by Camilla Monk
Her gaze grew unfocused—not the reaction I’d been hoping for. “Faust told you about him?”
“What do you mean?”
“The alchemist he killed,” Palombara breathed. Did she sound . . . upset?
“You mean with the halberd? Yeah. He’s the one we saw in the Libro, he . . .” I frowned. “He was the last one to try to summon Perses, but Faust killed him before he was done. Faust showed me his embalmment spell too. He thinks Montecito is using the same thing and that she’s basically copying that guy’s ideas.”
“I know,” she said. “His was a mind like no other, fascinated by the hidden nature of things, that so few humans understand.”
Faust had said the same, and there had been an undercurrent of admiration to his voice, too, as he recounted the story of our mystery dude. They’d both known him, and I had a hunch that to them, he’d been more than just a bad guy to take down like Montecito. “What was his name?” I asked. “Faust never told me.”
She wouldn’t look at me. A smile returned to her lips. She laced her fingers and nodded once as if she’d come to a decision after some internal debate. “I’ll tell you about him someday.” She rose from the bench. “For now, you need to apologize to that poor Faust, and I have some crocheting to do.”
I tilted my head slowly, my eyes round as an owl’s. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Isn’t that what you were asking? What I would do in this situation?”
“Um . . . yeah, but—”
“Well, in the face of inevitable confrontation and certain peril, I would choose a kamikaze approach, and that, my dear, requires some preparation.”
After the villa’s doors creaked shut behind me for the second time that day, Lady Palombara said, “I’ll leave you to dine with Faust and Ryuuko. I’ll see you at dawn. Good night, Emma.”
I stood dumbly in the ornate lobby, the angels painted on the ceiling laughing down at me. “My last meal before I go on your ‘kamikaze’ mission?”
She brought a finger to her lips. “I certainly hope not. Ryuuko is a terrible cook.”
Having stated this, she disappeared up a curved marble staircase I figured must lead to the rooms. It took me a couple seconds to realize she hadn’t told me where Ryuuko and Faust were.
I looked around at the painted walls and the columns framing several sets of doors. “Hey? Anyone here?” I called.
Hinges sighed as one of the doors came ajar. Faust appeared in the doorway, a lazy smile peeking through his beard. “Welcome back.”
A sense of relief washed over me, loosened my limbs, and I realized I’d kinda missed him, even in such a short lapse of time. I brushed the awkward thought aside and walked to him. “Didn’t have much of a choice, I guess.” I lowered my voice to a mumble. “I’m sorry. For being . . .” I waved a hand he couldn’t see, but I trusted he’d get my meaning. For being me.
He ducked his head, his grin widening. “You are forgiven once more. Do you like fox?”
“Like . . . the animal?”
He opened the doors wide to reveal one of those nineteenth-century kitchens you see in period dramas, with a massive chimney stove dominating one side of the room, and a long table in the center. Clad in a blue silk kimono and a long apron, Ryuuko stood near an antiquated cart with large iron wheels atop which sat . . . a microwave. Her gaze was locked on the dish spinning inside. Intense. Unblinking.
Faust entered the kitchen and felt for the back of a chair before sitting in front of one of the two plates set on the table. When the microwave beeped, he rubbed his hands. “We’re having fox stew with noodles.”
I noticed stacks of plates in the hutch taking most of the wall opposite to the stove. “Can I take one?” I asked Ryuuko.
She opened the microwave and took out a crock dish where a brownish mixture bubbled ominously. She set it on the table in front of Faust, whose ecstatic grin wavered when he got his first whiff of the stew. The feet of her chair scraped the floor as she sat across from him. Through it all, she totally ignored me.
I let my rising aggravation flow out in a deep breath and helped myself to a plate. “I’ll eat with my hands, thanks.”
“The cutlery is in the drawers,” Faust thankfully supplied, while Ryuuko poured a ladle of boiling brown shit in his plate. He grabbed his spoon and cringed.
