I come to stand before him, clearing my dry throat. “What was this place before the order came here?”
He straightens. “Nothing that we know of. It’s possible it was a place of worship for the tree in the great hall, but we’ve found nothing to confirm that theory. Even the castle above us wasn’t built until the twelfth century. It was turned into a military stronghold a couple centuries later during the Venetian Republic, then finally abandoned in 1598 and repurposed as a rock quarry.”
“Talk about a demotion.”
“Not for the order,” Bes argues. “When Frederick the First came to build on what he thought to be an empty hill, the order was forced to make a deal with him: he could erect his castle, but only if he took a blood oath to keep his knowledge of us concealed. Now, the castle is some tourist trap—making it easier for many of us to go unnoticed.”
“That wasnota good enough reason to use the word erect, mate,” Cec says at the door.
Not realizing I’d moved so close to Bes, I jump back, unable to hold in my gasp.
Cec grins at my quick intake of breath and stumbling footfalls. “Unless I’m interrupting the only appropriate use for it.”
Bes hurries over and takes the four plates Cec balances precariously in his hands. The intoxicating smell of sauteed garlic wafts over to me.
“Right on time, old chap. I’m starving.”
Cec appears unconvinced, but decides to let it go. “I also pilfered this.”
After Bes sets the plates of food down on the ornate rug—the fourth, I notice gleefully, piled high with a delectable dessert—Cec reaches behind his back and procures a bottle of prosecco.
I gawk at him. “I don’t even want to know where you were keeping that.”
“You really don’t.” Cec pops off the top with precision and, miraculously, minimal spillage.
I smile at him. I still haven’t forgiven him for not having my back in the great hall, but I understand the thrall fathers can have over their children. Especially those who revel in authority, like Ansaldo.
“So, am I forgiven, Hawkins?” Cec asks, widening his eyes and jutting out his lower lip.
“Only if you promise to work on standing up to your father.”
He grimaces. “If you’ll help me, I will try.”
“Deal,” I say, thinking to hold out my hand so we can shake on it, then remember he won’t be able to see it. “I’ve gotten very good at standing up to authority.”
“I’m mostly blind, and even I can see that,” Cec mutters.
The three of us sit cross-legged on the rug, each taking a plate and set of cloth-wrapped utensils. I hold up my hand right as Cec is about to shove a rather large bite of what I believe to be risotto—though the bright yellow color isn’t quite right—into his mouth.
“Wait. We should eat the dessert first.”
They both look at me like I’ve grown a second head from the side of my neck.
Cec takes a purposeful bite of his main course. “Why in the bloody hell would we do that?”
“One of my philosophy professors always says: eat the dessert first, because you never know when you might die.” I wave my hand. “Or something like that.”
Bes takes his own first bite. “While I’m sure there’s some sound American logic to that, I’m far too famished to be existential about my dinner choices.”
“I’m going to… have to agree… with my cousin… on this one,” Cec says between hurried bites.
“Suit yourselves.” I shrug. “But if either of you start to choke on your risotto, I’m no longer obligated to save your lives.”
Cec swallows. “Noted.”
I eye the dessert: slices of Torta Paradiso. It’s a simple sponge cake, layered with some sort of cream or custard. My mouth waters before I take a bite, recognizing the filling instantly to be a decadent lemon custard. It’s soft and sweet and slightly tart, and it melts in my mouth.
I finish it in three bites, licking my fingers to get the last bits of flavor. “You two really missed out.”
