as I’m feeling I have a handle on this whole time travel thing, my body takes over…and I break into a curtsy.

  Now, I’ve never curtsied before in my life, and certainly don’t know when it’s appropriate to do so in the sixteenth century, but if I had to judge, based on the exchanged glances, this is not one of those occasions.

  Oh, well. I can blame it on jet lag. Er, carriage lag.

  I pull myself back up and stretch my arms out in an overly exaggerated fake yawn. “I trust that I shall fall asleep the moment my head hits the pillow,” I say, forcing an awkward smile.

  Luckily, they get the hint. The family files out one by one, Alessandra hanging back at the end and studying me with a tilted head. I keep that pathetic excuse of a smile on my face and subtly nod toward the doorframe.

  She lowers her eyes and grins. “It is lovely to have you with us, cousin. I pray that you rest well.”

  I nod in response, no longer trusting my body and mouth not to betray me, and she bounces out of the room. With a sigh, I crumple against the closed door, finally alone in my Renaissance bedroom. My backpack falls to my elbow, and I reach inside, grabbing my iPhone and turning the power off—no sense in draining the battery on a lifeline to normalcy. Then I thump my head against the solid wood door and rest my eyes on the family crest mounted across from me.

  D’Angeli.

  I continue scanning the rich artwork, glancing at a tapestry of a bunch of angels in a room similar to mine, and then bolt upright.

  Angeli.

  My mother’s name.

  Slowly I cross over to the crest and trace the letters of the family name with my finger. The resemblance between my mother and my new aunt is eerie. Add to it the fact that I’m here, and there’s no way it’s a coincidence the two last names are so similar. At some point, someone must have dropped the beginning D’, thus creating the Americanized version Angeli.

  Which means this family doesn’t just believe I’m one of them…I really am. Just very, very far removed.

  I just hugged my ancestors!

  The reality makes my head spin.

  As I try to make sense of the latest twist, a scene from an old show I saw not too long ago flashes in my mind. I’d been flipping through the channels in my bedroom, avoiding the lovefest between Dad and Jenna in the living room, and stumbled across Quantum Leap on the Syfy network. While I only caught a few minutes, the premise completely sucked me in. The main character was a scientist who gets stuck time traveling throughout history, temporarily taking the place of other people to right various unknown wrongs.

  Squeezing my head, I backpedal until my knees knock against the bedframe. Could that be why Reyna sent m
e here? I mean, I’m obviously still in my own body, but maybe this isn’t just a twenty-four-hour joyride through history like I’d thought. Maybe this is one huge quantum leap to take Patience’s place and undo some kind of life-altering wrong?

  I free-fall onto the colossal, lumpy mattress and throw my arm over my eyes, blocking out the nauseating geometric shapes splattered on the walls. An hour ago—heck, a few minutes ago—this whole gypsy-trip thing seemed like a great excuse to leave my life behind, even if it was just for a day. But now, things are getting real. And scary.

  And monumentally confusing.

  If this is a real family—my real family—then where is the real Patience D’Angeli now?

  I kick off my shoes and cover myself with the soft sapphire coverlet, my heavy lids rebelling against the onslaught of possibilities. I’m too tired to even take off the pound of clothes I seem to be wearing. But right before I pass out, one final thought manages to creep into my exhausted brain.

  If Reyna did send me here for a specific reason, a reason I don’t know anything about, how will I ever get back?

  Chapter Five

  A rooster’s incessant crowing yanks me from a ridiculous dream about geometric shapes playing leapfrog. I yawn and snuggle deeper under the coverlet, trying to grasp the remaining wisps of beautiful sleep. Then the annoying form of poultry outside my window crows again, and I huff.

  Who let a freaking rooster get so close to our hotel? Somebody’s so getting fired.

  I throw off the covers, crack my eyes open in defeat, and stare at the hypnotic painted wallpaper.

  It wasn’t a dream.

  Yesterday’s events come rushing back, and I look down at my golden gown. Guess I can scratch hitting the shops with Dad and Jenna off my to-do list. I purse my lips and absently run my hand along the soft fabric. The fact that I’m still here also proves my Renaissance vacay wasn’t just a day trip.

  I draw in a shaky breath and try not to panic.

  Part of me knows this is the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me, but it’s also terrifying. If this is all real, and the magic didn’t end at midnight like in the fairy tales, then I’m completely flying blind.

  Why didn’t I make Reyna explain what was going on?

  I rub my forehead and play back her last words like a repeating track: Be sure to keep your mind open to the lessons ahead.

  Great. So this isn’t a pleasure trip, after all. I’m supposed to learn something. A lesson, like in some teenybopper show. I stare at the door and wait for Miley Cyrus to come barreling in, singing tunelessly about our pasts being the key to our futures. Just what I need, more focus on my past. I grab the pillow and throw it over my head.

  This is what I get for being wild.

  I never should’ve walked into that gypsy tent. I should’ve just gone to the hotel, gotten my bonus points for being back early, and let Jenna extol the virtues of public scrutiny. At least then, I’d know what I was dealing with—a future stepmother gung ho on ruining my life—and not some elusive lesson to learn.

  At least there’s one silver lining. If there is a lesson buried in all this, then learning it must be my ticket home…and if that’s the case, then when I go back is completely within my control.

  That I like.

  It’s not that I don’t miss Dad already. I do. I also miss air-conditioning. But if I can somehow hang around just long enough to also miss my Sweet Sixteen, or have them cancel it, that wouldn’t completely suck, either.

  A short rap on my thick, heavy door startles me, and a young servant girl enters the room. “Pardon me, Signorina.”

  I shake my head and blink. Despite realizing this isn’t a dream, my sudden ability to understand and translate Italian is still a shock to my spinning brain.