I padded to the table and sat at his side. Ryuuko wouldn’t serve me, but I didn’t mind. I actually preferred Faust taste it first, just in case. He did, and his nose wrinkled the moment the piece of fox touched his tongue. He swallowed it with difficulty before a coughing fit shook his frame. “There’s . . . a lot of vinegar,” he rasped.
“It’s because the fox is tough. I boil in vinegar.” Her gaze met mine, a challenge burning in their depth. She served me a ladle of stew.
“I’m sorry,” I said, looking her in the eye. “I’m allergic to fox.”
Her eyes narrowed. The corner of my mouth tugged victoriously.
“Nothing else left,” she said icily.
Meanwhile, Faust soldiered through his plate of fox stew with a grimace. He cleared his throat. “Didn’t you say you brought back melon pans from your last trip to Kyoto?”
Shock and betrayal flashed across Ryuuko’s features before her emotionless mask slammed back in place. “I brought for you,” she replied.
“But I want to share one with Emma,” he pleaded. He topped it with his secret cute hobo grin, the one I’d seen him use to extort cash from those two girls yesterday.
Ryuuko averted her eyes. I couldn’t be sure since her skin was so pale, but I detected the faintest blush. Interesting. She got up and went to search the pantry, returning to the table with three round cakes wrapped in plastic. She gave us one each. I tore the plastic eagerly and bit into mine with a moan of delight. It was sweet, spongey, and mostly it was food. Faust pushed his plate aside to feast on his melon pan, and told Ryuuko, “Melon pan o taberu no ga hisashiburidatta.” It’s been ages since I had melon pan.
I gawked at him. Sure . . . whatever that meant. “How many languages did you learn in your life?”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure. A few, I suppose.”
And among those, Japanese, obviously.
“How many languages you speak?” Ryuuko asked me in between two bites of her own cake.
“I know a little Italian from my dad, and I took Spanish in high school, but I can basically say ¿cómo está? and soy un burrito, and that’s about it.”
She sized me up with absolute contempt. “You’re stupid.”
Faust frowned in disapproval, but this time the jab glided on me. Because I’d found her weakness. “Are you always that mean to Faust’s friends?” I asked slyly.
“He only brings Silvio,” was her terse reply.
I flashed her a compassionate smile and patted Faust’s shoulder as he finished his cake. “But now I’m here too.”
She stared at my hand like she’d have wanted to cut it off. I snatched it back out of caution. The moment she was done eating, she shot up from her chair and cleared the table with fast and efficient moves. She placed the plates in an antique stone sink, rinsed them, and without turning around, said, “Dinner is over. I take you to your rooms.”
“Thank you, Ryuuko,” Faust replied. “The fox was excellent.”
“You lie,” she muttered, wiping her hands with a cloth.
He gave her a contrite smile. “Maybe a little less vinegar next time, and it’ll be perfect.”
After she had removed and folded her apron without a word, she exited the kitchen in a rustle of silk and said, “Follow me.”
We crossed the lobby, and she led the way up the marble stairs leading to a long-paneled hallway whose walls were painted with cherry tree branches and birds flying everywhere. My gaze lingered on the details of their delicate feathers. So lifelike, almost as if . . . my heart nearly stopped when a tiny green sparrow stretched its wings to fly from one branch to another.
“Faust,” I whispered. “The bird
s . . . I think they’re flying inside the painting.”
His lips curved. “I know. A simple, but lovely spell.”
“I find in a book I buy from Louison. I like,” Ryuuko explained.
I pursed my lips in genuine admiration. “Really cool.”
My attempt at breaking the ice was met with arctic silence. She stopped in front of a set of dark wooden doors and opened them, revealing a lavish room whose curtains, armchairs, and bed were all fitted with the same delicate blue brocade. Her hand darted to brush Faust’s forearm in a fleeting, awkward touch. “You sleep here,” she said, almost—almost—gently.
He smiled at her, but it was to me that he asked, “Emma, will you stay a moment? I’d like to talk to you.”
