My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century (6 page)

It’s so tempting to lie. If I say I’m sick, this horrid night can end. The D’Angeli clan will pack themselves into the carriage and head on home, and I can safely avoid any additional embarrassment. But I don’t want to lie to them. They’ve been nothing but nice, especially the two worried women standing on either side of me. They don’t deserve that.

Plus, if I were
really
being honest with myself, I wouldn’t mind hanging around with Lorenzo a little longer. On a strictly platonic level, of course. He did defend me, after all.

“No, I’m fine,” I say, forcing a fake smile onto my face. “I can’t wait to see what else they have planned.”

We follow the group into the Grand Sala, a room boasting several carved dark wood chairs and a harpsichord. I recognize it from the movie
Amadeus.
Instinctively, I start searching for Lorenzo and find him near the roaring fireplace, talking with Cipriano.

But his gaze is connected with mine.

I take a faltering step and trip, and a slow smile crosses his face. Alessandra grabs my arm, pulling me forward.

“You can deny your feelings all you like, dear cousin, but you cannot fool me. We are blood relations, and I can decipher your thoughts as if they were my own.” She smiles wickedly and lifts her eyebrow, daring me to deny my interest. “Come, let us join the gentlemen, shall we?”

I attempt to calm the fluttering in my stomach as we walk across the room. Lorenzo bites his lower lip and lazily watches us approach, which only makes the butterflies go more berserk. I sigh. Cipriano looks back and shakes his head.

“Cousin, you are making it impossible to hold a conversation with my friend. I fear you have completely bewitched him.” He grins and playfully punches Lorenzo on the shoulder.

Determined to get a hold of the situation, I throw my shoulders back and smirk. “Maybe it’s just that your conversational skills are lacking, dear
cousin.
”

Both boys stare at me for a moment and then break into raucous laughter, eliciting a round of disapproving glares. Alessandra’s mouth drops, and she turns to me. “You must teach me to speak with such a cunning tongue. Clearly you have a gift.”

I smile, imagining sweet Alessandra tossing out verbal barbs. “It takes a lifetime of practice.”

A dinging of crystal causes the crowd to quiet, and I look to the front of the room where Signora Stefani and Antonia stand.

“Friends and guests, we are grateful for your presence this evening. My own Antonia has agreed to begin this night’s entertainment. And,” she says, casting her eyes at our small group, instantly making me nervous, “it is our shared hope that the younger Signor Cappelli will grace us with his accompaniment.”

Lorenzo’s lips twitch as he tries to hide a confident grin. He glances at me and nods. “It would be my pleasure, Signora Stefani.”

He walks to the front of the room, passing close enough behind me to slide his fingers along the back of my hand, and tingles shoot up my arm from the simple touch. The crowd claps politely as Alessandra and Cipriano lead me to the empty seats near my aunt and uncle.

And I try not to hyperventilate.

It’s not that a guy’s never touched me before. I held hands in junior high—back when that was the epitome of hooking up—and even slow danced at school dances.

It’s just that no one’s ever made my pulse rate go all supernova.

I put my hand over my heart, trying to calm its erratic beat, as Lorenzo places his on the wooden keys of the harpsichord. Antonia leans in close and whispers in his ear, and a pang of jealousy hits my stomach. Then the music begins.

Despite my disdain for the girl, I have to admit she knows how to work a room. She stands before us, completely in the spotlight—well, so to speak—and seems to thrive. She oozes self-confidence and doesn’t appear to be afraid of anything. Her singing is flawless. The two of them perform together as if they’ve done it a million times, and while I’m envious of their obvious connection, I’m also extremely happy it’s not
me
up there.

At the end of the song, Lorenzo stands, bows to Antonia, and then leads the applause for her. With reluctance, I join in with the rest of the crowd, lightly tapping my fingers together. But when she smiles and turns to acknowledge Lorenzo, I shoot to my feet. I whoop and even break out with a whistle.

Then I realize everyone is staring at me. Again.

