fetch
morabetins enough to buy another dose. Now that Gavriel had helped her endure
the worst of her sickness, she would know better how to moderate her craving.
This time, she would be able to control herself.
One kirtle swathed a small hard box.
She unwrapped the linen and found her chess set. Her heart pinched. Jacob.
Silly, foolish, thoughtful Jacob.
She opened the polished wooden case, no
bigger than the width of her knees pressed together, and pulled out one of the
carved waxed pieces.
"Ada, what do you have?"
She jerked. The box snapped shut
between her knees and fell to the floor. Gavriel was on his feet and across
their small room before she could slide the box out of sight.
His expression contorted with anger yet
blurred by sleep, he grabbed her wrist "Let me see!"
"'Tis a queen, from chess,"
she said, yanking free. "A chess set, Gavriel."
She opened her fingers to reveal the
small figurine. When Gavriel took it, she retrieved the fallen box and offered
it for his inspection.
"Chess?" His expression faded
into confusion as he touched one piece, then another. "I thought you
had—"
"You thought I hid opium in my
satchel?"
He nodded.
The scrolls might eventually buy her as
much, but Ada preferred to set that knowledge aside. Seeing Gavriel contrite
was a happy treat. She had to keep the scrolls away from him, lest he discover
their value and strip away her last means of freedom.
"I adore chess," she said.
"And behind this sham of playing at a holy man, I believe you have the mind
of a tactician."
"I'm no sham, inglesa. And
I have nothing so devious as a tactical mind."
"I've seen how you move, how you
watch." She opened the board and began to arrange the remaining pieces
along the tiny, checkered field of battle. "Men who live their entire
lives in cloisters and libraries and churches do not watch the horizon as you
do. They look only as far as the nearest bookshelf."
She stared at him, flaying the layers
of his skin, his muscles, his bones, until Gavriel felt exposed to his very soul—
if he had one. The feeling that she could see that deeply unnerved him. His
heart still hammered at having awakened to find her crouched low over some
mysterious possession. Thoughtless man, he should have checked her satchel. But
he had compromised so much of her privacy already.
"And those are the men you
know?" he asked. "Academics and theologians?"
The last he had seen of her, just
before he slept, she had been a witch made real, wild and disheveled. Now her
hair, woven into a makeshift plait, hung heavily across one shoulder. The deep
red dress made for a striking contrast to her pale skin. And her expression was
entirely lucid. Frighteningly so. Blue eyes the color of the sky at midday
continued to scrutinize him without shyness or fear, as if seeing him for the
first time.
"My father was an alchemist,"
she said, her voice steady and measured. "He learned from his great uncle,
Adelard of Bath, who had traveled to Toledo in his youth to study philosophy
and languages. What he learned here in the Peninsula was passed down to my
sister and me."
"Is that how you can speak Romance
so well?"
She waved a hand. "Romance is no
trouble. Portuguese, Catalan, Castilian—not much more than dialects of
Latin. Mozarabic, however..." She squished her features into an expression
of distaste. "That took a few months."
He frowned, wondering at the woman
sitting before him. "Months?"
"Daniel of Morley is an Englishman
who works as Dona Valdedrona's translator and resident scholar. He helped me
learn."
"How many languages do you
know?"
"I've lost count I was training to
take Daniel's place within Her Excellency's household." She paused,
shadows at work behind her eyes—an echo of the lost girl he had so
recently known. "Maybe. Maybe one day."
"Why hide it?"
"People find my education
intimidating," she said, setting her last piece into place on the
checkered board. He still held the one he had taken from her hands.
morabetins enough to buy another dose. Now that Gavriel had helped her endure
the worst of her sickness, she would know better how to moderate her craving.
This time, she would be able to control herself.
One kirtle swathed a small hard box.
She unwrapped the linen and found her chess set. Her heart pinched. Jacob.
Silly, foolish, thoughtful Jacob.
She opened the polished wooden case, no
bigger than the width of her knees pressed together, and pulled out one of the
carved waxed pieces.
"Ada, what do you have?"
She jerked. The box snapped shut
between her knees and fell to the floor. Gavriel was on his feet and across
their small room before she could slide the box out of sight.
His expression contorted with anger yet
blurred by sleep, he grabbed her wrist "Let me see!"
"'Tis a queen, from chess,"
she said, yanking free. "A chess set, Gavriel."
She opened her fingers to reveal the
small figurine. When Gavriel took it, she retrieved the fallen box and offered
it for his inspection.
"Chess?" His expression faded
into confusion as he touched one piece, then another. "I thought you
had—"
"You thought I hid opium in my
satchel?"
He nodded.
The scrolls might eventually buy her as
much, but Ada preferred to set that knowledge aside. Seeing Gavriel contrite
was a happy treat. She had to keep the scrolls away from him, lest he discover
their value and strip away her last means of freedom.
"I adore chess," she said.
"And behind this sham of playing at a holy man, I believe you have the mind
of a tactician."
"I'm no sham, inglesa. And
I have nothing so devious as a tactical mind."
"I've seen how you move, how you
watch." She opened the board and began to arrange the remaining pieces
along the tiny, checkered field of battle. "Men who live their entire
lives in cloisters and libraries and churches do not watch the horizon as you
do. They look only as far as the nearest bookshelf."
She stared at him, flaying the layers
of his skin, his muscles, his bones, until Gavriel felt exposed to his very soul—
if he had one. The feeling that she could see that deeply unnerved him. His
heart still hammered at having awakened to find her crouched low over some
mysterious possession. Thoughtless man, he should have checked her satchel. But
he had compromised so much of her privacy already.
"And those are the men you
know?" he asked. "Academics and theologians?"
The last he had seen of her, just
before he slept, she had been a witch made real, wild and disheveled. Now her
hair, woven into a makeshift plait, hung heavily across one shoulder. The deep
red dress made for a striking contrast to her pale skin. And her expression was
entirely lucid. Frighteningly so. Blue eyes the color of the sky at midday
continued to scrutinize him without shyness or fear, as if seeing him for the
first time.
"My father was an alchemist,"
she said, her voice steady and measured. "He learned from his great uncle,
Adelard of Bath, who had traveled to Toledo in his youth to study philosophy
and languages. What he learned here in the Peninsula was passed down to my
sister and me."
"Is that how you can speak Romance
so well?"
She waved a hand. "Romance is no
trouble. Portuguese, Catalan, Castilian—not much more than dialects of
Latin. Mozarabic, however..." She squished her features into an expression
of distaste. "That took a few months."
He frowned, wondering at the woman
sitting before him. "Months?"
"Daniel of Morley is an Englishman
who works as Dona Valdedrona's translator and resident scholar. He helped me
learn."
"How many languages do you
know?"
"I've lost count I was training to
take Daniel's place within Her Excellency's household." She paused,
shadows at work behind her eyes—an echo of the lost girl he had so
recently known. "Maybe. Maybe one day."
"Why hide it?"
"People find my education
intimidating," she said, setting her last piece into place on the
checkered board. He still held the one he had taken from her hands.
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