Page 26 of Thus with a Kiss I Die
“Hurry up, girl!” the old lady shouted. “I’m slipping toward the grave quickly enough without having to wait on your airs!”
I picked up my pace.
“Kneel down.” She pointed to the floor before her. “Let me look at you.”
Surprised, I looked at Mamma, who nodded, and I knelt before the old woman.
Now I understood. She was almost blind, her brown eyes clouded white with the obscurity of age, and when I realized she waited on me, I took hold of her twisted claws and put them on my face.
She slid them down from my forehead, over my chin, and back up again. “Let me see your teeth,” she ordered.
I bared them in a semi-snarl.
She used her finger to poke at them; her skin tasted like garlic. She pronounced judgment. “Strong teeth. Good complexion. Good bones—although, of course, that’s required from the daughter of Romeo and Juliet. Name is Rosaline?”
“Yes, Dowager. Rosie, should you wish it.” Keeping in mind the way she’d leaned to hear my mother, I spoke loudly.
She tapped her chest with one of those bent fingers. “I’m Ursula. It means ‘bear.’ ”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Dowager.”
“You may call me Nonna Ursula.”
“As you command, Nonna Ursula.”
“You give the proper answers. Are you an obedient woman?”
Cal gave the bark that passed for a laugh.
She tilted her head toward him. “My grandson doesn’t think so.”
“Of course, your grandson is always right.” I could slide the implied knife between the ribs as well as any society matron.
She cackled, and it sounded ungodly, like the laugh of her eldest son, Prince Escalus the elder. “You’re impudent.”
“Yes, Nonna Ursula.”
“Good. Sit next to me at dinner. You can entertain me.”
Cal and Papà leaped to help her to her feet.
She whacked at them with her cane. “Get off. Get! Off! I can still stand on my own.”
She could, although she wavered and scowled. “Give me your arm, girl.”
I offered it. She tucked her hand in my elbow and I led her to the long table covered by a brilliant-colored Persian carpet, to the chair Prince Escalus pulled out for her.
Her arrival was the signal for dinner to begin. Seating had been assigned, not according to station, but with a wise view of letting the two families gain in acquaintance. Set at each place was a round pewter dish, a goblet of swirled color glass made on the isle of Murano, a silver spoon, and a trencher of bread. Very elegant, although in the case of Emilia and Cesario, perhaps the glass was ill-advised.
Servers in the prince’s livery arrived for the hands-cleansing ritual. One held an ornate pitcher, one a matching bowl, one linen towels. Starting with the prince, the man with the pitcher poured water over his hands; another man caught the water; the last handed him a towel to dry his hands. As the men worked their way down the table, I observed the clever seating arrangement.
Prince Escalus sat at the head of the table. I sat at his right hand, and Nonna Ursula sat beside me. As the dowager princess, she deserved to grace the foot of the table, but seating her toward the center allowed her to follow the conversations. Papà sat next to her, then Katherina, then Holofernes. Imogene sat next to him, and Friar Laurence next to her. Across the table, Cesario sat on a tall seat between Mamma and Marcellus—Marcellus being the most stern and unsmiling of the prince’s companions.
I grinned. Cesario would take care of that.
Each place had a small olive-wood bowl filled with white flakes of salt. I viewed my bowl, then looked at Princess Isabella and lifted my brows. She nodded proudly. At this table, no one sat below the salt, a signal that all were equal—her idea.
We had two empty chairs across the table, I knew not why, and I was curious to see who came to fill it.