“They certainly are lively with their admiration in London,” Antonia says with a smirk, and I fight the intense urge to wipe it off her face. “Perhaps they are equally so in their performance.”

She pauses, and I get the tunnel-vision sensation of a camera zooming in as the villain lowers the boom.

“Patience, will you do us the honor of singing next?”

The evil glint in her eye tells me she knows exactly how this is going to go down. I look to my aunt’s and uncle’s delighted faces, realizing from the reading I’ve done that it’s an honor even to be asked. Girls in the past loved displaying their talents for large crowds, but there’s one small problem. I can’t sing.

I’m always reading books about girls who are terrified of singing and supposedly can’t do it at all but then end up stealing the show. That’s not gonna happen here. I have a voice made for silent musicals. It’s not pretty.

I look to Alessandra and then my aunt, begging them with my eyes to get me out of this, but they just smile encouragingly. Alessandra gives me a not-so-gentle push, and then I’m standing in front of the room. Awaiting my latest failure.

Lorenzo places his fingers on my elbow, but even the zing of electricity isn’t enough to distract me. He leans in, and his curls tickle my nose. “What shall I play for you?”

I snort. I don’t know any classical music, especially not any with words. I could attempt opera, but that would just break the lovely crystal and glass the Stefanis have going on in the room. I’m gonna have to wing this.

“To be honest, Lorenzo, I don’t know any Italian songs. Maybe I should just sing by myself.” At least that way he’ll be spared from association with this suckfest. “Why don’t you go ahead and take a seat?”

I beam at him, pulling out the smile I’ve perfected for the paparazzi, and then turn around and freak out at the wall. What on earth can I possibly sing? Something tells me they won’t appreciate Lady Gaga, and My Chemical Romance could potentially get me thrown outside the city gates. It has to be slow, calm, and non-future-like.

Then it hits me. Last year, Dad took me to a production of
Les Misérables
, and I fell in love with the whole story. Around the middle of the play, the character Eponine sings a haunting song, “On My Own,” which I downloaded as soon as I got home. It’s raw and beautiful and sounds old. The story is even set sometime in the past. Although it’ll be in English, and the audience probably won’t understand a single word, it’s my best shot.

I turn back to them and scan their confused faces. Lorenzo smiles, and I quickly look to my aunt. There’s no way I can watch him while I do this.

Someone coughs impatiently, and I realize I can’t delay the inevitable any longer. With spaghetti legs, I take a breath and open my mouth. The first line tumbles out barely above a whisper.

Alessandra squints.
Louder
, she mouths to me.

I nod, raise my voice, and completely overcompensate. The next note is so shrill and loud it even startles me. I wince, and so does she.

My heart is hammering so loudly in my ears that I can’t even hear my own singing. I fight the urge to run from the room, knowing—as hard as it is to imagine—
that
will shame my family even more than this horrendous performance.

Eventually, after struggling with a few more notes and sliding up and down the entire vocal scale, I manage to find a middle ground. But it still isn’t pretty. Glass doesn’t break, and the guests don’t go running out screaming into the night, but their pinched faces and the laughter shining in Antonia’s eyes lets me know it truly is as bad as it sounds to my own ears.

I can’t even force myself to look at my uncle. Thank the stars Niccolo left before
this
disaster. Whatever business arrangement they had would’ve been as tattered as my pride right now.

Alessandra smiles in solidarity, and I want to kiss her. I stumble on a lyric, close my eyes, and try to find a happy place.

Why can’t the gypsy magic send me back right now?

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the song ends. I sigh in relief, taking a moment to enjoy the silence, and start preparing for the judgment. With head held high and shoulders back, I attempt to look confidently out into the audience.

You could hear a pin drop.

Slowly the applause begins. It is
way
less enthusiastic than Antonia’s, but I know I don’t deserve even this meager effort. Somehow the lack of obvious ridicule only deflates my false confidence, and with tears pricking my eyes, I lower my head and rush back to my seat. I brush past Lorenzo, refusing to meet his gaze. I’m sure whatever interest he had in me has been squashed like a bug.

