The Lady and the Wish Page 10

  My ears were enormous, with thick lobes hanging down to my shoulders!

  My heart went hollow and heavy, and panic nearly choked me. I knew how and why—it had to be the wish magic—but my thoughts were too scattered to form words. I knew only that I must escape before any of these commoners saw me, Lady Gillian Montmorency, with huge, hairy ears. Attempting to be unobtrusive, I stood up, tried to take a step, overbalanced, and fell back onto my chair so hard that it tipped over. My back hit the pool deck hard enough to knock the air out of me, and only somebody’s feet kept me from bashing my head on the tiles.

  Maids screamed, and people turned to stare. For the first time in my life, I saw shock and disgust spread from face to face as people caught sight of me. I pushed myself to a sitting position and again tried to stand up and run, but my feet were too heavy to move. Wary now, I looked at them. The legs emerging from my swimsuit were mine, but from the knees down they were greenish gray, ending in huge, hairy feet with thick yellow toenails.

  I let out a scream that probably shattered a few eardrums, squeezing my eyes shut to avoid seeing those monstrous feet. How long until the sun set? Could I survive being hideously ugly for that long?

  To my surprise, one of the maids draped a large towel over my knees and feet, and the girl whose feet saved my head helped me sit upright. Someone else handed her a towel, and she wrapped it over my head to cover my ears. “The sun will set soon,” she assured me.

  Wet, squelchy footsteps approached from behind, and I heard and felt him squat behind me. “Are you hurt?” Manny asked, grasping my towel-draped shoulders. Icy water dripped from his hair onto my arms and thighs.

  “Not really. Manny, I didn’t do anything to irritate her!” I stated, looking over my shoulder at his wet, angry face, my voice shaking almost as hard as my hands. “Well, except for coming down here.”

  “She’s watching us,” another maid said. “Pretend nothing’s wrong.”

  I started to turn my head, but Manny spoke into my ear—through the towel, thankfully. “Don’t look. She’s standing on the balcony, grinning from ear to ear.”

  “She had to have heard me scream,” I grumbled. “People in the capital probably heard!”

  “Don’t be too sure. Her hearing isn’t the best.”

  Conversation buzzed around us—my ears were particularly acute. Everyone knew that I was Lady Beneventi’s latest target. They all seemed upset that she had shut me in the bathroom, terrified me with the one hundred dogs, taken away my voice, and in other ways made my job nearly impossible. I heard people discussing how they might discourage Lady B, as they all called her, from doing things like this to me in the future.

  “Do you hear them?” Manny murmured. “What did I tell you? They’ll stand by you if you let them.”

  Maybe the servants recognized my importance as the daughter of an earl? No, I realized, they saw me as one of them. Marvelous. Why did they have to make things so difficult? If they would only be nasty instead of kind and accepting, I could despise them with no effort.

  More squelchy wetsuits approached, and Manny stood up to greet his friends. He stood directly behind me, which was comforting. Dripping a puddle on the tiles, which was less so.

  “What happened?” a deep voice asked. “Why’d you run off, Manny?”

  “We heard a scream. Gillian? Are you all right?” I recognized the handsome Ganza’s charming voice.

  More feet and hairy legs drizzled water on the deck; their wetsuits stopped just above their knees. I nodded briefly, clutching the towel under my chin, refusing to look higher.

  “I believe she has the ears, legs, and feet of a troll, or maybe an ogre.” The cook spoke calmly. “I’m not well acquainted with magical creatures.”

  “Do you mean, some troll is out there wearing Gillian’s ears and feet?” a maid inquired.

  “That might look even funnier,” someone behind me muttered, and I found myself trying to imagine . . . Would a troll appreciate my diamond-heart earrings and red-polished toenails?

  “I took a picture of her. Look!” A woman I hadn’t seen before shoved her camera in Manny’s face. “Those toes look like a troll’s to me.”

  My stomach dropped, and my head went light. If she were to post that photo online or sell it . . .

  “Delete that photo, now,” Manny ordered. “Anyone else who took a photo, delete it. And no talking to the press. We do not need word of the magic at Torre Santa Lucia to spread. Understood?”