Abort! Abort! I had to clench my fist to stop it from performing a facepalm. You’d think a two-thousand-year-old dude had picked up a few things about the mystery of women somewhere along the way. Except not. Ryuuko remained her usual stony self, but I didn’t miss the way her lips tightened, just long enough for me to know that my life was on the line here.
“Um . . . maybe later, once I’ve gotten some sleep.” I turned to Ryuuko and forced a friendly smile on my face. “Do I get a room too?”
She gave a sharp nod.
“Good night, Faust,” I said, while she was already on her way to open another door, farther down the hallway.
“Good night, Emma . . .” There was no mistaking the undercurrent of confusion and disappointment in his voice, but there wasn’t much I could do about it for now. I wasn’t above playing with Ryuuko a little—especially given how she’d treated me so far—but full-blown drama was where I drew the line. I just hoped that bitch at least appreciated my modest offering of peace.
I entered the room she’d shown me to, a cozy nest similar to Faust’s, save for the soft yellow and cream palette of the walls and furniture. A pleasant smell of beeswax and soap laced the air as if the place had been cleaned recently. Pretty nice. “Thanks,” I mumbled.
But Ryuuko wouldn’t go. She stood still in the doorway, her dark gaze stabbing mine. Uncomfortable seconds ticked by, until I eventually motioned to the bed. “I’ll try to get some sleep now . . . I guess.”
She took a single step past the threshold and lowered her voice to a whisper. “I don’t like you.”
I let out a weary sigh. What else was new?
Pointing to her eyes with two fingers, she added, “I watch you when you sleep.”
Oh wow, wow, wow . . . Hang on. Had we just reached a new and unexpected level of creepy here? “Hey—” The door slammed in my face before I could finish—or even begin—my sentence.
I figured Ryuuko would be waiting for me in the hallway wearing a leatherface mask patched together with the skin of a former rival, so I made a beeline for the window. I was no architecture expert, but I remembered that each floor of the villa had a single balcony spanning several windows on the front. I parted the curtains’ heavy yellow brocade and turned the knob with excruciating care.
A gentle summer breeze caressed my face as I stepped onto the balcony. If my calculations were correct, the window next to mine should be Faust’s. There was no light, but it didn’t necessarily mean he was asleep. I crept across a smooth tiling in the dark, covering the few feet separating me from his window. Once I felt cool glass under my fingertips, I rapped. Blood rushed to my head and pounded in my ears as I waited for him to answer. What if Ryuuko had eyes on the balcony too?
Faust’s window opened without warning, and I tumbled inside. A silk rug on the floor cushioned my entrance somewhat, and when I tried to scramble up, my hand met a familiar steel toe peeking from a busted leather boot.
“Emma? I take it you changed your mind?”
“She’s onto me,” I hissed.
“Ryuuko?”
I got to my feet. “You realize she has a crush on you, right?”
“Really?” He felt his way to his nightstand and turned on the lamp there.
I let myself fall on the embroidered covers of his bed with a groan of exhaustion. “Yeah, and guess what? She’s watching competition very closely.”
The mattress sank as he sat next to me, a Fausty grin lighting up his face. “You consider yourself competition?”
I flipped him off tiredly. “That’s my middle finger, raised at you, right now.”
That earned me a chuckle as he bent to undo the laces on his boots.
“Whatcha doin’?”
“Making myself comfortable.”
A slight funk tickling my nostrils informed me he’d taken his socks off too. “Man . . . do you ever wash your boots?”
“There’s rain for that,” Faust said before he laid on the bed and wiggled his toes with evident satisfaction.
“I mean the inside,” I groaned, kicking off my sneakers to properly stretch alongside him on a sagging mattress that threatened to swallow us whole. So be it. I was too tired to fight it. “Just so you know, you can put baking soda inside your boots to kill the smell.”
“Is it that bad?”
“Let’s just say it’s a great spell to protect yourself against sex,” I said, hoping he’d get the underlying message: just because we’re in the same bed doesn’t mean you’re getting any.
He sighed, folding his arms behind his head on a frilly lace pillow. “And here I’d been hoping you were here to share one final night of passion before we battle eternal and all-powerful forces.”
