Page 5 of The Phoenix Bride
“Two is too many,” I reply.
“But one is not enough.”
“I have told Elizabeth Askwith to give you no more pastries. You get too many from your friends as it is. And your heart would do better without them.”
He flaps his hand in the air and shrugs. He says, “Ach,” in the back of his throat, with a good amount of spittle. “You’ll take those to Sara?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“She still has no husband?”
“Since you asked yesterday? I expect not.”
“Ach.”
I approach to brush wood curls from his blanket, and I pat him on the shoulder. “I will return tonight. I have appointments all afternoon.”
He grunts in acknowledgment. “David,” he says as I reach for the door.
“Yes?”
“Give Sara my blessings.”
I sigh. “I shall.”
“Did you pray today?”
“Yes.”
He frowns. He doesn’t believe me. He will never believe me when I lie, for he can see it on my face when I do. Ashamed, I hurry out of the room, closing the door behind me.
As I leave the house, I pause to look at the mezuzah affixed to the doorframe. It is a lovely thing, white marble tipped with gold. Despite its obvious value, it has never been stolen; perhaps potential thieves see the Hebrew and believe it is cursed. I have not been able to touch it, not since the plague. Instead, I raise an uncertain finger to it, and then I drop my hand without touching it. Perhaps it is somehow more blasphemous than disregarding it entirely. But I like to acknowledge it, at least.
It is not enough, but it is more than nothing.
Sara’s home is only a couple of streets east of mine. It is as warm today as it was the day before. Sun broils the cobbles, my feet pounding the street in time with the cobbler hammering boot soles on his doorstep, the washerwoman beating her sheets from an open window, the horses’ sullen hooves as they drag their burdens. Despite the dryness of the air, I can still smell the wet-brown river stench of the Thames, the ceaseless damp of it; we are near the bank here. On the hottest days I have seen boys jump into the water to cool themselves down, although I certainly wouldn’t recommend it to any of my patients. On a morning like this, however, with the sweat pooling at my collar, I am almost tempted to try it myself.
I reach Sara’s home in good time. I haven’t seen her in almost a year; after Manuel’s death, I think we both found the other’s company too painful to bear. But she is a good woman, and nowshe has endured yet another death in her family. With her father gone, she is the only one left. I can no longer pretend we are strangers.
She has had many visitors before me. I lay my basket of tarts upon a table groaning with cured meats, fruit, and potted fish.Sara herself is sitting on the floor beside the fireplace, andshe doesn’t acknowledge my entrance. I set about makingmore space on the table, rearranging the offerings in case more come. As I straighten the cloth, she says, “David? Is that you?”
She sounds surprised, but not horrified, which I suppose is as much as I could have hoped for. “Yes,” I reply. “I have brought you cherry tarts.”
“Good. There is only so much salt herring I can stand.” She stands up. “Pardon, the house is quite dusty.”
I expected her to be angry with me for abandoning her, but instead she seems relatively at ease. It makes me distinctly uncomfortable. “Is your maid here?” I ask her, to distract myself from it.
“I told her to take leave for the week,” she replies.
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I am quite lost.”
She looks down at the floor once more. As she drops her chin, her hair moves back to reveal the curve of her jaw, and the mole on the side of her neck. Unbidden, I remember her trying to kiss me the day after Manuel’s funeral:We need each other, David. My stuttered apologies, my stumbling steps backward. My throat constricts in shame.
“I will leave you, if you wish,” I say.
“No, it is good to see you.” Seeing my frown, she sighs. “Truly, David, it is. It has been too long.”
