Page 16 of This Vicious Hunger
Petaccia raises an eyebrow and then shrugs. “You may. Just don’t make a fuss about it. Any of your fellows have a problem, send them to me.”
“I… Yes, ma’am—sorry. Florencia.”
I stand awkwardly in the doorway clutching the book, and within seconds it’s as if Petaccia has forgotten that I’m even there. I watch curiously as she wanders back over to her precious vine on her desk, her gloved fingertips dancing over it the way the girl touched those flowers in the garden, so much earnest love in her face, but something else too. Something fierce and a little frightening. Almost like a hunger.
Chapter Ten
Iwasn’t sure you’d show up.”
Leonardo is waiting for me at my usual table in the corner of the dining hall. I ignore the server’s expression as she watches me approach him—she’d tried to tell me she couldn’t seat me at all tonight—and slide into the free seat closest to the window. The evening air is stuffy and smells like fresh, crusty bread. I realise I haven’t eaten all day, and can’t actually remember the last time Idideat.
“I need to eat, Leonardo. Of course I was going to show up.”
“You could have fooled me. I’ve hardly seen you since yesterday. I was beginning to think you were avoiding me again.”
“Oh, don’t be cold,” I say with a smile. “You were the one missing from our lecture again today.” Leonardo looks hurt, his eyes crinkling behind his glasses as he winces.Washe missing? I thought he was, like yesterday, but maybe I simply didn’t see him. Maybe I ignored him without realising. “I’m sorry. I’ve had a lot on my mind, that’s all.”
Leonardo helps himself to a glass of fruity red wine and attempts to pour some for me, but I place my hand over my glassand pick up the water instead. Tonight’s meal is some kind of stew, red meat and vegetables cooked in the same university house wine. My mouth waters at the sight of other scholars receiving their bowls and bread. Leonardo watches me with interest.
“Have you eaten at all?”
“Bits here and there.”
“Thora.”
I sigh. “What?”
“I don’t mean to sound like your mother, but you’ve got to take care of yourself here. The schedule is punishing—you’re exhausting yourself already. I can tell.”
“I’m fine. I didn’t sleep well again, and I’ve had a lot to think about today.”
“Because of your tutorial? How did it go?”
“She’s remarkable.” That’s all I’m willing to say about it. Leonardo might be studying the same field, and he might give me insight into Almerto’s studies, but doesn’t that make him some kind of… rival? Petaccia’s comment about sharing credit has been knocking about in my brain since yesterday.
Leonardo pushes his glasses back up his nose as he attempts to take a sip of wine, and I almost laugh; he’s not exactly a threat, though, is he?
“You still need to eat—”
“Leonardo,” I intone seriously. He blinks, shaken, and then that slow childish smile creeps across his lips.
“Sorry. Sorry. Can we start over?”
I shrug. “Again? You’re the one who invited me to dinner. You make the rules.”
“Then we start over.” He puffs out his chest. “I’m sorry I was an ass. We seem to take it in turns, don’t we? But I’m just tryingto look out for you—and no, no, I know you can do that yourself. It was something my wife…” He trails off. Short of clapping his hand over his mouth, I’m not sure there’s a way he could have made it more obvious he didn’t intend to talk about her, but rather than whatever emotion he was expecting I’m merely pleased he finally mentioned it—though it does raise more questions.
“You’re married, then? I did wonder.” Here in the dim light of the dining hall I notice what I’ve missed so far during our outdoor conversations: the pale band of skin on his wedding finger—not a ring, but where a band once sat.
“I was.” Leonardo takes a hasty gulp of his wine as the server finally brings our meal. My stomach rumbles at the sight of the stew, fresh bread and butter, a platter of cured meats and cheeses on the side, plus a fresh bottle of wine. I flex my fingers and take a second before diving in, rich onions and beef and wine melting on my tongue.
“What happened?” I ask, at least remembering to swallow first.
Leonardo breaks off a piece of bread and rolls the soft inner part between his fingers thoughtfully before answering. It looks like he’s torn over what to say.So it’s not death, then, I think.Nothing so simple.It’s customary for widowed parties to keep their wedding rings, not least because it’s a sign of morality.
This isn’t a man who has been able to lay his grief to rest. No undertaker or sepulchre here. No, the grief is still very much there, raising its greedy little head in the tears that well in the corners of his eyes and that untanned band of skin.
My father used to tell me tales of his early years reading the death rites, and I’m reminded now of one of the stories he related, in which a young man was widowed only days into his marriage after a long, angry battle with his new bride-to-be’s father, whodelayed their marriage for nearly five years. The man was so distraught over his lover’s death that he chose to starve in his family’s private sepulchre rather than process the loss through his sister-in-law’s Silence and his own celebratory wish upon the cradle.