My eyes snapped open at his reminder of Palombara’s ominous promise that confrontation was inevitable and she’d “crochet” a plan to face Perses. “She told you that too? That she had some sort of plan? What is it?”
“She wouldn’t share the details with me, but I think I know, and . . .” His lips pursed. “I’m not sure about this.”
“About what?”
He remained quiet.
“Jesus . . .” I rubbed my eyes, digging the heels of my palms into them. “It’s about the table. You won’t talk about the table.”
More silence, but a sad twitch of his lips. Yep.
“I’ve been wondering about that. Is it just you being super committed to a job you’re not even getting paid for, or is it, I don’t know, physical? Like you couldn’t talk about the table even if you wanted to?”
Again, he didn’t reply but instead held up his right hand, whose wrist was bound by his tattoo. “We call it an eterathis. It means a contract weaved in one’s flesh. My eterathis compels me to protect the table’s secrets. I must not reveal its nature, nor its content.” My intuition had been correct, then. The tattoo wasn’t just the actual source of his power, it was also the chain that kept him tied to the table.
“But Palombara spilled the beans, so it makes no difference,” I remarked.
Faust’s chest heaved. Not quite a sigh. “She’s not bound by any contract. She’s free to reveal what she knows.”
“But she doesn’t know everything, like how to unseal the table,” I completed.
His shoulders shifted in a lazy shrug. “My turn to ask the questions,” he announced.
“You can always try,” I replied.
The mattress bounced under us as he rolled to his side, resting his weight on one elbow. “You said your father was Italian at dinner.”
“Yeah.”
“And you told me earlier that you came to visit him, but you haven’t seen him yet.”
I frowned. “Is there an actual question coming?”
“Yes. Why haven’t you seen him yet?” Faust asked, his voice softening.
A shiver spread in my chest, an ache that never really went away. Sometimes the pain would dull, and I’d even forget about it altogether because life was too loud, too fast for me to stop and think about it. But now I was safe, alone in that quiet room with Faust, and he wanted to pick at the scab, see what it concealed. I sat up, gathering my knees to my chest. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve been pretty busy since I arrived in Rome. I’ll see him later—if I live long enough fo
r that.”
Faust shifted to prop himself on both elbows, his head raised as if he could see me. “You told me it was complicated. How so?”
Just my luck: the one guy on earth who actually filed every single word you told him. I gritted my teeth and curled tighter as if turning into a compact ball might shield me from his gentle probing. “Why do you care?”
“Because I’m curious about the woman hiding under that coarse shell.”
I inched farther toward the edge of the bed, unsettled by his statement. I wasn’t sure anyone had ever called me a woman before or suggested that there could be more to me than meets the eye—I always thought I was pretty straightforward about who I was. I caught my reflection in the gilded mirror of a dressing table across the room. A pale girl with messy hair and bitten nails glowered back at me. Not a woman, not frail, nice, or that kind of stuff. More like a sturdy gutter cat, the kind you’d expect to get up and scramble away with a limp after it’s been hit by a car. “It’s just more shell under the shell,” I replied. “And that stuff with my dad, it’s not really interesting. There’s no huge drama or anything like that. I barely know him, to be honest.”
He sat up like I had with his legs crossed. “Shell all the way through, huh? I like a good challenge. So, absent father, correct?”
I could have lied, or even lashed out at him, but oddly I didn’t feel like it. I was tired of tasting that sweet release of adrenaline every time I got mad, only to crash down minutes after. I gave a trembling sigh, and said, “He’d visit on weekends once in a while, but he never filed for paternity, and he returned to Italy when I was seven. I haven’t seen him since. No calls, nothing. He basically ghosted us.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Emma,” Faust murmured.
I shrugged. “That’s just life. I did just fine without him, but a few months ago, I started to think maybe I needed closure, to know if he was even still alive. I found him on Facebook, and the rest is just . . .” I flicked my wrist. “A series of bad decisions.”
“Did he refuse to see you?” Faust asked, shifting closer on the bed until his arm brushed my shoulder.