Page 11 of The Phoenix Bride
“Truly?”
“I don’t know,” I repeat. I feel as if I am before the bailiff. Observing Mendes more fully, I consider his beard, his foreign features, his accent—and the conclusion I draw makes my eyes widen in shock. “Are you a Jew, Master Mendes?” I ask.
“Yes, I am,” he replies.
That is surprising. Margaret is an unwavering Christ lover. She must be in an extraordinary state of concern to allow a Jew into her home. Although, she mentioned that Robert was the one to locate him; perhaps she didn’t know.
He stares at me. I stare at him. Perhaps he is expecting me to comment on his Jewishness, somehow, but I don’t have much tosay about it. I’ve never met a Jew before and I am unlikely to again. He is a man as much as any other, and as with most men, I am little inclined to trust him.
I settle on, “At least you are not a Catholic. If you were, I think my sister might have already called the constables.”
He opens his mouth, closes it, and then covers his face with his hand. I wonder if I have insulted him, but then I notice his eyes crinkling, and I realize he is trying not to laugh.
I find my own lips twitching, too, and I glance away. “Look, regardless,” I say, “I am being sincere when I tell you this isn’t worth the effort. I have told my sister, but she didn’t listen to me:I do not want another doctor. You surely must have other patients?”
“I do,” he says.
“No doubt they are more welcoming than I.”
“Undoubtedly,” he replies, still clearly amused.
This conversation feels like playing tennis. I pause to think, then serve. “You are unsafe here, you know. My sister calls Jews Christ killers.”
“Your sister overestimates my age.”
I afford him a small laugh at that. “She must,” I agree. “But still, you are welcome here only because she believes you will help me.”
He asks, “And I cannot help you?”
“Such a thing would be impossible.”
“I disagree,” he replies, ball across net. “And I doubt that is what you really believe. It is more likely you are frightened by the thought of recovering; many patients are.”
I gape at him. The score swings to his favor. “That’s absurd,” I say weakly. “I want to be left alone. It is only that. I dislike having someone prodding at me, asking me endless questions, attempting to cure me of the incurable.”
“And what is this incurable ailment you believe yourself afflicted with?”
“Loss,” I say. “It is loss. I am grieving, and there is no doctor on earth who might undo that.”
This is enough to win me the match. He can’t counter. Wordless, he presses his mouth into a thin line, staring at me in mute frustration.
I can’t tell what he is thinking. He has a strange, fastidious sort of chaos about him. There is a fascinating opposition between his careful grooming and the inherent disorder of his features. His face carries a mournful heaviness that is almostcharming; he reminds me of a bloodhound, with his broad brows and large, dark eyes.
Finally, he says, “I am sorry that you have suffered such a thing. I wish that I could afford you greater room for grief. I don’t know what has happened. Lady Eden has told me very little. But she did tell me that she is concerned, and I understand why.”
“I’ll manage,” I say.
To my horror, he stands up from the chair and approaches me where I sit beneath the linden. For a foolish moment, I think he will sit with me in the grass. Then he turns around and leans against the tree beside me, still standing, arms crossed. We both stare at the fountain as it trickles.
“I do not know you,” he says, “nor you me.”
“Exactly.”
“So let me know you, at least a little,” he continues. “You could provide me that much. Answer my questions, and if it really does seem you can’t be cured, I will leave.”
“Fine.”
He makes a pleased noise. “Very well. When you awaken, Mistress Thorowgood—”
