Page 16 of Much Ado About Mistletoe
“Yes, he’s with the other kids, playing without a care in the world. Dumb kid.” Clearly, Evella understood what the loss of the orphanage might mean to her charge—and her—and she was worried.
“They say the fire is out. The orphanage will reopen. All will be well,” I assured her.
She shrugged one shoulder as if it didn’t matter, yet speaking as someone who had relinquished a single much-anticipated meal as a charitable act, I knew hunger acted as a spur every day forever, and created an urgency ill-suited to the morality she’d been taught by the nuns.
I took the bandages from her. “See that woman?” I pointed to Nurse, shouting organizational instructions to the wavering line of anxious eaters.
Evella nodded.
“Go tell her Lady Rosaline is hungry and so are you. I promise that will be worth your while.”
Thatbambinadidn’t need to be told twice. She whisked through the crowd and within a few moments returned with two bread trenchers containing ricotta gnocchi topped with spinach and leeks, chicken breast wrapped in prosciutto, and slices of dried apple dribbled with honey.
With an authority far beyond her years, she faced the line and announced, “Please wait where you are. Lady Rosaline must pause to refresh herself.”
Grins formed, for most Veronians loved children, especially a cheeky child.
Evella and I dug out our spoons and went to work on the meal, and I said to our citizens, “Tell me more about the fire. It is out? All are safe?”
A chorus of voices answered me. “Yes. And yes!” Then time and again, “Prince Escalus directed the operations.” “Prince Escalus ran into the orphanage again and again.” “PrinceEscalus rescued the girl-children who were the age his own child should be. He was never afraid.”
For Prince Escalus had been married before, and to the sorrow of everyone in Verona, both his wife and his daughter had died in childbirth. Now everyone smiled and nodded as if conveying their blessings and good wishes on me to end his childless state.No pressure.
I looked at Evella, unwanted and untreasured, ripping olive-oil-soaked chunks off her bowl and consuming them, an expression of unparalleled bliss on her face. Babies came when they were unwanted and delayed when they were needed, and I knew I should be resigned to God’s will whatever His decision, but again I touched my belly where the kick had been administered and thought about the changes in my cycles, and I worried.
Appetite lost, I handed my meal to Evella and said, “Finish it off.”
She looked at it and me with open astonishment.
“If you’re going to help me, you must be fed!” I told her. Even after so short an acquaintance, I never had a doubt she could be a force to be respected, whatever path she took, and a large and busy household was always in need of clever, decisive people who took initiative and handled matters.
As I splinted Quartiglia’s broken finger—Quartiglia worked atLa Gnocca, our local house of pleasure, and had taken her place in the bucket line—I asked, “Where is Prince Escalus now?”
“Prince Escalus and his bodyguards are still in there, making sure the fire is out everywhere.” She patted my shoulder. “He’s fine.”
“Good,” I said. “Good.”
When Evella finished off both bowls—that girl could eat!—she ran to Nurse again and came back with two cups of wine andorange juice flavored with mace. She said, “Nurse told me I’m to make sure you drink it all.” And she stood over me until I did.
She then walked along the line and talked to my clients, and brought me two more serious burns to be treated first. Which caused some grumbling, but with her words, the child roused patience and courage as easily as she made decisions.
As we ran low on food, other citizens of Verona brought their special meals to share, some out of goodness and some, like our neighbor, Lady Luce, to look good to the prince. She did not appear pleased when she realized Cal had not yet put in an appearance.
I could see her desperate desire to take her food back. I smirked at the hateful woman, and she tossed her head and drew her skirts aside as if to touch me was to be contaminated.
Meanwhile minutes turned to more minutes, and I shared anxious glances with Mamma. Where was Papà? Where was Prince Escalus? Where was Baldissere? Most important—we had Cesario here with us, but where was Emilia?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Almost as the thought formed, the child appeared, holding her father’s hand and gloating at her acquisition.
Mamma ran to him and hugged him, and smacked him for worrying her, and kissed him because she loved him, while all of Verona watched and smiled because that was what they expected of Romeo and Juliet: a reunion of great joy.
Mamma turned on Emilia and performed the same ritual, because of course she had been worried about her youngest girl-child, and when she was done scolding Emilia, she hugged her and hugged her while Papà hugged them both.
I watched and grinned with bittersweet envy, for while yes, I was thrilled to see Papà and Emilia healthy and proud, I was also worried about Marcellus, Dion and Holofernes, about Baldissere…about Cal. Where was the man?
The bellow of an angry bull interrupted my worrisome thoughts—only it wasn’t a bull. It was Bartholo the blacksmith, a brave man with a broken leg and a great intolerance for pain. I knew this because Friar Laurence and I had treated him for more than one crushed digit—Bartholo’s job was, after all, wielding a giant hammer and dealing with fractious horses.
