Darling Beast (Maiden Lane 7)

Indio clutched her to his chest, his eyes swimming in tears as the dog whimpered and began to lick his chin. He looked from the pet in his arms up at Apollo. “Thank you.”

Daffodil coughed, choked, opened wide her narrow mouth, and vomited up a thin trail of pond water all over the shirt.

Apollo winced.

He turned and found the worn cloth bag he’d brought his lunch in. Fortunately, he’d placed his notebook in it earlier, so that at least wasn’t wet. Apollo repressed a shuddering shiver as he crouched and rummaged in the sack. Earlier he’d eaten his luncheon—a pork pie—and wrapped a leftover piece in a cloth. Apollo rose with the bundle and the little dog immediately leaned from her master’s arms, sniffing eagerly at the cloth. Apollo unwrapped the morsel and broke off a piece, holding it out. Daffodil snatched it from his fingers and gulped it down.

Apollo almost laughed.

“She likes piecrust,” the boy said shyly.

Apollo merely nodded and fed Daffodil another bit.

“ ’Course she likes bread and sausage and chicken and green beans and apples and cheese as well,” Indio continued. Not so shy after all, then. “I gived her a raisin once. She didn’t like that. Is that your dinner?”

Apollo didn’t answer, simply offering the last of the pie to Daffodil. She gobbled it and then began nosing his hand, looking for crumbs. She seemed to have forgotten her unexpected swim already.

“It’s kind of you to give it her,” Indio said, stroking Daffodil’s head. “D’you… do you like dogs?”

Apollo glanced at him. The boy was staring up at him hopefully and for the first time Apollo noticed that his eyes were of different colors: the right blue, the left green. He turned away to stuff the bit of cloth back into his bag.

“Uncle Edwin gived me Daffodil. He won her in a game of cards. Mama says a puppy is a silly thing to wager for. Daff’s an Italian greyhound, but she didn’t come from Italy. Mama says Italians like skinny little dogs. I named her Daffodil because that’s my favorite flower and the prettiest. She doesn’t know to mind,” Indio said sadly as Apollo rose.

Daffodil wriggled and the boy set her cautiously on the ground. The greyhound struggled from the folds of the shirt, shook herself, and then squatted, watering the ground—and a corner of the shirt.

Apollo sighed. He really was going to have to wash that shirt.

Indio sighed as well. “Mama says I ought to train her to sit and beg and most ’portantly come when we call her, but”—he took a deep breath—“I don’t know how to.”

Apollo bit his lip to keep down a smile. It was too bad that he’d already fed all the scraps to the dog. He glanced at the boy.

Indio was staring at him frankly. “My name’s Indio. I live in the old theater.” He pointed in the direction of the theater with a straight arm. “My mama lives there and Maude, too. She’s a famous actress, my mama, that is. Maude’s our maidservant.” He chewed on one lip. “Can you speak?”

Apollo shook his head slowly.

“I thought not.” Indio dug into the mud with the toe of one boot, frowning down. “What’s your name?”

Well, he couldn’t answer that, could he? Time he was back at work, anyway. Apollo reached for his adze, half expecting the boy to run away at his movement.

But Indio simply stepped back out of his way, watching with interest. Daffodil had wandered several feet away and was now digging energetically in the mud.

He was wet and chilled from the air, but work would soon fix that. Apollo took another swing at the tree stump, hitting it with a thwock!

“I’ll call you Caliban,” Indio said as Apollo lifted the adze again.

Apollo turned and stared.

Indio smiled tentatively. “It’s from a play. There’s a wizard who lives on a island and it’s all over wild. Caliban lives there, though he can speak. But he’s big like you, so I thought… Caliban.”

Apollo was still staring helplessly at the boy through this explanation. Daffodil had paused to sneeze and glance at them. Her nose was adorned with a clot of mud.

There were dozens of reasons to refuse the boy. Apollo was in hiding, a price on his head, wanted for the most awful of crimes. The boy’s mother had already made plain that she wanted him nowhere near her son. And what did he have to offer the boy after all, mute and overworked and on the run?

But Indio smiled up at him with mismatched eyes and cheeks made red from the wind, and an air of sweet hope that was simply impossible to refuse. Somehow, against his better judgment, Apollo found himself nodding.

Caliban. The illiterate knave from The Tempest. Well, he supposed he could’ve done worse.

Indio might’ve chosen A Midsummer Night’s Dream—and named him Bottom.