Page 13 of The Phoenix Bride
“The stars are in alignment,” I reply.
“Ha. Are you well? You look troubled.”
“I had an odd appointment.”
He grimaces. “How so?”
“It was a new client. A young woman.”
His eyebrow raises. “Oh?”
I describe my new patient’s symptoms in vague terms,cautious not to reveal her identity. The entire appointment still feels utterly incredible, a memory I have somehow exaggerated. Speaking to Cecilia Thorowgood felt like weaving through pikes, a single stumble risking injury. Her appearance, too, had been almost unreal, so severe and arresting—a face like pyrite, sharp and steel-eyed and furious—that when I looked at her, I felt as if I would cut myself. It felt as if I had been the patient, not her.
“It seems as much a disease of the mind as the body,” Jan says.
“Yes.”
“Is there something to be done for that?”
“Perhaps. I believe some medicines can help ease melancholy, but many physicians would disagree.”
“Hm. Well—don’t trouble yourself over it,” he says. “You will do what you can, and that is enough.”
He seizes me by the arm, steering me into the park. I follow, stumbling after him, trying to match his gait. The renovations made to the park are impressive, opulent and effusive, paths studded with square-trimmed hedges and white gravel. It is still odd to see such pride in luxury. I came to this country at the height of its commonwealth severity, but now the king’s return has transformed it entirely. London is beholden to its master, as are its people; just as fashion now strides toward wigs and lace and ribbons, the city, too, adorns itself in finery.
“How goesyourbusiness?” I ask Jan as we meander toward the square. “Did the new shipment of beans arrive?”
“It is in France!”
“France? Why?”
“I shall tell you,” he says, launching into a story.
He speaks incessantly as we continue. We earn some sneers from passersby; Jan and I make a mismatched, almost comical pair—our coloring is in such intense opposition—and we wearour foreignness unashamedly, having long realized the futility of hiding it. We have been teaching each other our mother tongues, and we speak in a bizarre mixture of Portuguese, Dutch, and English. This only further serves to displease the genteel crowd in the park, and it is little help that my heritage is so apparent in my features. One woman crosses herself when she sees me. I make no reaction.
Noticing her, Jan mutters a curse under his breath. “I hope she falls into the canal.”
“Jan, come. Such things happen.”
He sighs. “I wish you weren’t so resigned to it. I mean—I wish you did not have to be.”
I don’t respond. We fall into silence, interrupted only by the crunch of the gravel beneath our feet.
Eventually, we reach the main square, which has been fenced off with iron. It contains a horde of visitors. Ladies bunch together in laughing splotches of pink and green, while gentlemen brandish canes at each other. Between them, children dart back and forth, shoving hands into the water, spraying anyone who dares cross their path. It is hot enough that such play invites mere grumbling rather than seething rage.
The crowd provides the wondrous sort of anonymity unique to large cities. Jan and I invite nothing more than hazy glances before attention is subsumed by the noise and color of the summer. A pamphleteer standing on the fountain’s edge spots us and shouts, “Sirs! A moment of your time, I bid you!” We ignore him. The pamphleteer, disappointed, waves a fistful of papers at another pair of gentlemen. “Sirs, consider the Trinitarians—” he says. One gentleman interrupts, “Bollocks to your Trinitarians,” earning a hooting laugh from his companion.
We move on, pausing to rest by the southern gate.
“It is a fair fountain,” Jan says. The sculpture is of naiadsdancing, water spouting between them to rise in eight arcs. The base is set unusually low to the ground, providing an opportunity capitalized upon by some of the children: One young girl splashes shoeless in a corner, notably grimy in contrast to the well-to-do crowd. As we watch, she bunches her skirts to her knees, revealing ankles made blade-sharp by malnutrition. Scandalized glances don’t dissuade her. She is unaccompanied, and she will be removed by a beadle soon enough. For now, she tips her head downward, laughing at the water between her toes.
A hawker passes by with a tray of pies. Jan’s head turns to follow her.
“Go on,” I say. “I’ll wait.”
He makes in the direction of the hawker, hand hovering over his purse. I watch him for a few moments before I look back to the fountain. A summer breeze passes through the square. It brings with it the scent of sap and brief coolness.
My father would love to see this place. If only I could take him here. He adores crowds, adores the variety of London, the noise of it.Everyone and anyone,he would say.Look, Davi: At least for now, we are the same as them. We are all united here, in Saint James’s Park.
