Chapter 1
The small flames above the candles were nothing but orbs of light floating over the dining table as Celestina's mind wandered off. The voices that filled the room bounced off her ears and out into the void she was slipping herself into. She was aware she wasn't present, yet she couldn't find the strength to return. No, she didn't want to. This was her safe space for now. Not until Signor Balbi left.
"Celestina," Her father, Signor Crivelli's, voice cut through her, sucking her back to her chair. She blinked, turning her head slowly and meeting her father's harsh gaze.
"I'm sorry," she apologized in a mutter, turning her focus back to Signor Balbi. "What was it that you were saying, Signor?"
Signor Balbi, a man double her age, shook his head in disapproval. "Nothing too important, I suppose." he scoffed as he furiously carved into his venison. Celestina slunk into her chair, watching as her mother sipped her wine; hardly here in the moment with them either. She was sick to her stomach, watching this unfold for the third time this month. Each time, it was becoming more depressing than the last.
"Mi scusi," Celestina mumbled as she took the napkin off her last and set it by her untouched silverware "I'm not feeling very well. I think perhaps I should lie down–"
"You are probably unwell because you haven't eaten." Crivelli hissed at her, yet she could see he was attempting to keep in control while sitting beside Balbi. "Signor Balbi traveled very far today to meet you. So please, stay and dine with us."
The look he gave her was not one she hadn't seen before. In fact, it stirred a familiar panic in her throat. Triggering a sense of hopelessness. That no matter what she did, his word was law. She was only his daughter.
She glanced over at Balbi, whose mustache was drooping further and further with disapproval.
"I do not mean to trouble you, Signor Balbi," she murmured, her voice as hollow as the cavern in her chest. "I am... grateful for your visit."
Bambi slowly chewed his food as he eyed her, weighing in on her apology was worth it before giving her a single nod.
"It must be difficult, being a widow at your age. Signor Donato was a lucky man to have you in his last few years with us." His words should have sounded compassionate, but it was stated more of a fact "You must not be picky, Signore Cirvelli. You're nearly past your prime now, you know. You are lucky I don't mind such things."
Hot bile rose to Celestina's throat, swallowing hard to keep it down. She glanced at her mother in the corner of her eye, who was her age when she birthed her. Did her father think she was past her prime as she cradled his freshly delivered daughter?
"I am honored, Signor Balbi."
"Let us not speak of the dead at the dinner table," Her mothers low and mellow voice chinned in as her servant on standby poured her another glass of wine.
The candle flames flickered with the breeze that snaked its way through the old villa's halls. Celestina pressed her damp palms against her purple skirts, feeling the fabric crinkle beneath her touch. If she focused hard enough on that sound, the rasp of silk under her fingers, it almost drowned out Balbi's chewing, the clink of her father's knife against his plate, her mother's sighs as she reached for her wine again.
"You are more quiet than I expected you to be," Balbi remarked, swallowing a piece of venison with a forced grunt. "Perhaps too quiet. I hope you're not the kind of woman who keeps secrets from her husband."
Celestina swallowed around the dryness in her throat. "I keep nothing, Signor," she answered with as much confidence as she could muster. But she felt the lie settle over her like a burial shroud.
Signor Crivelli gave a short nod of approval, his jaw tense with the effort of civility. "Celestina has always been obedient," he said, as if she wasn't sitting right there. She was but a vase to be appraised and passed along to another shelf.
Balbi smirked and took another sip of his wine. "Good. I prefer a quiet home. My late wife," he waved a hand dismissively, "was far too spirited for her own good."
At that, Celestina's stomach twisted. She wanted to stand, to run from the table and vomit out every piece of herself that remained chained to her father's will. But she sat, frozen, her gaze unfocused on the table before her. The wax from the candles dripped in slow, steady rivulets down their holders, forming little white puddles on the silver tray beneath. She wanted to be buried in that wax, forever frozen and unmoving until her last breath.
"Perhaps tomorrow," Balbi continued, wiping his mouth with his napkin, "you can show me the garden. I hear your roses bloom better than anyone's in Nottevalle."