  There was a murmur and susurrus of motion as people agreed and nodded.

  “What if we took a photo before she got troll ears?” a man asked.

  “Delete it,” Manny growled.

  “The sun will set any minute now.” I recognized Jacopo’s voice and glanced up to see him gazing toward the horizon. Everyone was looking that way except the youngest housemaid, who stared at me wide-eyed until she saw me looking back. Then she smiled, looking both amused and sympathetic.

  I was in no mood to smile back.

  I felt it again as the sky streaked gold, pink, and orange—a tickle, almost as if a feather or snowflake had brushed my skin and blurred the world. I cautiously reached beneath the towel and felt my own ears, small and firm, earrings intact. I let the towel fall to the deck.

  Manny squatted beside me with one knee on the deck. His hair was still wet and standing on end, and I could see black stubble on his chin. “Feet back to normal?” he asked.

  After peering under the towel over my knees, I removed it, nodding. My pale legs and feet had never looked better. Seeing his hand before me, I took it and let him pull me upright.

  “I think this misfortune might well endear you to the staff,” he told me quietly, still gripping my hand. “Don’t let it bother you. You look fine now.”

  He gave my hand one little squeeze, released it, and turned to address everyone near. “I think we should finish our volleyball match and our party and pretend we aren’t bothered. Maybe Lady Beneventi will get the clue and leave us alone next time.”

  The other servants and workers all agreed, so after one more quick look at me—and a tiny quirk of his mouth—he returned to the pool and dived off the side into the deep end. The pool lights came on, and someone switched on the outside lights.

  The volleyball resumed, chairs were uprighted, and people returned to the snack table for more biscotti and cannoli. Their chatter returned to ordinary topics. One of the maids—I think she did the laundry two days a week—paused in passing to touch my arm. “I’m really sorry that happened to you, Gillian.”

  “Lady Beneventi did weird things to the companion before you too,” the youngest maid added, “like making her sleep all day. And she says mean things to everyone!”

  “She’s old, and she doesn’t have a filter,” a third maid said. “My nonna is a lot like her. Even watches the same shows over and over.”

  “You’re brave to put up with her this long.” Another maid gave me an encouraging smile. “I really hope you can stick it out until she gets used to having you around.”

  I smiled and thanked them but couldn’t help wondering what they said in my absence. The girls I knew talked nasty about each other in private.

  I sat down and watched the volleyball through the next game, but when I realized my eyes were following Manny everywhere, my heart jumping every time he scored a point or blocked a spike, I excused myself quietly and retreated to the house.

  This little crush was getting out of hand.

  A few hours later I was in bed, scanning my social-network sites. I first posted the selfie I’d taken on the veranda before I got trolled, then “liked” a lot of photos and posts, wrote a few bland comments, and checked pages of important people whose posts hadn’t shown up on my feed. Such as Prince Fidelio. He had posted a few photos of his flying horses but nothing of real interest. I exclaimed over and “loved” those photos, but there wasn’t much to say. They were just flying horses. Did he have no other interests?

  Raquel�
��s page looked much the same—more flying horses, and photos of her posed beautifully on their backs or standing beside them. But then I noticed a comment from Fidelio on one of her photos. Then another, and another.

  I dropped my phone on my lap, stared at my reflected frown in the ceiling mirror, and wondered what I was doing wrong. Did he not like me because I didn’t care for flying horses? How petty and trivial a reason was that?

  His cousin had liked me. I went to Raoul Trefontane’s page, but that was a waste of time. His profile photo was of someone snow-skiing, and his latest update was from last spring. There were no other photos. People had written on his page for his birthday in August, many of them people I knew. He seemed surprisingly popular for someone who almost never posted. When had I friended him anyway? I couldn’t remember accepting his request.

  I clicked back to my page—my new photo had gotten two likes and a comment. Instantly hopeful, I checked . . . but the comment was from Max and in poor taste, so I deleted it. Nothing from Fidelio. Frowning, I looked back on other recent posts to find that Max had “loved” and commented on every photo of me. I deleted several more of his comments that made my face burn, especially at the realization that other people—possibly Fidelio—must have read them.

