My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century Page 9

  I laugh at the smile in his voice, knowing I passed his test after all. “Had to see if you were paying attention,” I say, then crack open an eye to see if I spot a cherub anywhere.

  I don’t.

  Squinting, I lean forward, totally obsessed with finding this hidden object now. It’s like the world’s biggest, most annoying Where’s Waldo? A long tan finger crosses in front of my line of vision, zeroing in on a cluster of clouds in the distance that completely looks like a baby angel.

  I shake my head and grin, then take a few moments to see what else I can find in the ever-changing skyline.

  When I turn back, Lorenzo’s gaze drills into mine, his usual lighthearted demeanor suddenly gone.

  “Patience, I must know.” He pauses and glances down to find my hands. He clasps them in his own, and his pleading eyes swing back to mine, instantly making me nervous. “Do you believe I am a dreamer? You are lit inside with a fire and passion unlike anyone I have ever known—I know you will speak the truth. So please, tell me, am I just a fool chasing dreams, wanting to be an artist?”

  The softness and vulnerability in his face jolt me. This is the real Lorenzo. Not the player I met at the piazza or at Antonia’s dinner. That guy’s a front, a mask. A way of hiding who he really is from the rest of the world.

  Something I know a little about.

  Lorenzo squeezes my hands in his, and I take a deep breath. The weight of his question is almost crushing. We’re talking about a man’s future here—banking or art, two very different life paths.

  I’ve never even seen Lorenzo’s work—he has supplies back in the carriage to sketch the countryside, but so far I’ve kept him too busy with impromptu plays and cloud watching—so the only thing I can go on is word of mouth from Alessandra and his poetic descriptions of the sky a few moments ago. But still, I know an artist when I see one. And while I’m certainly not the poster child for standing up to your parents, somehow this feels more important than an unwanted birthday party.

  Slowly I shake my head. “No, Lorenzo. You are not a fool.”

  He relaxes visibly, and a grateful grin graces his mouth. The kind of grin that can only come from sharing your soul and not having it rejected. And it twists my stomach.

  What would that be like? To chance opening up to him, letting Lorenzo into my own secret world and inner demons, and trusting him—trusting anyone—enough to strip myself of my defenses. The desire is powerful and tempting.

  But I can’t. Not just because I’ve never done it before, but because in this case, telling him my truth wouldn’t just be risking rejection. I could be thrown into the loony bin.

  But he can at least know my real name.

  “Lorenzo, would you do me a favor?”

  That confident grin of his comes back full force as he leans in eagerly. “Anything you desire is yours.”

  I roll my eyes at this corny line, but this time, I smile while doing it. Squeezing his hands, which are still holding mine, I say, “Back home, my friends called me Cat.” At his perplexed expression, I try to explain. “It’s a nickname, and I know it doesn’t make any sense, but I would really love it if you’d call me that.”

  I bite my lip and wait for his reaction, not really understanding why I need to hear my real name in his husky baritone voice, only that I do.

  Lorenzo releases my hands and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “It would be an honor to do so, Cat.”

  The sound is just as glorious as I expected.

  …

  When the sun begins to fall behind the hills, we pack up our belongings and head back toward the carriage. We decide to take the scenic route, following a foot-worn trail through the woods. As the shelter of the trees envelops us, the sound of crashing water makes its way over the incessant clicking and buzzing of insects. Eagerly I pick up the pace until I push aside the last tree limb and stand before a breathtaking waterfall emptying into a small, shaded pond.

  My body sags at the sight, and all I can think about is how long it’s been since I’ve immersed myself in water. I took a shower before I got on the plane for Florence, but since then the best I could hope for is a sponge bath.

  I kick off my shoes. “Last one in is a rotten egg!”

  Alessandra’s arm juts out, slapping me hard across the chest. “You do not honestly mean to go into that filth, do you?”

  At the sound of her frantic voice, I tear my eyes away from the refreshing waterfall. “It looks perfectly clean to me, Less. Besides, I haven’t had a bath in ages. It’ll be fine, come on.”

  I try to take another step, but this time Cipriano stops me. “Public bathing is believed to contribute to the spread of the plague.”