Antonia’s gotta be loving this.

“Thank you, Patience, for your performance.” At Antonia’s words, I look up, waiting for her to go in for the kill. “I am sure it was not easy being asked to do so without preparation, and while you are still acclimating yourself to Italy. Pray excuse my discourtesy. That was lovely.”

I blink, and then actually rub my eyes. She doesn’t appear to be mocking me. Her face is serious. Well, this is unexpected.

“Thank you, Antonia.”

She nods and sits back down. Alessandra and I exchange looks of bewilderment.

After three more
looong
performances, the night finally comes to an end. I follow Alessandra out of the room, keeping my eyes on the ground. If I can manage to walk to the carriage without face-planting, I’ll be ecstatic. At the door, we stop to thank the Stefanis for their “graciousness.”

“You simply must hold a ball on Patience’s behalf, Francesca,” Signora Stefani says, her nose held slightly in the air. “Introduce her to
Italian
society.”

Antonia’s fake smile crumbles, and she turns to me, her gaze scrutinizing me from head to toe. “I sincerely doubt Patience is ready for something like that, Mother. A baby must first learn to crawl, after all.”

As much as I don’t want a fancy shindig held in my honor—um, hello, trying to escape my Sweet Sixteen drama was the whole reason I ended up here to begin with—I almost wish my aunt would host one, just so I could put that sour expression back on Antonia’s face. Obviously she doesn’t like sharing the spotlight. Lucky for her, I have no interest in doing so.

My family starts our descent down the stone steps toward the courtyard. When I spot our carriage waiting at the far end of the square, I barrel past Alessandra, my only thought of ending this night. I’ve almost made a clean getaway when a hand snakes out of the darkness.

“I am sorry we did not get to talk more this evening,” Lorenzo says, stepping into the dim corner of the courtyard. He’s so close I can feel his breath skimming across my hair, and I shiver. “Cipriano is going to arrange a day in the country for the four of us tomorrow, a getaway from all the noise and
interruptions
of the city.”

All I can do is stare up at him. How, after that horrendous performance, is he still remotely interested in me? Is his overinflated ego that stubborn?

He gazes down at our joined hands and begins rubbing slow circles on my palm. In the dark, with the moonlight causing his golden curls to shine, he almost looks like an angel. The right side of his mouth kicks up.

A
fallen
angel.

A soft laugh escapes Lorenzo’s lips. “Patience D’Angeli, you fascinate me.” He shakes his head as if he can’t believe it, and his eyes travel across my face.

I actually forget how to breathe.

He leans down and kisses the hand he’s holding, then lifts his eyes to scan the area. We’re alone. He stands and presses his lips against my forehead. The seconds meld together as I struggle between needing to push him away and wanting to pull him closer. I take a breath and push my hand against his hard chest.

He steps back, grinning, and says, “Until tomorrow, I shall see you in my dreams.”

The words act like cold water.

Ladies and gentlemen, our player from the piazza has returned.

I shake my head as he ducks back into the darkness. During the entire interlude with Lorenzo, I hadn’t said a single word. I didn’t push him away, act aloof, or tell him the truth…that I’m really not fascinating at all. I was a brainless robot, completely under his spell.

“Patience?” Alessandra’s voice rings out into the night, jolting me to reality.

Giving myself a mental shake, I yell back, “Coming!”

I slide out of the shadows, disgusted, and as I stride toward my waiting family, I try to ignore the happy butterflies dancing a jig in my stomach.

Chapter Seven

The next morning, I wake up before Lucia comes to my room. I sneak a quick toothbrushing with my illicit Crest and ransack my bag for other contraband items. After washing my face with dermatologist-approved soap, scrubbing my body as best I can, and applying deodorant, I almost feel like myself again.

Having accomplished so much on my own, I decide to venture into my huge trunk of clothes. It’s like a little girl’s princess dream come true. There are dozens of surcoats in just about every conceivable color you can imagine. I grab one, then toss it aside for what is beneath, each dress more gorgeous than the next. It’s when I’m in the middle of digging through the assortment—completely surrounded by fabric—that someone knocks at my door.

