Page 93 of The Phoenix Bride
The next day, I stop at the apothecary and I buy some seeds.
Upon my return, I skirt around the edge of the house in Mile End, waving to Mistress Yorke on the top floor, the sweet, gray-haired widow who is now my neighbor. In the garden, I set to work, pulling weeds, shifting stones. Once there is enough space, I begin to plant.
Fumitory: tiny, pink flowers like pomegranate seeds; small silver leaves no bigger than a fingernail.
Oxeye daisy: ubiquitous, fried-egg blooms, bright yellow and palest white; withstands rain and snow and bitter drought.
Epithymum, or dodder: parasitic. I plant it beside the straggling ivy crawling up the wall, the remains of whoever worked in this garden last. When it blooms—if it blooms—it will spray white flowers across the ivy’s vines, stretch toward the sun.
Once I am finished, I return to my rooms and rearrange Father’s wooden figurines on the shelf. I have no appointments today. It is Shabbat this evening. I spend the remainder of the afternoon helping Mistress Yorke clean her rooms, and then I go out to buy flowers for the table, as Father used to.
There are foxgloves in the bouquet. I rearrange them in the vase and think of Cecilia saying,I wouldn’t regret loving you,and I think of her hand pressed against my chest, with my heart thrumming beneath it, and my uncertainty chokes me like a noose.
I think of her letter in my drawer.Tomorrow,I tell myself.
As sunset nears, I take out the candles and lay them on thetable, setting only one place. I will spend this Shabbat alone, as I have all Shabbats since my father’s death; Jan is out most Fridays working, haggling at port before the merchant ships sail. I ought to have gone to synagogue this afternoon, and yet I haven’t attempted to do so even once since Father’s passing. I don’t have the courage to see the pity in everyone’s eyes.
Someone knocks on the door. Confused, I go to answer.
It is Sara, and her husband, Joseph, and Jan is behind them.
I say, “Hello.”
“Hello,” Sara replies, and she kisses the mezuzah as she pushes past me. “Since you refuse to spend Shabbat with us—despite all our invitations—wewill spend it withyou,instead.”
Jan and Joseph are both laden with baskets and bottles. Jan grins at me as they walk past me into the corridor. “I decided not to work tonight,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind me joining, also?”
“Does it matter if I mind?”
“Not at all.”
Sara cannot cook, but clearly, Joseph can: He has made fish stew, fried sardines, and sesame seed pastries. Jan has brought several bottles of wine; he sits patiently through the kiddush before pouring himself a glass so tall it nearly spills to the table. I share with them the anise challah I baked the previous day, and the date rolls Elizabeth Askwith dropped off that morning when she came to visit. My irritation at their unexpected arrival quickly diffuses into gratefulness as they laugh and chatter and argue around me. Sara heaps spoonfuls of grain onto my plate. Jan lays a hand on my shoulder as he passes me the bread, and Joseph gestures so widely while he tells a sailing story that he has to sheepishly collect the pastries from the floor.
Once we are finished laughing at this, we fall into a satisfied silence, cheeks flushed from wine.
Then Jan says, “David—I went to the coffeehouse at Temple Bar today.”
“Didn’t it burn down?” I ask.
“Well—yes. But the land is for sale.”
“As is the land in half of London,” Joseph says. “How much are they asking?”
Jan sighs. “Too much,” he murmurs, and he pours himself another glass of wine. But the slight smirk he gives me, brows raising, makes my eyes narrow in suspicion.
At the end of the night, Sara hugs me and kisses my cheek, as does Joseph. “Keep well, David,” she says.
“Thank you for coming.”
“Any time.” She takes her shawl from the stand, and then pauses. “You are a dear friend to me,” she says softly. “You always will be. You know that, don’t you?”
I smile at her. “I do.”
They leave. Jan is quite drunk. We share a bedchamber, but tonight, his sonorous snores are too much to handle. I retreat out into the living room, lying on the couch. My rest is fitful, the couch being unfit for the purpose, and the ticks of the clock too loud for comfort. When I wake up, however, I find myself oddly soothed by my surroundings. The rising sun breaks through the window. It hits the brass candlestick on the mantelpiece in a glitter of pink and orange. On the shelf, the wooden figurines glow as if they are embers, made warm and living by the morning light.
I listen. I can still hear Jan snoring. When I go into the room to dress, he doesn’t wake up. I suspect he will be sleeping all day.
It is Shabbat. I should be going to synagogue now; I should be resting or studying the Torah.
