The Bloodletter's Daughter by Linda Lafferty Page B

the foam from his mouth with the back of his hand. “It is unbecoming and mars your natural beauty.”
    Marketa didn’t know if she was being complimented or insulted. She started to frown again, then paused, confused between anger and a new emotion—could it be vanity? She sneaked a look at the handsome court physician and saw that he was smiling widely.
    In an instant, she realized he had been teasing her. It was a revelation. In the king’s court, men teased women just as boys teased girls in the streets of Cesky Krumlov.
    She smiled back at him for an instant, then deepened her frown and said, “Better frowning and plain than to distract your lordship from his important study of science, and his colossal self-importance.”
    Now it was Jakub’s turned to begin to scowl, before realizing that he was being teased in turn.
    He broke into a broad smile and splashed her from the barrel. She sputtered, shaking the water off her face and hair andgrowled a curse in Czech—a particular Krumlov curse that she knew he would understand.
    The other bathers roared in laughter for they had been watching intently. Jakub raised his beer mug at her, smiling.
    Marketa smiled in return. She could not remember when she had been so entertained by one of her mother’s clients.
    When Jakub finally rose to leave, the water in the barrel was stone-cold, and black fleas floated among the sprigs of lavender. He dried himself with a bath sheet and called for his clothes.
    Marketa did not help him dress, but waited patiently at the door. When he emerged from the bathing rooms, he had his magnificent green scarf in his hand.
    “Here, Slecna Marketa,” he said, lifting her chin gently with his fingers. He tied the scarf around her neck as if she were a child.
    His touch raised the downy hairs on her neck as his fingers fussed with the knot. He stepped back to admire her in his garment. There was a propriety gleam in his eye.
    “Something to remind you of Prague,” Jakub said. “A magical city lies waiting for you, Marketa Pichlerova.”
    He bowed to her, mounted his horse, and rode away.

 

CHAPTER 8
     
    N EWS OF D ON J ULIUS IN K RUMLOV
     
    Pichler arrived home the following day, a week earlier than planned. Marketa heard the hollow clip-clop of his mare’s hooves on Barber’s Bridge as she was hanging out bath sheets in the afternoon sun. She looked up to see him waving to her. She ran out with her arms open wide.
    “Easy there,” cooed her father to his mount, who had shied as Marketa ran from the house. “You are home to rest and eat hay. No reason to bolt.”
    He slapped his horse on the neck and dismounted. Marketa could tell by the hitch in his leg that he was saddle-sore and had not stopped long to rest along the way. He was more than thirty years old now and could not manage such a hard ride as if he were still a young man. The mare’s coat was lathered white and her flanks were drawn up tight in thirst.
    “Father! What is the matter? Why have you come home so early and run your horse so hard?”
    He smiled at Marketa’s observation; above all he had taught her that a good physician was alert to symptoms and discrepancies.
    He gave his horse to the servant boy who slept in the small shed at the side of the bathhouse.
    “Let her have her fill of water,” he said. “Do not feed her until sundown. She has run hard and will colic.”
    As the boy started to lead the horse away to the grassy bank of the river, the barber-surgeon stopped him.
    “Wait, let me untie my saddlebag. I have something there, Daughter, I want to show you.”
    He untied the canvas bag and delicately withdrew a rolled parchment.
    Marketa stopped breathing as she gazed at the sight.
    The parchment displayed the human body and the courseways of blood, penned with exquisite precision. Marketa had long tried to learn what she could by tracing her white skin and blue veins with her index finger, referring to her father’s notes, but here was a wealth of