Page 36 of The Phoenix Bride
“Conversos? As in, converts?”
“Yes.”
She sighs. “Your life is so different from my own. I can’t imagine living under such permanent suspicions.”
“We are not so different as you might think.”
“We are as similar as an oak and a dandelion.”
I chuckle. “How so?”
“You have roots here,” she replies. “You are steady. But I don’t belong anywhere; I seem constantly near to blowing away.”
“Both an oak and a dandelion have roots.”
“One is easier to fell than the other.”
“But both are deserving of standing,” I say. “Life has value, regardless of who lives it.”
She smiles at me with disarming warmth, and I feel my cheeks heat. Jan chooses that moment to return, which is something of a relief. “Three sacks, with two more for next week,” he says triumphantly. He slides into the booth to sit next to me, gesturing to the serving girl for another coffee. Then he sees the embarrassment on my face. “Ah. Am I interrupting something? Shall I leave you two be?”
“No, of course not,” Cecilia responds, clearing her throat. “Mendes said you are a coffee roaster, Jan?”
“I suppose you ought to call me David,” I tell her, resigned. Hearing her say Mendes seems wrong now. It makes me feel as if she is still my patient.
Cecilia smiles again. I pour myself another dish of coffee and take a gulp.
Jan launches into an anecdote in which he describes attempting to pay a bailiff with a single unroasted coffee bean, which he claimed would yield a tree when planted and make its owner great returns. The scheme had not worked, of course—frankly, I doubt the incident ever occurred—but the story sends Cecilia into a fit of giggles all the same.
It is wonderful to see her laugh again. It transforms her entirely from the wraithlike woman I had last seen at the townhouse. In the light of the wall sconces, she looks far less severe: The warmth of the room has made her skin blush red at her cheeks and collarbone, and her hair glows like spun sugar. She has a small scattering of freckles on her cheeks, which I hadn’t noticed before; her mouth is slightly uneven, dipping subtly to the left. There is a tiny scar drawn across her lower lip, like a stitch of silver thread. A childhood injury, perhaps.
Jan says my name. “Pardon?” I reply. I haven’t been following the conversation.
“It grows late,” he says. “I fear I must leave. Supper at mine Wednesday, remember.”
“I know.” It is growing late; I can only imagine the panic Lady Eden must be in. I fear we will be found by the constables soon enough. I give Cecilia a significant look, and she sighs.
“I suppose I ought to leave, also,” she says.
We exit the coffeehouse and walk to the main intersection. It is a warm night, with a light breeze. There is a peddler standing across the road with an impressive collection of broadsides to sell, paper fluttering in the wind. Cecilia notices him and seems delighted. “Look at that!” she says. “What does he do if it rains? Doesn’t it ruin them all?”
“I shall say farewell to you here, Cecilia,” Jan says, smiling. “It was an honor to meet you.”
“And you, sir. David, how much does a broadside cost?”
I sigh and retrieve a penny from my purse. She snatches it from me and rushes across the street.
Jan watches her go with a wistful expression. “Poor thing,” he says.
“I doubt she wants your pity, Jan.”
He laughs. “No fear of that, David,” he replies, patting my shoulder. “I meant you.”
Then he leaves as I scowl at his back. I understand what he is implying, of course, but it can’t even be considered. Anything between Cecilia and me would be utter madness, and there the thought must end.
Soon enough, Cecilia returns. She has bought a lascivious ballad entitled “The Lusty Coachman of Westminster,” which she seems far too pleased by. My embarrassment clearly amuses her. I instruct her to hide it before we return to the townhouse.
“It isn’t yet midnight,” she tells me. “Can we see the river?”