  This gives me pause. I get where he’s coming from. I do. The intellectual, sixteenth-century-acclimating, Patience side of me completely understands what he’s saying. But the girly, twenty-first-century-missing Cat side of me just sees a makeshift shower.

  And that side wins out.

  “Listen, I hear you, but it’s perfectly fine. If you don’t want to join me, you don’t have to. I understand. I’ll just meet you back at the carriage. I won’t be long, I promise. But I hate to say it—I’m going in.”

  It takes a few more minutes to convince them I’ll be okay, minutes I spend eagerly hopping from foot to foot in anticipation. Finally they walk off, and I dash to the pebbled edge, stripping clothes as I run. I slip into the shallow pond and swim to the center of the rushing frothy foam.

  The cool water rushing over me is like a balm to my soul, and while it’s colder than my normal showers back home, the feeling of sweat and grime washing off me is worth the price of admission. My only regret is that I didn’t bring my backpack so I could wash my hair properly, but at this point, I’ll take what I can get.

  I slide my hands through my hair to slick it back, inhaling the scent of rich earth and sweet flowers. A constant stream of movie scenes plays in my mind, and I imagine I’m a young Brooke Shields in Blue Lagoon. A shadow falls across my arm, followed by a darkening of the sky in general, and I assume I’ve lost track of time worse than I thought. Then the rumbling of thunder passes overhead.

  Quickly I step out from under the deluge, searching the sky for cracks of lightning, and plod through the water to my clothes, scattered among the moss-covered rocks and tree limbs. Another rumble from above, and I scan the swaying tree line for random Peeping Toms before making a mad dash for the linen shirt nearest the edge of the pond. The fabric sticks, and as I struggle to get my arms through, I hear a rustle in the trees.

  I freeze, my head and one arm through the shirt. I try to stretch my hearing past the sound of my own pounding pulse for any unexpected sounds. The wind has picked up now, the leaves swishing wildly. Maybe it was nothing. Then I hear the pop of a twig and a muffled curse, and my stomach drops. I yank the top down with trembling hands. “Who’s there?”

  I open my eyes wider, looking for any sudden movements. I tiptoe to the rest of my clothes, pulling them on without blinking.

  Why did I think this was a good idea again? Surely sickos and perverts exist in the Renaissance. Why did I insist on my ability to handle being alone? With my eyes scrutinizing every dancing leaf and eerie shadow, I don’t see the rock in my path. I trip.

  “Crappy, crappy, crap, crap,” I repeat through clenched teeth, grabbing my throbbing toe. It feels as though hundreds of ants are crawling along my skin, and not just from the pain—but also from fear. “Please,” I beg the shadows. “If anyone’s there, just come out.”

  About a foot away, I hear more rustling, and a figure steps forward.

  It’s Lorenzo.

  “I only meant to make sure you were safe…,” he says, taking another step. “But then I heard the storm.” He pauses, and even in the shadows, I can see his cheeks flushed in embarrassment. “My apologies for causing you any fear.”

  Tugging my rose-colored surcoat farther over my hips—ensuring all my parts are nicely covered—I watch Lorenzo shift his
weight and crack his knuckles. Obviously he’s flustered, an emotion I can only assume is new for the lover boy of Florence.

  He takes a third step, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. His gaze shifts to the waterfall, then quickly back to me. “Do you forgive me?”

  It’s tempting to draw this out, to pretend I’m deeply concerned over how much of an eyeful he got and demand he make it up to me. But honestly, I’m too busy being relieved there wasn’t a band of crazy weirdos waiting in the trees.

  I nod. “Yeah, I forgive you. But don’t ever do anything like that to me again. You scared the snot outta me.”

  Lightning streaks across the sky, followed by a thunderous boom. Rain starts falling on the canopy of trees acting as our umbrella, the beat of the drops on the leaves and branches a strangely beautiful symphony—but one I want to get out of ASAP.

