Chapter 4
Four
A Well-Kept Cottage to the West of the Cordeliers Gate
Convincing Madame Panatier to allow use of her kitchen was easier than expected.
A bowl of whatever Dorotèa made was the only payment requested by the old lady; she had grown tired of cooking on account of how many guests the Panatiers’ other student tenant tried to host—and feed—on top of the demands of their boulangerie.
The presence of the university could bring praise and scorn in equal parts.
Dorotèa took her daubière off the fire and smiled in response to the aromatic steam that whirled off it and under her nose.
She was certain no one could cook a better daube, and when she gave Madame Panatier her portion, the baker’s wife agreed.
Of course, Dorotèa was loath to admit that daubes were one of the only few dishes she could make, but there was enough variety in the stews that no one beyond her family had caught on.
“I’m bringing the rest up for Docteur Lézin,” Dorotèa told Madame Panatier. “I haven’t seen him today.”
Madame Panatier covered her mouth and yawned. “Neither have I. He’s been a decent tenant—always pays on time, which can’t be said for most of the blokes we get.”
“Oh? I’m glad he’s prompt.”
“I had my doubts about housing gypsy folk—I know they say his mother is a Provencal, but I’m no fool. Still, he hasn’t been so bad. Must be that Lézin blood he takes to; they’ve always been good people.”
Dorotèa’s eyelids lowered as the goodwill she’d built while cooking started to roil with contempt.
Her mouth flattened to a thin line. She knew all about the ‘secret’ that everyone repeated and hardly believed: that Clotilde Lézin had simply come from the country around the Camargue and was not, in fact, a voyageur woman.
Martin Lézin, beloved wolfcatcher to the city of Aix, could surely not have gone and married one—no, he was a man who had no scandals, save for that one matter of love.
Oste was their child through and through; he’d inherited both respect and doubt from their union.
“Good fellows are good fellows,” said Dorotèa blandly, as she was sure that anything else would see her lose kitchen privileges.
“Aye!”
Dorotèa made her way up the stairs with the steaming daubière.
With her hands full, she used her foot to knock on the door.
Several seconds of shuffling sounded from the other side, and she wondered if the man was trying to obscure how disheveled he’d let the place become in a single day; her only other visit had been a meeting with a veritable man cave of strewn clothes, dirty wine glasses, a random pile of Eflamm’s sketches, a half-full medicine bottle of dubious origins, and a poorly hidden tear in his pillow.
Yes. This man needed help.
Oste sleeping through a confraternity meeting had simply been the final straw for her and everyone else.
The door swung open, and Dorotèa raised both brows when she noticed how well-dressed the physician was.
He didn’t have on his dark, simple garb destined to pick up stains on his hospital runs; but a finer doublet, silk cap, and set of hose that she’d folded yesterday.
The muted green color matched his eyes, and its delicate gold and silver ornamentation made his brooch and earring stand out even more.
The jewelry hung there, shiny, glimmering, and so like his own soul.
On him, the accessory made one think of essentialized allusions of voyageurs and wealthy bourgeoisie in equal parts.
A controversial man indeed.
“Goodness!” Dorotèa remarked. He really did cut a dashing figure. This wasn’t the disheveled, half-asleep man she’d frequently seen since his incident. “I hope you’re not seeing patients in that. The launders would be miserable getting vomit out of those silks.”
Oste shook his head. “Perish the thought. I’ve the day off, for the most part.”
“Well, good!” Dorotèa remarked, then let herself in, daubière and all. She slipped right past his taller frame. “I’ve made plenty of daube you can eat while I stitch up that pillow. It’s very vigorous. Some of the spices will help with circulation, and—”
“Dorotèa.” Oste interrupted her with her name, for once, as he turned around, jaw set. “That’s not—I’d prefer you didn’t—”
“Do as your club members said?” she remarked, chin raised. “It’s been all of two days. Won’t you give it a bit more of a chance? I’ll keep my mouth completely shut if you’d prefer. Feel like you have all your pride intact, even though it is.”
“No, that’s not what—” Oste gritted his teeth and shook his head again. “There’s no reality in which I’ll actually find this arrangement preferable.”
Dorotèa’s arms felt even more weighed down by the daubière. “Is it being helped, or me as the helper? I’m really sorry about the other day still, and having been there. I promise I haven’t said a word.”
