My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century (4 page)

D’Angeli.

I continue scanning the rich artwork, glancing at a tapestry of a bunch of angels in a room similar to mine, and then bolt upright.

Angeli.

My mother’s name.

Slowly I cross over to the crest and trace the letters of the family name with my finger. The resemblance between my mother and my new aunt is eerie. Add to it the fact that I’m here, and there’s no way it’s a coincidence the two last names are so similar. At some point, someone must have dropped the beginning
D’
, thus creating the Americanized version Angeli.

Which means this family doesn’t just believe I’m one of them…I really am. Just very,
very
far removed.

I just hugged my ancestors!

The reality makes my head spin.

As I try to make sense of the latest twist, a scene from an old show I saw not too long ago flashes in my mind. I’d been flipping through the channels in my bedroom, avoiding the lovefest between Dad and Jenna in the living room, and stumbled across
Quantum Leap
on the Syfy network. While I only caught a few minutes
,
the premise completely sucked me in
.
The main character was a scientist who gets stuck time traveling throughout history, temporarily taking the place of other people to right various unknown wrongs.

Squeezing my head, I backpedal until my knees knock against the bedframe. Could that be why Reyna sent me here? I mean, I’m obviously still in my own body, but maybe this isn’t just a twenty-four-hour joyride through history like I’d thought. Maybe this is one huge quantum leap to take Patience’s place and undo some kind of life-altering wrong?

I free-fall onto the colossal, lumpy mattress and throw my arm over my eyes, blocking out the nauseating geometric shapes splattered on the walls. An hour ago—heck, a few
minutes
ago—this whole gypsy-trip thing seemed like a great excuse to leave my life behind, even if it was just for a day. But now, things are getting real. And scary.

And monumentally confusing.

If this is a real family—
my
real family—then where is the real Patience D’Angeli now?

I kick off my shoes and cover myself with the soft sapphire coverlet, my heavy lids rebelling against the onslaught of possibilities. I’m too tired to even take off the pound of clothes I seem to be wearing. But right before I pass out, one final thought manages to creep into my exhausted brain.

If Reyna did send me here for a specific reason, a reason I don’t know anything about, how will I ever get back?

Chapter Five

A rooster’s incessant crowing yanks me from a ridiculous dream about geometric shapes playing leapfrog. I yawn and snuggle deeper under the coverlet, trying to grasp the remaining wisps of beautiful sleep. Then the annoying form of poultry outside my window crows again, and I huff.

Who let a freaking rooster get so close to our hotel? Somebody’s
so
getting fired.

I throw off the covers, crack my eyes open in defeat, and stare at the hypnotic painted wallpaper.

It wasn’t a dream.

Yesterday’s events come rushing back, and I look down at my golden gown. Guess I can scratch hitting the shops with Dad and Jenna off my to-do list. I purse my lips and absently run my hand along the soft fabric. The fact that I’m still here also proves my Renaissance vacay wasn’t just a day trip.

I draw in a shaky breath and try not to panic.

Part of me knows this is the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me, but it’s also terrifying. If this is all real, and the magic didn’t end at midnight like in the fairy tales, then I’m completely flying blind.

Why didn’t I make Reyna explain what was going on?

I rub my forehead and play back her last words like a repeating track:
Be sure to keep your mind open to the lessons ahead.

Great.
So this isn’t a pleasure trip, after all. I’m supposed to learn something. A lesson, like in some teenybopper show. I stare at the door and wait for Miley Cyrus to come barreling in, singing tunelessly about our pasts being the key to our futures. Just what I need, more focus on my past. I grab the pillow and throw it over my head.

This is what I get for being wild.

I never should’ve walked into that gypsy tent. I should’ve just gone to the hotel, gotten my bonus points for being back early, and let Jenna extol the virtues of public scrutiny. At least then, I’d know what I was dealing with—a future stepmother gung ho on ruining my life—and not some elusive lesson to learn.

At least there’s one silver lining. If there
is
a lesson buried in all this, then learning it must be my ticket home…and if that’s the case, then when I go back is completely within my control.

That
I like.

It’s not that I don’t miss Dad already. I do. I also miss air-conditioning. But if I can somehow hang around just long enough to also miss my Sweet Sixteen, or have them cancel it, that wouldn’t completely suck, either.

A short rap on my thick, heavy door startles me, and a young servant girl enters the room. “Pardon me, Signorina.”

I shake my head and blink. Despite realizing this isn’t a dream, my sudden ability to understand and translate Italian is still a shock to my spinning brain.

The girl closes the door behind her. “The mistress has asked for you. She will be breaking her fast soon and insists you join her.”

At the mention of food, my stomach rumbles. I think back and realize the last thing I ate was the biscotti sample in the market yesterday. I jump out of bed and quickly remember something else I haven’t done since then.

Use the bathroom.

