Never Expect a Vampire Like You

Chapter 6: Carnation and Carnival

After Chiara had finally finished the oversized bowl of pasta prepared by Riccardo, the elderly nun caring for Martina knocked on Chiara’s door. In a voice that was old and slow, she announced that the lady of the house had awakened and was eager to meet Chiara, her long-lost daughter.

At that moment, Chiara was sitting back in a Dante chair in the room, flipping through an *Odyssey* and recounting Odysseus’s adventures to Marco. Marco sat on a small gilded stool beside her, his cheeks propped in his hands, eyes wide, listening with rapt attention. The books Chiara had brought—*The Decameron*, *Phaedrus*, and the *Nicomachean Ethics*—held little interest for Marco. He had scampered back to his room and soon returned clutching his own copy of the *Odyssey*, looking up at Chiara with pleading eyes. Under such an onslaught of puppy-dog eyes, despite the discomfort of being overly full, Chiara patted her stomach, picked up the book, sat down, and began telling stories to her little brother.

Upon receiving the nun’s message, she closed the book, once again suppressing a rising belch, her face maintaining a perfectly composed smile. She looked down at Marco and asked gently, “Shall we continue the story later?”

Marco nodded obediently. “Mama… Mama likes carnations,” he added.

Chiara paused, her smile brightening slightly. “Thank you, Marco.”

Marco blinked, then looked down. “You’re welcome.”

Carnations were beloved by Italians, common adornments in gardens and courtyards. When Chiara first entered the Totti residence, she had seen several small pots of carnations near the courtyard fountain. Now at the tail end of their blooming season, the flowers weren’t as lush and beautiful as at their peak, but she still circled the fountain and discreetly plucked the finest pink carnation, hiding it within the wide sleeve of her blouse.

Martina’s room was on the third floor. Likely Riccardo’s choice for her quiet convalescence, she was the only occupant on that level. Though the entire palazzo was deserted that day, all servants except the elderly nun having gone to the Piazza della Signoria for the carnival, the third floor held a distinct, deeper kind of quiet.

As Chiara reached the door, she heard Riccardo’s soft voice asking Martina if her head still hurt. His tenderness here was different from that shown to Marco. Though Chiara couldn’t see his face, the careful tone in his voice sketched the image of his slightly downturned eyes brimming with tender concern.

After his question, a woman’s voice replied, “It doesn’t hurt when you’re here.”

Though weak, the voice lacked the gloom and lifelessness of a long-term invalid; its lilt held a faint, almost playful note.

“Then I shall stay by your side forever,” Riccardo said with a chuckle.

Chiara stopped in her tracks, not wishing to interrupt this intimate moment between husband and wife.

She had once, by chance, overheard Rodrigo whispering sweet nothings to Vanossa and to Giulia.

With the gentle and virtuous Vanossa, Rodrigo played the role of a weary statesman struggling within the Curia. Seeing his exhaustion, Vanossa’s heart ached; she prepared delicious meals, gave him massages, became his comfort zone, his safe harbor.

With the youthful and beautiful Giulia, Rodrigo transformed into an erudite, thoughtful, and witty older sage. He provided her with the finest material life, publicly displayed his affection for her before all of Vatican City, gratified her vanity, and when she was lost or distressed, he would clear the fog and solve all her troubles.

As the ancients said, tailor teaching methods to the student; Rodrigo tailored his persona to the woman. In short, Rodrigo’s success with countless women was not without reason.

In contrast, Riccardo, who had won his beauty with one hundred ways to cook pasta, spoke words of love that were plain and un-Italian in their simplicity. Yet their sincerity touched Chiara, whose romantic experiences across two lifetimes had been decidedly unremarkable. It even made her feel guilty about plucking that single carnation from his garden.

Chiara waited until the couple’s conversation shifted from affectionate murmurs to mundane family matters before raising her right hand and gently knocking on the door with her middle knuckle. The conversation inside ceased abruptly. A few seconds later, Riccardo opened the door, smiling. “Ah, Chiara is here.”

Chiara nodded, returning his smile, instinctively tucking the carnation deeper into her sleeve.

Martina’s room faced away from the street, another choice likely made by Riccardo for her quiet recovery. While indeed quieter, it also missed the brightest afternoon sun, leaving the room dimly lit. Yet even in the gloom, Martina’s brilliant golden hair shone undimmed.

Chiara had always maintained a casual attitude towards Martina, this biological mother she’d never met. But standing truly before the woman’s sickbed, a strange, inexplicable emotion welled up within her. She tentatively ascribed it to the instinctive pity of an appreciator of beauty upon seeing an ethereal, frail beauty who evoked tenderness.

Martina was indeed as beautiful as Vanossa had said: pale golden hair, fair skin. Though long illness had drained the color from her cheeks and left her face too thin, it only amplified the sense of fragility that begged for care. However, when her eyes met Chiara’s, Chiara felt a startling contradiction: within this delicate, seemingly unthreatening blonde beauty, there was a wild, untamed spirit that clashed with her appearance. Mysterious and contradictory, yet combined, utterly compelling.

Seeing Chiara, Martina immediately pushed herself up on her elbows, struggling to sit. Riccardo murmured, “Martina, wait, don’t rush,” and hurried over in quick strides. He sat on the edge of the four-poster bed, placed a hand on her shoulder, and gently eased her to lean against him.