Please don’t be my aunt, please don’t be my aunt
, I beg the universe, looking at the mess I’ve created. Another cultural mistake. I’m sure the average, everyday Renaissance girl isn’t fascinated by her massive silky wardrobe. In fact, she’s probably used to it.

“In a minute!” I call, grabbing as many dresses as I can and stuffing them inside the painted chest. The door opens, and I quickly turn, caught red-handed with a dozen surcoats in my arms.

Luckily, it’s Lucia. She’s dressed in the same outfit as yesterday, plain brown with a starched white apron and matching bonnet, and I’m hit again with how unfair her life must be. She doesn’t seem to be that much older than I am, yet she’s forced to help me get dressed in these luxurious clothes every day. It has to suck.

Suddenly an idea comes to me. I scamper across the floor, leap over the last pile of surcoats, and grab the buttery yellow one on top. With a grand flourish, I present it to her.

“For you,” I say, proud of myself. Lucia looks at me in confusion, and I add, “To thank you for your service to the D’Angeli family.”

When she doesn’t grab the dress from me in uncontainable joy, I snatch her hand and try to place the dress in it, assuming she’s just being shy. But when she fervently shakes her head and wrenches her arm from my grasp, I get the feeling that perhaps I’ve missed something. Lucia backs away from me until she hits the wall, as if I’m holding a poisonous snake instead of a silk surcoat.

Okay, not exactly the reaction I was going for.

“Is something wrong?” I ask, trying not to sound angry. Maybe manners have changed, but where I come from, it’s pretty rude not to accept a gift.

She nods, and her face tenses. “Do they not have sumptuary laws in London?”

Again with the historic lingo I don’t know. I have no clue what sumptuary laws are, much less if they were part of London’s legal system. “Um, no?” I answer, trying to keep the confusion out of my voice and failing miserably. I drop the dress to the floor, my plan an obvious failure. “Why? What are they?”

In reply, she looks down and points toward the table and stool. I tramp across the room, wondering if I’ll ever get an answer from my silent servant, and plop down. I turn around and catch her pointed look at the smear of blue-and-white paste still clinging to the washbasin.

Oops.

Lucia runs her fingers through my hair, and all annoyance flies out my open window. It isn’t until my eyes are closed in pure bliss that I get my answer.

“Sumptuary laws keep commoners from imitating the aristocracy.” I stay silent, trying to understand, and she explains further. “They could arrest me for wearing my mistress’s surcoat.”

My eyes bug out, and I sit straighter. “
Arrest
you? Are you serious?”

“Sì,”
she answers, pulling the brush through a mass of tangles.

That is crazy! I can’t believe how messed up things are in the sixteenth century. No wonder she looked at me as if I were giving her a death sentence instead of a dress. Here I was trying to do her a favor, and instead, I ended up looking like an inconsiderate jerk.

“I can’t get anything right.”

First the fork incident yesterday at breakfast, then the wine debacle at dinner, not to mention the countless verbal mistakes I’ve made over the last two days, and now this. I’m a walking advertisement for Idiots ’R’ Us. Hot tears sting my eyes, and I blink fast to keep them from falling.

“You did not know,” she says softly.

I shake my head, and her hands tighten to hold me firmly in place. “That doesn’t matter.” I snort. “Back home in, uh, London, my parents were well known. Especially Mom. Before we’d even met, people would have made up their minds about me. I don’t have the luxury of making mistakes like other people. I have to be perfect.”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I clamp it shut. My cheeks burn. I don’t know what possessed me to tell her that. She might feel familiar for some reason, but the truth is she’s a complete stranger, and I just spilled my guts to her.

The brushing stills, and I wait for the lecture, the “you need to get your act together” and “everyone has it rough” speeches. I tell them to myself every day. I know I have a dad who loves me, and I’m lucky to come from such a wealthy family.

It doesn’t make the rest any easier to live with, though.