I look around the room, expecting to see a chamber pot or some other disgusting device, anything that makes sense or looks familiar from my history books, but fail to find even that. My legs start to shake, and I bounce from foot to foot. From the corner of my eye, I catch the servant smirking. I narrow my eyes. There’s something familiar about her.

She raises her hand and points to a small door I hadn’t noticed before. “The garderobe. If you need to relieve yourself.”

Garde-what?

I fly across the room and open the door. The overwhelming stench of sewage hits me, and I slap my hand across my nose and mouth. But the sight is glorious. Inside this minuscule closet is a small bench with a hole cut into it to create a primitive toilet. I can practically hear the Hallelujah chorus. I hike up my dress, sit down, and feel the sweet relief.

When I’m finished, I return to my room feeling ten pounds lighter and see a bowl of water, several small cups, and a towel waiting for me. The servant girl motions me over. She cocks her head when I stare blankly at the strange mixture, then goes through the process of showing me how to brush my teeth with my finger and this weird homemade paste that tastes like sour honey. I keep thinking about the lovely travel toothbrush-and-toothpaste set waiting in my backpack. I just knew my neuroticism would pay off one day. While the girl is here, I’ll refrain from bucking the system—but I totally plan to sneak back up later.

After I finish washing, she points to the stool, and I sit down. She untwists the braid I slept in and starts detangling the rat’s nest on my head. As she works, I realize we’ve barely spoken.

“I’m Patience,” I tell her with only a hint of revulsion at the dreadful name rolling off my tongue. “What’s your name?”

She pulls the brush through a particularly stubborn mass of knots, and when she answers, her voice barely floats over the rhythmic raking of the brush. “Lucia.”

I nod toward the window. “Looks like a beautiful day today.”

Silence.

I guess she isn’t much for small talk, which I completely understand. I’m pretty much a loner myself…though that wasn’t always the case.

A memory flashes from when I was seven years old, back when the world was rosy and I actually let people get close. My best friend Ella and I used to be glued at the hip, especially after my parents’ divorce. But then came the summer after I turned eight, when Ella moved and Mom hit the papers with yet another scandal. Classmates stopped accepting sleepover invitations, and suddenly I was no longer invited to theirs. After a while, it just became easier to pretend I didn’t need anyone.

Closing my eyes against the icky onslaught of emotions and swallowing past the lump in my throat, I let Lucia’s relaxing brush strokes turn me into a pile of goo.

Sadly, she eventually sets down the brush. She wraps a gold net around the back of my hair and places a jeweled wreath crown on top for the finishing touch. I rotate the small mirror she hands me around my head, admiring her work. While it’s still a shock to see myself sans makeup, I have to admit I’m digging these period hairstyles.

Lucia pulls me to my feet and tugs off my gown as if we’re not practically strangers. I fling an arm across my chest while she strides to my trunk to rifle through clothes. I get that things are different here than what I’m accustomed to, but I’m still a little scandalized. She picks up a white linen shirt from the assortment of garments and hands it to me, raising an eyebrow as I attempt to grab it from her fingers while continuing to cover all my lady parts.

I yank the scratchy wide-necked top over my head, along with the matching long-sleeved linen gown, complete with fitted waist and full skirt. It’s very plain, but I’m just happy to be clothed again. The last thing Lucia hands me is a beautiful hunter-green silk gown. “A surcoat,” she calls it.

I slide the luxurious fabric over my head and smooth it over my hips, wishing I had a full-length mirror. The gown really is more like an outer coat, with the bottom cut open in a V-shape to expose the white linen skirt underneath. The bodice of the surcoat has a white crisscross pattern, and the neckline sits right above my shoulder. It is sleeveless, resting on my shoulders and on top of the linen sleeves, which are trimmed in delicate lace at the wrists. I slip my feet into a pair of mules.

Despite the layers of clothes and the stuffy room with no A/C, I feel elegant. Regal. Especially when I compare my ensemble to Lucia’s simple white gown and brown surcoat, accessorized with a stiff white apron and white bonnet. It has to be hard helping others get dressed in fancy clothes and rich fabrics while having to wear something so plain.

A stab of guilt hits, but then my stomach rumbles. Loudly.

The girl smirks again, giving me another surge of déjà vu, and wordlessly waves me toward the door. I nod in appreciation and run into the hallway before remembering I have no clue where to go.

“Um, could you point me in the right direction?”

She nods and steps in front of me, guiding me down the rug-covered corridor. The sound of happy, chirpy voices lets me know I’m getting close, as does the smell of fresh baked bread. I quicken my steps and nearly plow into Lucia’s back when she stops short outside the room.

“Thank you,” I tell her as I breeze past, heading straight for the sideboard displaying toasted breads, jars of marmalade, and thick slices of ham. My mouth waters.

“Patience!”

At first, I think my aunt is telling me I have to wait before hungrily tearing into the spread. But then I remember that it’s my stupid name.