  I throw my hands over my head and step in front, letting him follow as we dash to the carriage. Although I know it was just him watching, I’m still freaked from the whole “possible creeper in the woods” scenario, and this weather situation is doing nothing to quench it. I wring out my sopping hair, despite the torrent that is sure to hit us when we escape the woods, and attempt to peel the now see-through white linen gown away from my damp, sticky body. As I do, I remember my tattoo.

  Fear grips me as I pull the surcoat tighter over the transparent undergarment. Surely if Lorenzo saw the telltale sign of my nonconformity during his so-called patrol mission, he would’ve said something. Well-bred girls don’t exactly sport body art during this time.

  I toss a nervous smile over my shoulder, looking for any hint that he suspects something. What I get is worried looks up at the sky, now completely covered with swollen black clouds. Clearly he’s got things on his mind—and my tattoo and what it may represent aren’t one of them. I turn back in relief.

  My secret’s safe.

  For now.

  Chapter Eight

  As it turns out, I was right about losing track of time under the waterfall. When Lorenzo and I finally made it back to the carriage, it was nearly sundown. And that’s when I discovered an interesting tidbit I had not yet known about Renaissance Florence: the city has a curfew, along with ten guarded gates that get slammed shut at sunset. Apparently if you’re found wandering the streets inside the gates after curfew, you get to spend the night in jail. And if you find yourself outside the gates when they’re bolted, you’re stuck up a creek until sunrise.

  Another noteworthy detail is that being locked out isn’t that big of a deal, as there are plenty of inns outside the walls where the newly homeless can stay until morning. While this alone isn’t shocking, what is crazy is that with all the rules and regulations about society and sumptuary laws, and keeping classes in their places, the owner of the inn we stopped at had no qualms about giving us a room for the four of us to share.

  I, on the other hand, have qualms galore. And they all center on one hot boy who’ll be sleeping on the floor next to the very bed I’ll be in, where I’ll most likely be dreaming of him.

  Fan-freaking-tastic.

  I glance over at Lorenzo as he works, sucking his lower lip and staring a hole through the paper in concentration. I know that expression well, having seen it on just about every other student in Mr. Scott’s classes the last two years, and occasionally on myself when I attempt a self-portrait. Eyes and mouths are the trickiest things for me to get exactly right, too.

  Lorenzo looks up and grins, then puts his head back down, hand flying across the paper.

  Our driver, acting as our chaperone since Cipriano and Alessandra are at dinner downstairs, shifts uncomfortably from his perch near the door. I offer him a smile. I would offer him a seat, but besides the one mattress, the only other option is the floor.

  “Cat.” Lorenzo’s voice is laced with exasperation, but hearing my name still sends a secret thrill through me. He knows to only use it in private, but I doubt our crabby old driver is gonna say anything.

  I turn my face back to Lorenzo and correct my pose. “Sorry.” I pause. “Again.”

  His lips tense, and his strokes appear to gain momentum. A stab of guilt hits me. It’s not that he’s taking too long. I’m an artist—I understand how much time these things can take. My inability to sit still has nothing to do with him and everything to do with me.

  When I was growing up, whenever my mother did something scandalous, I could almost guarantee there’d be a few paparazzi stalkers sitting outside my house or my school, waiting to get the most pathetic picture they could find. It took me years to stop buying the magazines and tabloids, to stop obsessing over the comments and criticism about my appearance.

  And that was just a group of strangers looking at a crappy picture—not a hot guy I’m kinda/sorta/okay, a lot into, sketching me in intricate detail with a pen.

  “It is almost finished.”

  Stifling my sigh of relief, I smile encouragingly. “I know it’s gonna be amazing. I can’t wait to see it.”

  That part is true. I’m dying to see Lorenzo’s work in any form, even if I am the subject.

  He looks up from the page, and we lock eyes. His drawing hand stills, and his teeth sink into his lower lip as his eyes roam over me. Even from this distance, several feet away, I can see they’re darker. The same dark-chocolate shade they were in the meadow, when his eyes trailed over me like this before. And just like then, I feel beautiful.