"They are tended by our gardener," Crivelli interjected quickly, his voice tight with something Celestina couldn't name.
Balbi hummed. "Still. A woman should know how to tend to beauty. It is her duty, after all."
Celestina's dry lips parted, but no words came. What would she say? That the roses thrived on manure and bloodied hands, that beauty was never born from ease? That her duty was not to tend to flowers but to keep herself alive long enough to remain herself?
"Of course," she managed instead, her voice thin. "If it pleases you."
Balbi only nodded, reaching for his wine. But her father's gaze was locked on her, his brow twitching with restrained fury. He set his fork down with a sharp clink against his plate.
"'If it pleases you'," Crivelli mocked under his breath, leaning forward. "That is all you can say tonight? You sit there like a corpse and speak like a ghost. Show some warmth, girl."
Celestina's chest tightened. "I apologize, Papa," she whispered, eyes cast down at her untouched food. "I simply—"
"Simply what?" he snapped, making her flinch. Balbi paused mid-sip, looking between them with mild curiosity and annoyance. "Simply what, Celestina? You tire of being courted by good men? You think you're above them?"
"No, Papa," she murmured, shaking her head slightly.
"Then what is it?" His voice rose louder now, echoing off the tall stone walls. Her mother winced across the table from him, eyes locked on her wine as though it were the only thing keeping her anchored to this earth. "Your mother and I are tired of bringing in good and wealthy men who would give you the world, and in return I give them a dead fish of a daughter?"
Celestina swallowed back her trembling. "I am only...not feeling well tonight, I'm sorry, papa."
"Not feeling well," Crivelli scoffed, throwing his napkin down beside his plate. "You are never feeling well. Every dinner, every suitor, every opportunity to save yourself from ruin—you wither away like some wilting flower. Enough."
Mortification could not cover how Celestine was swimming in. She wanted to crawl under the table and sob like a child. Yet she was locked into her seat, chained by humiliation and shame.
Signor Balbi had nothing to add, only sipped his wine as Crivelli put his daughter in her place.
"Now, Antonio..." Celestina's mother began, finally interjecting. However, it was all in vain. Crivelli ignored her and leaned towards Celestina, his voice low but every syllable sharp enough to draw blood.
"Do you think you will survive without a husband to take you? You're lucky anyone looks your way at all. Do not mistake pity for desire."
Celestine frowned deeply, stunned at the venom in his tone. She could feel her vision blur as tears welled in her eyes. She blinked rapidly to hold them back.
"I am trying," her voice raised, shaken from losing the strength to keep doing this. "I don't take any of this for granted. Truly, I am trying to be what you want. But you cannot—"
"Then smile, Celestina!" he barked, slamming his fist on the table. The plates rattled and her mother jumped, clutching her golden jeweled necklace. Balbi raised his brows, watching them with discomfort now.
"Papa, stop it..." she murmured, humiliating heat flooding her face.
"Smile at Signor Balbi. Show him you are worth the coin he will spend on you." His tone was so scornful she felt her heart splinter within her ribs. "Do it. Smile."
Slowly, she turned to Balbi, forcing her lips upward into a trembling curve that felt foreign on her face. Her eyes burned with unshed tears as he gave her an awkward nod, chewing his meat with loud, open-mouthed bites.
"There now," Crivelli sneered. "Look at that. Beautiful, isn't she?"
But Balbi only grunted, more interested in his venison than her. Celestina lowered her gaze to her lap, the candle flames blurring before her eyes as she tried to steady her breathing.
All she could taste was shame, thick and bitter on her tongue. And in that moment, as her father's words echoed through her skull, she wondered if she would ever feel like herself again. Or if this was all that remained of her: a shell to be passed off, traded, and forgotten.
She couldn't handle it anymore. The vomit was surfacing, the tears were staining the bodice of her dress. She pushed herself away from the table and leaped up from her chair, her feet flying over the villa floors as she made a get away to her chambers. Her father was shouting something, but it was drowned out by her own sobs that echoed down the halls.