  The girl closes the door behind her. “The mistress has asked for you. She will be breaking her fast soon and insists you join her.”

  At the mention of food, my stomach rumbles. I think back and realize the last thing I ate was the biscotti sample in the market yesterday. I jump out of bed and quickly remember something else I haven’t done since then.

  Use the bathroom.

  I look around the room, expecting to see a chamber pot or some other disgusting device, anything that makes sense or looks familiar from my history books, but fail to find even that. My legs start to shake, and I bounce from foot to foot. From the corner of my eye, I catch the servant smirking. I narrow my eyes. There’s something familiar about her.

  She raises her hand and points to a small door I hadn’t noticed before. “The garderobe. If you need to relieve yourself.”

  Garde-what?

  I fly across the room and open the door. The overwhelming stench of sewage hits me, and I slap my hand across my nose and mouth. But the sight is glorious. Inside this minuscule closet is a small bench with a hole cut into it to create a primitive toilet. I can practically hear the Hallelujah chorus. I hike up my dress, sit down, and feel the sweet relief.

  When I’m finished, I return to my room feeling ten pounds lighter and see a bowl of water, several small cups, and a towel waiting for me. The servant girl motions me over. She cocks her head when I stare blankly at the strange mixture, then goes through the process of showing me how to brush my teeth with my finger and this weird homemade paste that tastes like sour honey. I keep thinking about the lovely travel toothbrush-and-toothpaste set waiting in my backpack. I just knew my neuroticism would pay off one day. While the girl is here, I’ll refrain from bucking the system—but I totally plan to sneak back up later.

  After I finish washing, she points to the stool, and I sit down. She untwists the braid I slept in and starts detangling the rat’s nest on my head. As she works, I realize we’ve barely spoken.

  “I’m Patience,” I tell her with only a hint of revulsion at the dreadful name rolling off my tongue. “What’s your name?”

  She pulls the brush through a particularly stubborn mass of knots, and when she answers, her voice barely floats over the rhythmic raking of the brush. “Lucia.”

  I nod toward the window. “Looks like a beautiful day today.”

  Silence.

  I guess she isn’t much for small talk, which I completely understand. I’m pretty much a loner myself…though that wasn’t always the case.

  A memory flashes from when I was seven years old, back when the world was rosy and I actually let people get close. My best friend Ella and I used to be glued at the hip, especially after my parents’ divorce. But then came the summer after I turned eight, when Ella moved and Mom hit the papers with yet another scandal. Classmates stopped accepting sleepover invitations, and suddenly I was no longer invited to theirs. After a while, it just became easier to pretend I didn’t need anyone.

  Closing my eyes against the icky onslaught of emotions and swallowing past the lump in my throat, I let Lucia’s relaxing brush strokes turn me into a pile of goo.

  Sadly, she eventually sets down the brush. She wraps a gold net around the back of my hair and places a jeweled wreath crown on top for the finishing touch. I rotate the small mirror she hands me around my head, admiring her work. While it’s still a shock to see myself sans makeup, I have to admit I’m digging these period hairstyles.

  Lucia pulls me to my feet and tugs off my gown as if we’re not practically strangers. I fling an arm across my chest while she strides to my trunk to rifle through clothes. I get that things are different here than what I’m accustomed to, but I’m still a little scandalized. She picks up a white linen shirt from the assortment of garments and hands it to me, raising an eyebrow as I attempt to grab it from her fingers while continuing to cover all my lady parts.

  I yank the scratchy wide-necked top over my head, along with the matching long-sleeved linen gown, complete with fitted waist and full skirt. It’s very plain, but I’m just happy to be clothed again. The last thing Lucia hands me is a beautiful hunter-green silk gown. “A surcoat,” she calls it.

  I slide the luxurious fabric ove
r my head and smooth it over my hips, wishing I had a full-length mirror. The gown really is more like an outer coat, with the bottom cut open in a V-shape to expose the white linen skirt underneath. The bodice of the surcoat has a white crisscross pattern, and the neckline sits right above my shoulder. It is sleeveless, resting on my shoulders and on top of the linen sleeves, which are trimmed in delicate lace at the wrists. I slip my feet into a pair of mules.

  Despite the layers of clothes and the stuffy room with no A/C, I feel elegant. Regal. Especially when I compare my ensemble to Lucia’s simple white gown and brown surcoat, accessorized with a stiff white apron and white bonnet. It has to be hard helping others get dressed in fancy clothes and rich fabrics while having to wear something so plain.

  A stab of guilt hits, but then my stomach rumbles. Loudly.

  The girl smirks again, giving me another surge of déjà vu, and wordlessly waves me toward the door. I nod in appreciation and run into the hallway before remembering I have no clue where to go.

  “Um, could you point me in the right direction?”

  She nods and steps in front of me, guiding me down the rug-covered corridor. The sound of happy, chirpy voices lets me know I’m getting close, as does the smell of fresh baked bread. I quicken my steps and nearly plow into Lucia’s back when she stops short outside the room.

  “Thank you,” I tell her as I breeze past, heading straight for the sideboard displaying toasted breads, jars of marmalade, and thick slices of ham. My mouth waters.

  “Patience!”

  At first, I think my aunt is telling me I have to wait before hungrily tearing into the spread. But then I remember that it’s my stupid name.

  “Yes, Aunt Francesca?” I ask, picking up a plate and piling it high. Break fast, indeed. At least I got that part of the time period down.

  “Good morning, child! We were just discussing the day’s schedule. I hope you rested well, because today begins your introduction to Florence!”

  Why is it my destiny to be surrounded by sunny morning people? I carry my overflowing plate to the table and sit across from Alessandra. She looks up; gives me a sweet, genuine smile; then darts her eyes back to her plate. A light blush works its way up her cheeks. She is completely adorable.