“Yes, Aunt Francesca?” I ask, picking up a plate and piling it high.
Break fast, indeed. At least I got that part of the time period down.

“Good morning, child! We were just discussing the day’s schedule. I hope you rested well, because today begins your introduction to Florence!”

Why is it my destiny to be surrounded by sunny morning people? I carry my overflowing plate to the table and sit across from Alessandra. She looks up; gives me a sweet, genuine smile; then darts her eyes back to her plate. A light blush works its way up her cheeks. She is completely adorable.

“Yeah, I slept gr—very well.”
Frick, this is hard.
I grab the small gold fork, prepared to stuff my mouth before it can mess up again, and do a double take. The tines are short and straight, with no curve at all. I turn it over in my hand. How weird.

I lift my eyes and see both my aunt and Alessandra staring at me strangely. I guess they are used to the medieval fork shape. I quickly drop my hand and straighten my shoulders, playing off the momentary lapse in my façade. The most important thing I’ve learned over the years is that confidence is half the battle. If you project a certain image with confidence, people tend to believe it.

My aunt shakes her head and then smiles brightly. “Today Alessandra and Cipriano are going to escort you to the piazza and help acclimate you to your new home. Then tonight we shall attend a party hosted by your uncle’s business associate.” A rare frown appears on her face. “The family is quite horrid, but the food should be agreeable. And it is our duty to attend.”

Alessandra has continued to watch me through squinting eyes, but at this last bit, she sighs. She leans forward and whispers, “Antonia is most unpleasant. She thrives on causing others to feel inferior.”

Well, yippee. Sounds like I’m in store for a barrel of laughs tonight.

Although I appreciate my cousin’s warning, I’m not worried about old Antonia. I live my life by the wise words of Eleanor Roosevelt: no one can make you feel inferior without your consent. It’s why I don’t really do the whole boyfriend or girl-bonding thing. I mean, yeah, life would be easier if I had someone like Ella again—but it’d just be one more person who’d eventually leave.

My aunt gets up and flits about the room as if she is bursting with energy and needs to get it all out. I continue stuffing my face while I watch the lively display, wondering how it’s possible the two of us are related. Even though we
are
family, and she believes I’m Patience, she literally opened her home and life to a complete stranger. It’s as if she doesn’t know how cruel people can be, or worse, doesn’t care. How can she live her life with such blind trust? She certainly didn’t pass that trait along in the gene pool.

She floats to the other side of the room, stopping to fuss and fluff Alessandra’s hair and flash me a brilliant smile. She also has that maternal affection thing down.

Obviously she failed to pass that trait along, too.

…

The Piazza del Mercato Vecchio is teeming with people. It’s like the mall of Renaissance Florence. Not only is it a great place to shop—anything you could possibly want, from food and flowers to clothes and tools, can be found here—but it’s an excellent place to people watch.

Cipriano stays a few feet behind us as we stroll through the crowded streets. He’s nice enough and takes his role as chaperone and protector very seriously, but he seems so intense. I lean closer to Alessandra and whisper, “Is Cip always so glum?”

She wrinkles her nose at my choice of nickname. “Cip?” She follows my eyes to her brother, and the lightbulb turns on. “Ah, yes. Mostly, though his spirits are much lighter when he is among his friends.”

Alessandra tilts her head and looks at me, and a glorious smile breaks across her face. She links her arm through mine and pulls me closer. “I have not had many friends myself, and I am ever so pleased to now have a sister.”

I nod and smile, keeping my mouth shut. I haven’t had a lot of friends, either, but the difference is I’m not exactly itching to break that record—as tempting as it can sometimes be. But telling this sweet girl that would be like kicking a puppy.

At the corner of the Via del Corso, a man pulls a slab of roast pork off a spit and bites into it. In the next stall, a vendor offers a group of women slices of bright red fruit. Everything looks fresh and delicious and unbelievably mouthwatering. I slow my stride, about to ask for a sample, when Cipriano screams, “Lorenzo!”

The sudden exclamation from my silent cousin successfully diverts my attention from my greedy stomach.

I watch as he breaks into a jog down the road and stops in front of a guy facing away from us. Cipriano laughs as he pounds the guy on the back in a manly dude-hug. This family is all about the hugs. From the corner of my eye, I see Alessandra look at me, then at the boys, then at the ground with a frown.

Suspicious.

With a hand on my hip, I squint to get a better look at whoever made her so flustered. All I can see is curly blond hair and broad shoulders and an outfit like all the other guys walking around the crowded piazza. But seeing as how she didn’t get all twitchy before, I figure something has to be up. Distracted, I ask, “Who’s that dude, Less?”

A group of women stops in my line of vision. Unable to see around them, I turn back to Alessandra. She has a weird look on her face. I meet her stare, then hear my own words play back.