“It’s that every person I know felt like I needed help,” said Oste, succinct and bitter. He didn’t look at her anymore. “It’s not you; it’s that you’re in here with your daubière when I’m fine.”
“I promised I’d not slip your secrets, Docteur, so I can manage the truth. I won’t judge you, and I don’t care. Well, no, I’ll judge you in part for your stupid morals making you do that stupid thing, but that’s it.”
Oste rocked back on his heels and raised his own head.
He hadn’t trimmed his face since she started, Dorotèa realized, and this too was just past the point of normalcy for him.
His cropped beard, at odds with his loose, soft waves of hair, made her wonder what it was like to have it elsewhere on his body.
It seemed itchy. This, however, didn’t seem like the time to ask him if it was.
Focus, damn you.
He narrowed his eyes. “You’re more persistent than I took you for.”
“You’re exactly as stubborn as I always thought.
I just hadn’t realized you’d feel threatened by a young lady folding your clothes and making you daube.
Most people enjoy that. I’m not sure if it makes your ego and pride bigger or smaller.
I’d not expected you to founder because you have an assistant and easier days when not even an attempt on your life pulled off your demise. ”
Oste’s mouth fell open, and those green eyes of his flashed in shocked derision.
They settled on Dorotèa in full now, who by that point had realized what she’d said, and swayed slightly on her feet.
It was always a challenge to remind herself that she wasn’t on a dueling ground, but Oste made the arena feel like a constant.
She wanted to better him. She wanted him to better her.
He slowly looked down at the hot, rich-smelling daubière, then back up. Dorotèa bit her lower lip apologetically, but didn’t hunch, didn’t drop from where she’d planted herself. She kept her spine straight, willing to miss her riposte but not throw the match.
“I’m recalling how I got worn down,” he said with a sigh. “It’s difficult to remember your motivations. May I at least blame the knock to my head for that?”
“By all means, Docteur. I blame my own mind for plenty of things.”
Oste frowned. “I still cannot find it favorable, and I do regret the daube.”
“Eh?” Dorotèa stiffened in alarm. “What did my daube do wrong?”
The corners of his mouth quickly upturned to a weak smile. “No, no, it’s that I’m sorry you put in the effort. I’m heading out, so it’ll have to sit here.”
“Oh. If you’re leaving, then I guess there’s no sense taking it.”
He shook his head. “On your honor, I must.”
“Honor, is it?”
“My refusal would imply you’re unclean. You are not.”
Dorotèa’s brows rose up. Small pieces of those childhood days running around the Lézin cottage strung themselves into the answer to the puzzle, that Oste was his mother’s son.
Clotilde once made mention of the custom after a neighbor’s visit, but it was nothing she could have pressed if she wanted to keep her fragile reputation intact.
But Oste could with her. Did. There was never a time when he didn’t openly address with her all the pieces that made up his own humanity.
He trusted her with it, but she wished he could trust her on this, too.
“I’m sure I’ve got some dirt under my fingernails,” offered Dorotèa.
“You don’t.” Oste reached out and closed his hands over the handles of the daubière, forcing Dorotèa’s into proximity with them. They held it between them. “I’m off to visit my parents for the midday meal, so I shouldn’t be gone horribly long.”
She inhaled sharply. “Oh! Then… take it with you! My goodwill. Or—no, no! I’d rather you not carry it all that way. I’ll carry it for you.”
“It’s just a thirty-minute walk—”
“You’d not be able to use your cane, and it’s an odd shape. It’ll put uneven pressure on your shoulders. You could have a cramp. If it was an ordinary pot, this would be a different conversation.”
“Dorotèa, mercy. I yield.”
She brightened at hearing her name come out of his mouth. While she’d willingly become his assistant, she much disliked the forced formality. “What a considerate man. I’ll run along and get out of your hair after I drop it off.”
“My parents will insist you stay. It’s only polite.”
“Do you… want me to? Would I not be intruding?”
Oste shook his head. “I’m the intruder. I need my father’s advice on the bullet we found in Marie. I don’t know, maybe it’s—look, they always love seeing you. And I treasure your company when you’re not dusting my shelves. That’s never changed.”