  I almost blocked Max from my account but reconsidered. Other people would see the attention he gave me, and he was, after all, a crown prince. On that thought, I went to his page and clicked through multiple self-aggrandizing posts and dozens of photos of Max with friends, Max with beautiful girls, Max with animals he had killed, and Max with his shirt off. I liked a few of the less objectionable photos and turned off my phone, then the light.

  And I lay there thinking about a water-volleyball game, wondering if the party had ended yet. Wondering if Manny noticed I was gone.

  “‘Darling, your eyes are like stars in the evening sky!’” I paused in my reading. “Wait, didn’t the prince just say that to Rosalind a few chapters back?”

  No answer.

  I glanced at Lady Beneventi to see that her chin had dipped low while I was reading. I couldn’t help smiling. She often dozed off during these books, as well as during her favorite movies and shows, but she had read or watched them all so many times that it really didn’t matter. I lowered the book to my lap.

  We sat together on our favorite bench beside Giano, and I could see mist drifting in low places between the hills. It was a bright, pleasantly warm morning in late October, in the middle of the grape harvest. Warm color drenched the landscape, and workers were busily stripping the red vines of their bounty.

  I vaguely remembered hearing someone suggest I should visit Vetricia in autumn when the hills turned to gold. How true it was! Here I sat on a bench beside a dozing old woman, watching a little poodle roll on his back in the grass and snort in pleasure, and I felt . . . well, maybe not perfectly content, but the most relaxed I’d been since I was a little girl.

  I didn’t know if somebody’d had words with Lady Beneventi or if she realized she’d pushed her boundaries too far by giving me monster feet and ears in front of so many people. Whatever the reason, my life had been relatively peaceful for several weeks, with only a few harmless wishes. The servants, indoor and outdoor, all seemed willing to be friendly toward me, which was both pleasing and uncomfortable, since I could not allow myself to think of maids and gardeners as friends. Certainly not as equals.

  Lady Beneventi herself was still ornery and obnoxious, just not in a magical way. Having been Raquel’s best friend since childhood, I could absorb the old lady’s constant criticism and complaints. Her ancient friends in the village were all likable and daily told me how much they enjoyed having me around, which sort of balanced things out.

  I had plenty of opportunity to exercise, and the abundant fresh air, sunshine, and amazing food furthered my improving health. I wore less makeup, spent less time arranging my hair, and ran around in skinny jeans and t-shirts. Why bother about beauty and fashion when no one whose opinion mattered ever saw me?

  Hearing hammering, I turned on the bench and studied the villa. The contractors had already reroofed the villa and were currently repairing its siding after tearing down much of the ivy. Work continued nearly every day, but I hadn’t seen Manny since that pool party. He no longer showed up on weekends, and the pool would soon be drained for the winter.

  I faced forward again, squaring my shoulders. Manny’s absence, I reminded myself, was a blessing. Time and distance had restored my perspective, allowing me to focus on my life goals. Really, the man’s superior attitude toward the daughter of a peer was intolerable, even if he was a few years older than me. My preoccupation with him at the pool party had occurred during a time of emotional weakness. That debacle with the poodles must have scarred my psyche, giving me flashbacks of his . . . of things I needed to forget. In future, I must discourage Manny’s attentions and avoid his company.

  But even as I formed this resolution, part of my mind rebelled. Didn’t the villa’s renovation require supervision? He’d told me he would be around on weekends.

  Lady Beneventi inhaled deeply, then spoke as if we’d been conversing. “We used to have wonderful garden parties here.”

  “I imagine people were thrilled to attend them,” I responded, concealing my surprise. “Torre Santa Lucia is a lovely place.”

  “Oh yes!” A reminiscent smile brightened her face. “Arturo would play and sing, and people dressed up beautifully. Sometimes guests would swim in the pool. We always had the parties catered, and our servants enjoyed them as much as we did. So many happy guests!”