“I know you’re excited, but please, please mind your health,” Riccardo chided gently.

“Because I knew you would come and support me,” Martina replied with a smile.

Chiara, whose romantic experiences across two lifetimes were decidedly unremarkable, found herself unexpectedly swallowing a large mouthful of third-wheel discomfort.

Fortunately, the couple ceased their lovey-dovey moments promptly. Leaning against Riccardo, Martina fixed Chiara with lively blue eyes, scrutinizing her. Yet the gaze wasn’t intrusive; it was the look one gives a long-lost treasure, fearful of missing any detail. Under such scrutiny, Chiara felt oddly embarrassed. She took a step forward, approaching the dais of the four-poster bed. Then she saw Martina slightly raise her right hand, pause, and let it tremble back down.

Chiara had expected questions about her life all these years. Instead, after a long silence, Martina only said, “I heard there’s a carnival in the Piazza della Signoria today… young people all go… You… you should go and see.”

Chiara was taken aback. Riccardo, however, seemed to have understood something profound in that brief sentence. He gave Martina’s shoulder a reassuring pat and looked up at Chiara with a smile. “Martina is right, you should go see. The sun is out today. You could even go to the terrace on the third floor tonight to look at the stars.”

Chiara nodded silently. As she turned to leave, she suddenly remembered something. She turned back and walked to the bedside. Carved into the dais of Martina’s four-poster bed was the goddess Thetis holding her son Achilles by the ankle, dipping him into the River Styx. It was the origin of a tragic heroic epic, yet also a manifestation of a mother’s fierce love.

Chiara placed the pink carnation hidden in her sleeve on Martina’s pillow. Before Riccardo could say, “That carnation looks familiar,” she had already turned and left Martina’s room, closing the door softly behind her.

She stood rigidly outside the door for several minutes before finally relaxing. Leaning against the wood, she watched the sun settle onto the rooftops opposite, its gentle light spilling into the courtyard.

By evening, the Totti servants, having gone to the Piazza della Signoria for the carnival, returned to the palazzo in chattering, laughing groups.

Chiara had been reading in her room when the sound of young voices laughing and talking drifted through her door. Half her attention drifted from her book. She skimmed the words on the page while listening to the young people outside sharing their carnival experiences – tales of pretty girls and handsome boys – all converging into one exclamation:

“We didn’t see Signor Volturi at the carnival today! Even though young Signor Medici said Signor Volturi was unwell and couldn’t attend, it’s still such a pity. Even if it rained, even if Signor Volturi just passed by the Palazzo Vecchio, that alone would have driven everyone wild! That would have been a *real* carnival!”

Chiara raised an eyebrow. So this Signor Volturi was the current object of fervent admiration for Florence’s youth. Every city had such charismatic young men. In Vatican City and Rome, it was Cesare. Here in Florence, it seemed to be the one surnamed Volturi.

But… Volturi?

She couldn’t recall ever hearing that family name during Adriana’s lessons on Italian nobility.

As she began mentally reviewing her lessons, the voices outside started a new topic.

“I heard the lady, Signora Martina’s daughter, has arrived.”

Hearing the topic shift to her, Chiara’s remaining attention left the book. She set it down, propped her chin on her hand, and stared out the window at the Ponte Vecchio as its lights flickered on one by one, listening intently to the chatter outside.

A boy said, “If I remember right, the young lady came from Vatican City? Someone from the Vatican… who knows if she’s easy to get along with.”

A girl: “I hope she’s easygoing like the master and mistress.”

The boy replied quickly, “That’s probably unlikely. I hear the lords and ladies from the Vatican aren’t easy to deal with, very hard to please. Countless servants who make mistakes get sold off to brothels. You know, there are many brothels in Rome.”

The girl seemed frightened: “Oh heavens! I’m so clumsy! What if I upset this young lady and she sells me off? Signora Martina dotes on her daughter so much, she’d surely give her full authority to decide!”

Chiara: “…”

The Totti servants were not only physically free, it seemed their imaginations were wildly free too.

She rubbed her throbbing temples.

Faced with the girl’s anxiety, the boy immediately stepped up with a plan. “Then we should get on this young lady’s good side first! Then she won’t give you a hard time.”

“How do we do that?” the girl pressed urgently.

“What if,” the boy suggested, “we invite her to join us for the carnival in a few days?”

“Great idea!” the girl clapped her hands. “I’ll give her a makeover that will outshine everyone! I guarantee every noble young man in Florence will be rooted to the spot when they see our lady!”

Chiara: “…”

No. I refuse.

The boy grew more excited. “Then young Signor Medici will be crazy for her! Signor Botticelli will see her and want to paint her portrait! Even Signor Volturi will grace her with one of his rare smiles!”

“Yes, yes! After all, the day our lady arrived in Florence, the month-long drizzle stopped and the sun came out! She must be as warm and captivating as the sun!”

Chiara: “…”

Stop! Your imaginations are running wild! It’s getting out of control!

“Just thinking about the carnival in a few days makes me so excited!” the boy was now giddy with excitement.

“Don’t think about a few days from now just yet,” the girl, still possessing some reason, interjected.

Chiara silently commended the girl in her mind. But after a pause of mere seconds, the girl added, “I think our lady must be hungry. I’ll go make her some pasta right now… yes, an extra-large portion.”

Chiara, who immediately let out an involuntary belch at the thought: “…”