“Pardon me for saying so, Signorina,” she finally says, her voice soft but strong, “but you are no longer in London.”

Lucia resumes brushing and I stare into the small, round mirror, thinking,
Yeah, no duh, lady.
But after a moment it hits me. Replace London with Los Angeles, and the point is, people don’t know me here. And they don’t know my parents. Here in Renaissance Florence, I don’t have to combat Mom’s reputation and failure with my perfection. I can just be me.

Patience D’Angeli.

…

The vigorous rocking of the carriage over the deep ruts in the road lets me know I’m not in Kansas anymore. Gone are the cobblestone roads, crowded markets, and noisy patrons. The Tuscan countryside is a whole other world.

We pass a man in a short brown garment plowing his field with an ox. A variety of farm animals stroll along either side of our carriage, and mop-haired children chase one another with sticks. The tree-filled landscape is interspersed with rolling hills of wildflowers, just like the mural at my favorite Italian restaurant in Malibu,
Grissini
—only much better because this is
real
.

I shake my head and lean farther out of the open window, a content sigh escaping my lips. Alessandra giggles, and I turn to see my fellow travelers exchanging amused looks at my expense, but I don’t mind. It’s hard to care about anything—much less silly propriety—in this kind of setting.

Our driver steers the horses to the right, and we follow a well-worn path through the olive trees to a clearing. I snag a shiny leaf and inhale the clean scent of flowers and sunshine. Birds are singing and chirping happy tunes, and in the meadow before me, vibrant red poppies explode against the deep jade of the grass and the lush gold of the wheat fields.

You just can’t get this kind of scenery in Hollywood.

The carriage stops, and before I can worry about how a proper young sixteenth-century lady would act, I jump out and run for the fields. I throw my arms wide, skimming my fingers along the passing flowers, and laugh.

This is what freedom feels like.

Ever since this morning’s epiphany with Lucia, all I’ve been able to think about is living without the worry of judgment constantly pressing down on me. Here in this ancient world, I’m not just free from unwanted parties and ridiculous future stepmothers. I’m actually free to become the Cat I’ve always wondered about and wished to be.

The thought is both thrilling and terrifying.

Alessandra shoots past, giggling like crazy, and I glance at the boys strolling leisurely behind us. Lorenzo shakes his head and flashes a devastating grin, and my mouth goes completely dry. I exhale and drag my eyes back around. Just because I can be a new me here, it doesn’t mean I should go falling for the local hottie. I just have to keep repeating to myself:
He’s a player, he’s a player, he’s a player.

Alessandra turns and runs backward, never missing a step. She lifts her hands in the air and shouts, “You cannot catch me, fair cousin!”

Her playful energy, much like her smile, is infectious. Laughing, I shake my head and cup my hand over my mouth. “Challenge accepted!”

I hike up my long skirt, and her squeal rings out across the countryside. We run across the crimson poppy field and through a meadow filled with wild daisies, the intoxicating aroma of fresh flowers filling my head. The warm sun seeps into my skin, and as a cool autumn breeze whips loose strands of long brown hair across my face, I smile what might possibly be my first-ever authentic smile.

In two long strides, I cover the remaining distance and tackle Alessandra to the ground. “Oomph!”

She rolls me off her and gives me a playful push. “Your mother,” she says, pausing to catch her breath and straighten her skirt, “must have descended from the Goddess of Victory.”

I draw a ragged breath and shrug. “Nah, I’m just that good.”

Alessandra wrinkles her nose but then smiles brilliantly. She begins gathering daisies into a pile as Cipriano plows into Lorenzo’s back a few feet away. I watch them both nosedive and disappear into the overgrown flowers, laughing and taunting each other. As my throat grows thick, I realize I’m envious of their easy friendship.

“Goddess Victoria.” I turn at Alessandra’s teasing tone to see her holding a crown of daisies. “Victor of our race.” She places it on my head and bows hers in solemn mock adoration. Then she giggles and quickly makes one for herself. “Now we shall match.”