  She looked up at the statue beside us with a wistful smile. “You were here with us, too, Giano. I remember posing with you for a photo, and I think Arturo was a tiny bit jealous.”

  It freaked me out when she talked to the statue as if it could hear. Sure, I did that too, but not as if I seriously thought . . .

  Okay, fine. What can I say? Giano was a good listener. The solitude of this place was messing with my mind—possibly the dearth of eligible men, too. Giano was the strong, silent, sympathetic type, with his soulful expression and chiseled muscles.

  Right, bad pun. I’m pathetic. I know.

  I noticed Lady Beneventi’s hair moving about as if a stray wind played with it. She tipped her head back and sighed again. “I was a marvelous hostess.”

  “I’m sure you were. Would you like to hear more of our story?” I held up the book.

  But she was on a roll, talking as if to the sky. “I get so lonely sometimes. We should have parties like that. We should have one today. I wish”—My mouth dropped open at those dreaded words, but when I tried to interrupt, my voice stuck in my throat—“the villa’s statues could be our guests for a proper garden party in the grand old style.”

  “Oh, Lady Beneventi, what have you done?” I wailed.

  Movement brought my gaze up to the statue beyond her, and a scream caught in my throat. The piper lowered the instrument from its mouth and turned its head to look down at us with empty marble eyes. Its brows rose, and its stone lips curled in a smile. I thought I might die right then of pure horror.

  My first impulse was to run, but what about Lady Beneventi? My body wouldn’t move anyway, not even to scream again. Bacio stared, growled, and rushed to brace his front paws against the plinth and bark like a crazy dog.

  The statue straightened its shoulders and rolled its head as if it had a crick in its neck. Could stone feel stiff after centuries of not moving? But stone is supposed to be . . . My thoughts were going wild. Then the statue raised its marble arms high—one hand still clutching the pipe—and stretched. A sound very like “Ahhhh” came from its open mouth, and what looked like ribs appeared beneath the stone forming its chest.

  It had a voice.

  Stone scraped on stone when it shifted its bare feet on the plinth and stood upright. The strategically placed stone cloth it had been wearing fell to the plinth, then hit the ground with a thump, barely missing Bacio, who darted a
way with his tail tucked.

  I stared at the folds of marble, cringing. Now we had not just a living statue, but a disrobed living statue.

  Lady Beneventi gave a raucous hoot. “Bonjourno, Giano! Why did I never think to wake you before?”

  Feeling vaguely outraged, I shifted my gaze to her—I might have been stone myself for how difficult it was to move—and watched her clap her delicate hands in delight. She winked at me and stood up. “What fun this will be! Do you hear the music? The band will be playing on the veranda, I’m sure. We must explore and enjoy the party. Giano, will you escort me?”

  The statue jumped to the ground with an earth-shaking thud, his feet leaving deep impressions in the grass. Lady Beneventi extended her hand, and he stepped forward to take it. “I would be honored, my lady.” His voice sounded surprisingly young and clear.

  He was so close I could have reached out and touched him. The stone of him flowed like bone and flesh, marbled white and gray. All the stains and wear of time and weather had vanished. He was five feet tall at most—that plinth had made him seem larger—but perfectly proportioned.

  Aaaand stark naked. He was solid marble, but still!

  “Well, aren’t you a handsome and gallant thing?” Lady Beneventi said with laughter in her voice. “Obviously I forgot to mention a dress code for guests.”

  I was about to suggest the statue could tie that stone cloth around his waist when he turned to me, and his shy, eager expression nearly stopped my heart. I had seen that expression too often on men’s faces to mistake it. Not knowing what else to do, I extended my hand, and he gently grasped it and bowed. “Lady Gillian,” he said warmly. His hand felt like the smooth, cool stone I had often thoughtlessly caressed in passing. Now the thought made me flush. He definitely remembered my visits!

  I eased my hand out of his grasp, sensing his reluctance to let go. His pale eyes studied my face, and he seemed at a loss for words. Oh dear. After years of practice, I was adept at discouraging unwanted suitors, but an infatuated centuries-old marble masterpiece was far beyond my realm of experience.