Page 71 of The Phoenix Bride
“Hearts change,” I say. “They speed, and slow, and stop. That ring is yours until he dies, or you do.”
Her face goes cold. “I have been married before.”
“I know. I just—” I tip my head back, staring at the ceiling. It has been painted with a fresco of Mars and Venus intertwined: clouds and blue sky, gilt and fantasy. Like everything in this place. “I can’t do it, Cecilia. I can never have you, because if I do, I will lose you. And I couldn’t bear to lose you again.”
From the direction of the staircase, I can hear muffled laughter and music: the sounds of another world, one I can never enter, and one I must send her back to.
I know that if she must marry, then Sir Grey is the least objectionable choice there is. I know that if she must live freely, then marriage is the only solution. But I know that if I must love her as I do—unthinkingly, foolishly, without redemption—then I must do so from afar. Then, when she forgets me, nothing will change.
I look back at her. She has extended her arm, palm flat: offering me her hand. “David,” she says.
I step forward and close her hand for her, curling my fingers beneath her own until she makes a fist. Her arm drops.
“Farewell, Lady Grey,” I tell her.
—
Ten days.
On the first, I work. I eat. I go with Jan to Mother Tiffin’s, conduct a halfhearted flirtation with an Italian, and then refuse his invitation to go home with him. On the second, it is an alehouse rather than Tiffin’s, and I drink until I am sick.
On the third day, Jan comes by and nurses me through my hangover. He doesn’t ask questions. He looks at me as if I am on the verge of dissolving, like paper in the rain, and he insists on staying for the remainder of the week. He stays for Shabbat, and on the fourth day—the day of rest—I read and sleep as he works on his accounts. I am waiting for the time to pass, praying for the time to pass, so I will be released from this threshold I am hovering upon, desperate to step forward, desperate to step back.
Time does pass, albeit slowly. The fifth day, the sixth, the seventh. On the eighth, the Myddletons call me back to their townhouse. I go, because I must, and they rain praise upon me for Master Myddleton’s improvement. There is a young woman there with them, plump and pretty, who is introduced to me as Dear Ellie by Mistress Myddleton, and who is carrying Master Myddleton’s baby. Mistress Myddleton seems exceptionally fond of her husband’s lover, cooing over her as I do a general examination of her health. When I tell her all is well, Mistress Myddleton presses a kiss to Ellie’s cheek and cries, “Marvelous!” as Ellie flushes.
Perhaps,I think as I leave,I have misunderstood something fundamental about Christian marriage.
On the ninth day, the day before Cecilia is to be married, I cancel my evening appointments and visit a pair of graves.
The Jewish graveyard in London is tiny, tucked betweenseveral alleys, surrounded by leaning houses that seem on the verge of toppling over. It was a garden only ten years ago, and it still carries that legacy in the scattered trees and flower beds. It is quite lovely, and few enough of us have died here that it still carries vast stretches of open space. There are no walls or gates yet, although the community is raising funds. Father donated often.
His gravestone is simple. His name is inscribed in both Hebrew and Portuguese. There are many pebbles left piled upon it; he was well loved by the community here. He saved many lives over the course of his career. And, only a few paces away, there is Manuel’s grave, too—just as well tended, stones stacked precariously. Several of them are mine.
I place the two stones I have brought with me—kidney-shaped and smooth—beside the others, one on Manuel’s grave, one on my father’s. Murmuring a brief prayer, I step away. Meanwhile, the graves watch, silent and inscrutable.
I have a curious urge to say something, but who would listen? I cannot convince myself my father is present, that Manuel is present, as much as I wish they were. In the distance, a church bell rings—I wonder what Cecilia is doing tonight, in preparation for the wedding. A Jewish bride would be washing in a mikvah, purifying herself before God. Do gentiles do something similar? I realize now that I do not know. I know nothing of Christian weddings except that they take place in a church, with a priest, and without a chuppah. Nothing above the couple except those towering, vaulted ceilings, nothing to cover them—something about that thought seems terrifying.
It is very late. The sun ought to have set entirely by now, but when I look west, it still glows faintly in the sky, red and flickering. I frown and peer closer. The light seems different somehow from all other dusks I have seen. As bright, but somehow broader;as if the sun has melted and poured itself across the land like molten gold. It is beautiful. I stare at it for some time, my father’s grave at my back, a warm breeze fluttering my hair. And then, finally, I realize what I am seeing.
London is on fire.
I run home.
We can’t yet see the fire from our window—when I tell Elizabeth Askwith, she insists that it shall pass—but I am uncertain. The houses in this city are ripe targets for flames, wood boxes pressed against each other like overcrowded teeth. The fire is distant, but I doubt it shall be for long.
I am correct. By the next morning, it has reached London Bridge. My house is off the main road, but when I walk to the corner, I find myself surrounded by an exodus. A great crowd of people have been pushed out of the city center by the flames, and they are now making their way east, carrying whatever detritus they have managed to salvage: a pair of laundresses walk by with washing pots hung from their necks, clattering like castanets; a family with at least a dozen children trundles along the cobbles, their cart laden with oranges; a scribe clutching rolls of paper weaves furtively through the horde. I notice a young man with burns on his hands, and I offer him a poultice, but he refuses and runs away from me.
The sky goes dull and dark with soot. A warm, ashy wind whips through the streets. Every Jew in the neighborhood comes to my door, in the typical way that news spreads in our community, with clandestine knocks and furtive gazes. “Will the ashes bring disease?” asks Master Pinto, the banker. “It is as if we are in Gomorrah,” the rabbi tells me. On the street itself, people stand outside their houses to watch the conflagration grow, shrieking and gasping and pleading to God. For hours, it continues: black sky, red city, and prayers accompanying screams.
I am terrified for Jan, whose home almost certainly has met the flames. I decide that if I hear nothing from him before the sun sets, I will go east to search for him. Meanwhile, I go to the doorstep and remove the mezuzah. In times of disaster, it is risky to display our faith so openly. No doubt some will blame Jews for the fire and come to enact revenge.
In the early evening, someone knocks on the door. It is Jan. The moment I see him, he sags forward, over the threshold, and I catch him. He yelps in pain.
I hold him upright; his lip is split, jaw bruised, and one leg is hovering awkwardly over the ground. Across his back, he has a large bag, stuffed so full it can hardly close. “What happened?” I ask, horrified.
“Riots,” he says. “Foreigners are being blamed for starting the fire—I wanted to warn you.”
“Are they heading this way?”
