ELEVEN #2
The cathedral bells toll midnight as we pass through the stone gates, but the town shows no sign of sleeping.
Red and amber lanterns fill the streets, along with more festive varieties with colored papers pasted to the glass.
Ribbons tied lovingly to poles flutter in the breeze, like they’re waving us toward the main square as welcomed guests.
The air is cool and fragrant—smelling of flowering jasmine and frying oil.
People pack the streets in large groups, ignoring the friar who wanders through with his own lantern, reminding them to indulge in moderation.
I’d almost forgotten—Calendimaggio, the celebration of spring that dominated most of Tuscany this time of year.
Tonight was one of the last nights. I’d been too preoccupied with my mission at the D’Agonisto villa to partake in Florence—a pity, since I had only been permitted to watch from afar for a decade.
Four days and nights of revelry did nothing to hone slayers of beasts.
Before Corvus, I had only foggy childhood memories of sweet rolls with honey and threading flowers around a pole with my father.
Sometimes, it feels like viewing someone else’s memories, not my own.
After years of nonattachment discipline, the image of my life before has grown indistinct, coated in dust in the recesses of my mind.
I smile softly at the packed, narrow streets as we pass. Our country has suffered dark times, but seeing Terralta celebrate so freely is heartening. This is the light that my holy oath with Corvus protects.
I glance at Dante. “Did you ever celebrate in Venice?”
“Oh yes,” he replies. His sharp gaze is moving over a group surrounding a barrel of fresh wine, a little curve to his lips. “Though in a way I doubt your tender heart would approve of.”
Eventually, we come across an inn: a wide stone building with a painted sign that swings on its chains.
A dull roar of cheery voices spill from inside, the smell of something warm and fragrant making the hollowness in my stomach stab more pointedly.
We dismount, and a hostler idling near the entrance promptly takes the reins from us, promising to bring the horses to the stables and bring our personal effects up to our room with care.
I stroke the neck of my mare with an affectionate murmur before letting it depart.
I’ve only bonded with her a few days, but if that stableboy so much as scratches her, I’ll kill him.
The pillars of the inn’s entryway are wrapped in floral garlands, and on either side of the door, vendor stalls boast freshly baked sweets. I break away from Dante, beelining for the middle-aged man with a tray of small round rolls strung around his neck.
“Good evening, signora. Pan dolce, still warm!” The vendor’s voice is hoarse but merry.
“I’ll take one,” I say, trying not to look like I’m salivating.
“With honey or without?”
“With.” I glance over my shoulder, beckoning Dante over with a tilt of my head.
I’ve seen that heavy satchel of coin he travels with.
Whether he stole the money or not is of little consequence at this point.
He stands there, obviously considering whether to ignore me or not before coming to my side, putting a florin on the vendor’s counter.
“Newlyweds?” the vendor asks. He’s noticed the fede ring on Dante’s hand, a twin to the one still adorning my own finger. “Please, signore, take another as a gift. To your good health, both of you.”
“How very kind of you.” I smile, accepting the bundle wrapped in brown paper, still steaming slightly in the cool air. Finally, a perk of this sham marriage I can fully enjoy.
I waste no time in tearing into the treat, ripping off a piece of a bun and letting it melt in my mouth—elderflower, honey, and hearty wheat.
I moan in appreciation, much to the vendor’s delight.
I whirl to Dante, feeling unexpectedly wicked when I see his bored expression, idly scanning the second floor windows.
I step close, putting our bodies flush as I thrust a piece toward him.
“Try some, my angel.” I say it just loud enough, brimming with girlish excitement, to turn a few heads.
Dante keeps a poised, pleasant expression—but only just. His eyes tighten at the corners, reading the challenge in my own.
He’s amused at my boldness, but it battles with his loathing to lose.
Human food tastes like paste to him, but refusing me would surely be marked as peculiar.
And with a hunting militia scouring for creatures of the night?
Risky. He’s lost the game before he can even speak.
He ends our stalemate, leaning down to let me feed him. His breath is hot against my fingers, lips grazing my skin for just a moment. It’s intimate, the sensation sending a little shock through me—but it pales compared to my vicious pleasure at watching Dante pretend to enjoy it as he chews.
“Doesn’t it just melt in your mouth?” I gush, exchanging a look with the vendor, who is watching us with eager anticipation.
“Yeah, it’s amazing,” Dante intones, his smile stiff. He looks like he's scanning the ground for a corner he can spit it back out without being caught.
I can see now how adamantly he’d been muscling down his revulsion during that first betrothal arrangement dinner at the D’Agonisto villa. He moves to steer me inside, but I’m quicker. I rip another piece, grabbing his arm.
“Just one more bite, love.” I pout. “You haven’t eaten all day!”
The villagers near us—an older couple dressed in their most lavish clothes and a few others in line for pan dolce—chuckle as they observe our exchange.
Who doesn't enjoy reveling in the affection of young lovers, after all?
Dante is utterly aware of them, his irritation spiking the air between us.
I wonder if anyone else can feel it. I gaze up at him, victorious.
He puts on an affectionate mask, leaning down once again with a forced chuckle.
Just short of his waiting lips, I pause with my hand extended.
"Swallow," I whisper. That cruel animal in me purrs at the look that comes over him.
“I’m going to kill you,” Dante says through his smile as I place an even bigger piece of sweet roll in his mouth. He gives my finger a nip as I withdraw this time—a playful, albeit very real warning.
The next time his arm winds around my waist, he’s unshakable as steel. I continue eating as he ushers me toward the inn, reveling in the pleasure of putting him through a little well-deserved hell with every step.
And the taste… It’s almost a pity Dante can’t experience it the same way.
The honeyed bread evokes that memory again—kneading dough, my small hands floured like my mother’s.
I’m certain she had once made hers this way, with the dough braided together.
I tell myself it’s a simple indulgence, and not breaking any rules on attachments.
It certainly wouldn’t be the worst rule I’ve bent thus far, I think, with fang marks still throbbing under my carefully-poised braid.