Page 32 of The Phoenix Bride
“Good evening, Cecilia.”
I gesture to the daisy. “That was for you.”
“Why?” he asks, still clearly confused. When I fail to answer—I am not certain, myself—he closes his hand and drops it to his side. “I…What are you doing here?”
“A flower seller told me to visit the park. I am glad she did; it is very beautiful.”
“Is your sister with you?”
“No. I am alone.”
“Alone,” he repeats, and his frown deepens. “Why?”
“I jumped out of a window.”
“What?”
“A suitor came to call. Margaret wants me to marry him, but I’d rather not, so I jumped out of the window. I landed in some blackthorn.” I show him my hands, still bloody from the fall. “See?”
His expression goes through a number of complicated movements, torn between concern and confusion.
“Look,” I say. “It’s been done now, and I can’t undo it, so…We both ought to accept that, I suppose.”
He sighs, scrubbing his hand over his face. I expect him to pivot and leave—he is clearly wary of speaking to me, rightfully so—but instead he says, defeated, “Does it sting?”
“Pardon?”
“Your hand. Does it still sting?”
“Yes. It was a good fall.”
He turns away. “Follow me.”
Mystified, I trail after him as he walks farther down the canal. We reach a section of path bordered by tall, woolly plants, crowned with purple flowers. With practiced efficiency, Mendes strips one of the plants of its leaves, then bends to dampen them in the water.
He puts his hand out questioningly. Hesitantly, I offer him my bloodied palms. He pauses for a moment, bringing them closer to his face to inspect. In a foolish fancy, I briefly wonder if he will kiss my wrist—but he doesn’t, of course. He lowers my hands and begins to clean away the blood with the wet leaf. I amsurprised by its softness; it feels like felt against my skin. “What is that?” I ask.
“Lamb’s ears,” he replies. “It’ll do. But you must have it bound properly when you return.”
“Why are you here? In the park, I mean?”
“Meeting a friend. He is late, as is typical of him.” Mendes finishes his work, letting go of my hand, and his gaze meets mine. “All this to escape your suitor?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Was he truly that terrible?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I haven’t met him.”
Mendes smiles, but there seems to be something melancholy behind it. “My father has often said a brief acquaintance makes for a happy wedding, but that certainly seems too brief to me.”
I laugh a little at that, then ask, “Your father? Did he come with you to England?”
“He did. We arrived nine years ago.”
“I never asked you why you left Lisbon.”
Mendes seems reluctant to reply, glancing nervously beyond my shoulder. I consider telling him it doesn’t matter, but then he says, “By law, Jews are not permitted to live in Portugal.”