  When Lorenzo brought his art supplies up from the carriage with him and suggested I pose, my jaw nearly dropped to the floor. So did Cipriano’s. I was imagining Rose and Jack from Titanic, and while obviously he hadn’t seen the movie, I think Cipriano was pretty much picturing the same thing. So when Lorenzo and I both didn’t want to go down for dinner, Cipriano made our driver come up to “guard my virtue.” But honestly, he should’ve trusted his friend more. I’m posed leaning across the bed, one arm bent to support my weight, my head slightly tilted.

  And I’m fully clothed.

  But then again, the way Lorenzo’s looking at me over his sketchpad, and the way my insides are turning to complete mush as my skin forms a third-degree burn, maybe we did need that virtue protection, after all.

  “Ahem.”

  We break eye contact, and I grin at our driver. Lorenzo looks at the sketch, takes a step back, and then rubs his neck. He swallows, and his Adam’s apple bobs with force. He folds his arms across his chest and says, “It is complete.”

  As soon as the words leave his mouth, he looks as if he wants to take them back. But I jump up, wiggle my joints, and haul butt to his side before he can change his mind. Giggling at his look of terror, I jump over the ransacked picnic basket and skitter to a stop in front of the picture.

  My hand flutters to my mouth.

  I take a step closer, admiring his technique, the use of contrast and his hatch marks, and as I stare in amazement at the girl in Lorenzo’s ink portrait, I learn two things.

  The first is that if beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder, I want the world to see me the way he does. Every flaw, every imperfection that I hate about myself has been made beautiful through his eyes and with his hand. The sketch manages to both look like me and like a gorgeous stranger at the same time, but I know it’s not his creative interpretation. It’s how he honestly sees me. It’s as obvious as his signature in the corner, in the way he composed it, the way he used the strokes, the areas he highlighted.

  I trace the page with my fingers, not wanting to touch the ink but needing to feel closer to the work he’s created.

  Lorenzo coughs and shuffles his feet.

  “Lorenzo, you need to be an artist.”

  He stops all his nervous gestures and searches my eyes. He grins. “You are pleased with it, then?”

  A slow smile creeps up my face, and I nod. “Very much so.”

  Then the pit of my stomach completely drops out. My pulse races, and my spine locks in fear as I finally admit to myself the other thing I’ve learned from staring a
t Lorenzo’s artwork.

  I’m starting to fall for him.

  …

  “I told you he was an impressive artist,” Alessandra whispers in my ear, crawling over to my side of the hay-stuffed mattress. “That day in the piazza, before you even met, I told you, did I not?”

  I stare blankly into the darkness and nod weakly. “Indeed you did.”

  She leans in and plants a kiss on my cheek. “And I am always right. Now I bid you good evening. I shall dream of evil hags and magic kisses tonight.” She giggles and rolls back to her side of the bed, leaving me alone in my upside-down world.

  Alessandra did tell me Lorenzo was talented. She even warned me to be careful, letting me know from the beginning how girls have a habit of falling all over themselves when it comes to him. And when I told her I wasn’t interested and set out to prove I’d be the one girl immune to his player charms, she laughed at me.

  Maybe Alessandra’s part gypsy, too.

  My stomach flutters, and I instinctually place my hand over my sliced-pear tattoo. Letting anyone besides Dad get close to me was never a part of my life plan. I’ve seen what it does, the pain it can cause. But now it’s happening anyway, and not just with Lorenzo. Alessandra, Cipriano, my aunt and uncle… Loving each of them is like an earthquake—I can feel it; I know the destruction it’ll leave behind and have witnessed previous aftermaths, but I’m powerless to stop it. And the worst part is, I don’t really want to.

  Turning onto my side, I shove my hands under my head and replay the last sixty or so hours of my Renaissance life. This experience is making me lose myself; I’m forgetting who I am and where I come from. Earlier today, the idea of becoming the Cat I always wanted to be was exciting. New and different and harmless. But after only one day, it’s already causing casualties.

  I wiggle one leg on the lumpy mattress, trying to smooth down the bunched-up hay under me, and scratch the other one. I’m trying not to think about how clean these sheets really are or what kind of things could be living inside the mattress. But then maybe thinking of invisible bedbugs can distract me from what waits for me in the morning.