CHAPTER TEN
Evella, and clearly she recognized me.
I beckoned her over.
She pointed her thumb at herself. “Who, me? I didn’t do nothing wrong.”
I knew how to handle children like her—she reminded me a little of myself at that age—so I said, “You’re not doing anything at all, Evella, and I need help.”
She stared suspiciously, then skittered close. “I owe you,” she acknowledged.
“Yes, you do. Show me your hands.” She did and, when I wiped her gritty palms clean with a wet towel, squirmed as if I’d invented a new torture.
“Now. I need strips of cloth about this long.” I handed her a roll of bandages, and held out my hands to show the length, long enough to wrap around a break in a man’s stout leg. “Can you do that?”
Scornfully she said, “Certo.”
“I looked at you and thought, ‘That girl can help me.’ You have that air of competence, you know?” Having bolstered her spirit and, I hoped, won myself the assistance I needed, I turned away so she would know I trusted her.
I spoke to the next person in line, yet I watched out of the corner of my eye and saw the girl stare at the bandages, stare at me, stare at the bandages, then measure off the first strip and tear it with her teeth.
Without looking around I said, “Place all the strips in that basket, and hurry before Bartholo arrives in the square.” I gestured the next person forward, and as I worked on him, I eavesdropped on the conversations.
“Did you see Lady Giustina run into the burning building and come out leading the whole class of eight-year-olds?” Fioriana held a bloody rag to her chin, but her pain must not have been too bad, for she added, “I didn’t know she concealed a heart in her skinny, shriveled chest.”
I smothered my laughter. It was true. Lady Giustina was a widowed, middle-aged martinet who expected correct behavior at all times and passed judgment as easily as most people passed gas. “It’s not heart,” I said. “She has her own perception of the right thing for her to do, and she does it.”
The townsfolk stared at me in surprise, as if a lap dog had sat up and spoken wisely. Heads nodded, and from down the line I heard Passafiume the boatman say, “Mayhap the prince had good reasons for marrying an old virgin witch.”
I leaned forward, looked around the line, and gazed at him. Just gazed at him.
And he, who was holding his ribs as if it hurt to draw breath, realized that recklessly angering the woman who would repair him might lead to unwanted anguish.
He bowed sketchily, and winced.
“Never insult someone who has the choice to cure you or poison you,” I told him.
“I take heed,” he assured me, and scrunched down as if to vanish into the paving stones.
Laughter rippled down the line, and conversations picked up again. “Lord Romeo and Lord Baldissere have nobly done their part.”
I nodded at that. I never had a doubt.
“The monks and nuns made each older child responsible for a younger one, and…it worked!” the widower Hieronimo marveled. “The older children brought the younger ones out.”
“How about that?” Evella muttered.
“Anton Maria is well?” I asked her.
“Yes, he’s with the other kids, playing without a care in the world. Dumb kid.” Clearly, Evella understood what the loss of the orphanage might mean to her charge—and her—and she was worried.
“They say the fire is out. The orphanage will reopen. All will be well,” I assured her.
She shrugged one shoulder as if it didn’t matter, yet speaking as someone who had relinquished a single much-anticipated meal as a charitable act, I knew hunger acted as a spur every day forever, and created an urgency ill-suited to the morality she’d been taught by the nuns.
I took the bandages from her. “See that woman?” I pointed to Nurse, shouting organizational instructions to the wavering line of anxious eaters.
Evella nodded.
“Go tell her Lady Rosaline is hungry and so are you. I promise that will be worth your while.”
That bambina didn’t need to be told twice. She whisked through the crowd and within a few moments returned with two bread trenchers containing ricotta gnocchi topped with spinach and leeks, chicken breast wrapped in prosciutto, and slices of dried apple dribbled with honey.
With an authority far beyond her years, she faced the line and announced, “Please wait where you are. Lady Rosaline must pause to refresh herself.”
Grins formed, for most Veronians loved children, especially a cheeky child.
Evella and I dug out our spoons and went to work on the meal, and I said to our citizens, “Tell me more about the fire. It is out? All are safe?”
A chorus of voices answered me. “Yes. And yes!” Then time and again, “Prince Escalus directed the operations.” “Prince Escalus ran into the orphanage again and again.” “Prince Escalus rescued the girl-children who were the age his own child should be. He was never afraid.”
For Prince Escalus had been married before, and to the sorrow of everyone in Verona, both his wife and his daughter had died in childbirth. Now everyone smiled and nodded as if conveying their blessings and good wishes on me to end his childless state. No pressure.
I looked at Evella, unwanted and untreasured, ripping olive-oil-soaked chunks off her bowl and consuming them, an expression of unparalleled bliss on her face.
Babies came when they were unwanted and delayed when they were needed, and I knew I should be resigned to God’s will whatever His decision, but again I touched my belly where the kick had been administered and thought about the changes in my cycles, and I worried.
Appetite lost, I handed my meal to Evella and said, “Finish it off.”
She looked at it and me with open astonishment.
“If you’re going to help me, you must be fed!” I told her. Even after so short an acquaintance, I never had a doubt she could be a force to be respected, whatever path she took, and a large and busy household was always in need of clever, decisive people who took initiative and handled matters.
As I splinted Quartiglia’s broken finger—Quartiglia worked at La Gnocca, our local house of pleasure, and had taken her place in the bucket line—I asked, “Where is Prince Escalus now?”
“Prince Escalus and his bodyguards are still in there, making sure the fire is out everywhere.” She patted my shoulder. “He’s fine.”
“Good,” I said. “Good.”
When Evella finished off both bowls—that girl could eat!—she ran to Nurse again and came back with two cups of wine and orange juice flavored with mace. She said, “Nurse told me I’m to make sure you drink it all.” And she stood over me until I did.
She then walked along the line and talked to my clients, and brought me two more serious burns to be treated first. Which caused some grumbling, but with her words, the child roused patience and courage as easily as she made decisions.
As we ran low on food, other citizens of Verona brought their special meals to share, some out of goodness and some, like our neighbor, Lady Luce, to look good to the prince. She did not appear pleased when she realized Cal had not yet put in an appearance.
I could see her desperate desire to take her food back. I smirked at the hateful woman, and she tossed her head and drew her skirts aside as if to touch me was to be contaminated.
Meanwhile minutes turned to more minutes, and I shared anxious glances with Mamma. Where was Papà? Where was Prince Escalus? Where was Baldissere? Most important—we had Cesario here with us, but where was Emilia?