“His daughters. He has two daughters,” Ray said angrily.
“He does not see it that way.” My mind went to another memory, a far more recent one, before I could stop it.
“What? He wanted to lock you away again?”
I shifted uncomfortably. I had not intended to show him that. “He did not plan for the barrier he put in our mind to fall,” I said awkwardly. “He always refused to remove it, afraid that I would take over completely and that he would lose Dory. She is all he has left of our mother—”
“She is not all he has left! He has you!”
I did not answer immediately, wondering how to explain mine and Dory’s childhood, the bright, sunny days and the screaming, terror-filled nights. The nights were when the fits had come that had threatened to tear our mind apart, and when Mircea had fought battles with me for his daughter’s sanity, for her very life. I did not have the words.
Just as I did not have them to explain what came after.
“Ten of the sardele,” Mircea said, surveying the afternoon’s catch. “The same of the moeche. And . . .”
He paused and I saw him eye the mackerel, their black and steel blue stripes gleaming in the last rays of the afternoon sun. Their basket took pride of place on the slanted table top that showed off the fishmonger’s wares. More baskets sat around, although many were empty. It was nearing the end of day.
He decided against the mackerel. “Do you have any mussels?”
“No, but some nice eels came in today.” The rotund little stall owner gestured at another table with an arm full of cheap bangles. “Make a fine bisato su l’are.”
Mircea shook his head. He was not fond of eels. I had known that, and had suggested them deliberately, trying to buy time.
It wasn’t helping.
He walked to another table, scrutinizing the available offerings. He was dressed in a conservative, dark blue brocade that set off his shoulder length, dark brown hair and piercing dark eyes. It was understated, yet almost screamed quality, as did the sapphire signet ring set in heavy gold on his right hand. Anywhere else in the world, he would have looked a little odd perusing a table full of fish.
But this was Venice, where the men of t
he house typically did the shopping, including for groceries. Even wealthy men, including senators, could be seen in the marketplace, trailed by servants who were there only as human pack animals, to take the foodstuffs selected by their masters back home. Trade was the heartbeat of the city, and it could not be left in servants’ hands—or in women’s. Only men, it was thought, could judge quality.
Of course, Mircea flouted conventions regularly, but he had learned to enjoy picking out his own dinner when he was poorer, and often still did so. And Dory had taken a late afternoon nap, knowing that we were having guests tonight, and that she might be up late. I had been waiting for just such a chance for a very long time.
And yet, here I was, ruining it!
“Canocie?” he asked, talking about the sweet little shrimp that went so well in so many dishes.
“What you see is what we have . . . Mircea.”
Father’s head came up at that, startled. He had come here before, but there was no reason for the vendor to know his name. They had spoken about fish, nothing more.
I waited patiently as his eyes went over the body I was using.
She was a sweet old woman, with sixteen grandchildren, a half gray topknot perched precariously on her head, and a pleasant, wrinkled face. She wore a black shawl around her shoulders, knitted by one of her many granddaughters, far too much cheap jewelry, and a pair of red Moroccan slippers. She was a puzzle, and I saw Mircea’s brow knit.
“The octopus, then. Two of the larger ones—with the ink, grasie.”
I packaged up his fish.
He handed me the coins, and I slipped them into a pocket in the old woman’s dress. I gave him his purchase, but held onto it until he looked up, and our eyes met. “I need to talk to you.”
“About?” It was courteous. He still didn’t understand.
“About . . .” I stopped, all of my carefully prepared speeches leaving my mind, all at once. “About Dory,” I blurted out. “I never meant—I wasn’t trying to hurt her. I didn’t know—”
I stopped again, but this time, it was because he did understand. He’d always been quick, and a second later the package was gone and so was he. I stared at the empty spot where he’d been, then threw my mind outward, leaving the old woman behind, a little befuddled, but unharmed. And took flight.
I spotted him near the water’s edge, about to take a gondola. I waited until they had pushed off, then settled onto the gondolier. He was distracted; he had problems with his woman, who he suspected of cheating. It was easy to redirect his thoughts while I borrowed his tongue for a time.