I swallow past the increased thickness in my throat and lower my eyes slightly. “Thanks.”

My eyes sting, and I actually feel the pressure of tears building behind my nose. I blink, shake out my hands, and make the mascara face, trying to get myself together.

What is up with me today?

Luckily, the boys provide a distraction. Cipriano’s dark head pops up to my right, his hands fisted on his hips. “I want it known,” he declares to no one in particular, “that I
let
Lorenzo win. To do otherwise would have been impolite, as he is so obviously enamored of our cousin.”

Blood rushes to my cheeks—even though I know I’m nothing special to Lorenzo—and I brace myself for the typical guy response. Denial, mocking, maybe even a sexist comment in response to Cipriano’s taunting. But when Lorenzo stands to dust himself off, he just grins. “Your benevolence is most appreciated, old man.”

Then he looks at me.

I fight the slow grin wanting to creep across my face as he walks over, stray shards of grass clinging to his curls. His flirtatious gaze grows darker as it trails over me, from the crown of my head, over my freckle-dusted nose, to my too-large mouth. The muscles of my stomach clench, then release, then clench again. Even though my hair’s a hot mess, my face is completely bare, and I’m flushed from both running and his blatant appraisal, I’ve never felt more beautiful.

And that’s a problem.

Lorenzo plops down and brushes the ribbons of hair away from my mouth, never taking his eyes off mine. Heat ripples throughout my body as his thumb grazes my lower lip.

If I don’t distract myself right now, I may do something really stupid—like tackle the poor boy. So I shake my head and turn to Alessandra. “Y-you know,” I stammer, my annoying voice all girly soft. I cough, sit up tall, and try again. “You know, this place is amazing. I mean, I’ve seen movies—or, um, plays—with settings like this, beautiful meadows filled with flowers, but I’ve never actually seen one in real life.”

I look again at the scenery, trying to freeze it in my memory so I can preserve it in paint when I get home, and glance back with a smile. Cipriano squints at me, and too late, I remember I’m supposed to be from London. If BBC’s
Pride and Prejudice
is any indication, that city and the neighboring ones probably have tons of little wooded pastures and meadows to romp around in.

Maybe I’ll get lucky, and they’ll ignore that comment like they do all my other screw-ups.

Alessandra leans forward and claps her hands excitedly, her eyes glowing with a light I’ve never seen before. “Oh, pray, Patience, tell me about the theater in London! Is it as wonderful as I imagine?”

All blood seems to leave my face. I think I’d have preferred them to question me about the meadows.

Way to go, Cat. Open mouth, insert foot.

“The theater?” I repeat ever so brilliantly.

My knowledge of ancient English theater begins and ends with Shakespeare, but while he did spring up during this period, I don’t think it was until a half century from now. And the idea of what could happen if I tell them about a play—or anything, really—that hasn’t happened yet completely boggles my mind.

The weight of this situation suddenly crashes into me. It’s not just my life, or even the real Patience D’Angeli’s life, I’m messing around with here. I can potentially change, to its detriment, world history.

“I don’t know,” I say, nervously knotting a daisy stem. “You’ve seen one play, you’ve seen them all. Right?”

Lorenzo lowers his chin and narrows his eyes at me in question. I flatten my lips and look away, wondering what I’m going to say and how I’ll pull this off.

Alessandra sighs. “I adore the theater.”

Then she smiles, gets dreamy eyed, and seems to forget all about her question. I slump forward in relief.

Her eyes shift to a space off to my left as if she’s watching a play only she can see. “Witnessing the birth of a new identity, the uninhibited laughter and tears of the audience, the thunder of applause breaking all around me—it is truly an experience to behold.”

The passion blazing from her pores is like a postcard from home. A pang of homesickness hits my stomach, and it tightens. Dad is just like her, loving the entire movie-making industry and craving the frenetic energy and creative process so much that he can’t comprehend my aversion to his chosen profession. What he doesn’t seem to understand is that when your life feels like one big acting job, it doesn’t exactly make you eager to prolong the charade when you don’t have to.