The Singing Fire by Lilian Nattel

the university, Mr. Levy.”
    Her brothers were eating silently as usual, their wives discussing winter cloaks. With fur collars or without this year?
    “What I studied is of no consequence, sir, since I had to leave.” Mr. Levy didn’t seem to care that he was using the wrong fork. He had no beard, only a mustache as black and independent as a cat’s tail.
    “Character is everything, my young man,” Father said. “I own a factory, and I hire the workers because their nature is to be a hammer and mine the hand that holds it. As the song says, ‘A pretty girl is plucked, an ugly one left on the branch.’”
    Mother was talking to the brother and sister from the countryside, telling them about the time she’d charmed the Russian officers and saved her first family from death. She waved her hand in an elegant gesture. Only Emilia would know that, under the lacy cuff, her wrist had white scars. One day when Emilia had come in from the garden, she’dseen Mother’s wrist running like meat set to drain. There’s been an accident, Mama had said. Emilia had bound her wrist in a strip of her apron and run next door to fetch the doctor. Since then, Mama said she didn’t like to go out much. When your charm fails, you feel the cold terribly, and so she wore her heaviest cloak to the opera. What would she do when winter came?
    The maid dug a serving fork into the overcooked chicken, putting a wing on Mr. Levy’s plate. “Pardon the dryness,” Father said. “Mrs. Rosenberg considers herself too good for the wifely arts.”
    Mother kept on talking to the guests as if she didn’t hear a word Father said. She’d lent her ruby earrings to Emilia because they matched the silk roses on her new gown.
    “I’m afraid that Miss Rosenberg takes after her mother.”
    “But someone’s true nature isn’t easily revealed.” It was foolish of Mr. Levy to disagree with Father. A guest should just enjoy the good wine and keep his opinions to himself.
    “On the contrary,” Father said. The gaslit chandelier cast blue shadows over his plate. “A man of experience can see a person’s nature in a glance. And no amount of good influence can change it.”
    Emilia thought about her sleeves. She really ought to have sleeves off the shoulder. She had nice shoulders—maybe for spring.
    “You see my wife,” Father said. “And daughter—”
    “I beg to disagree, sir,” Mr. Levy interrupted. “Unless you know a person’s thoughts, you don’t know him.”
    He was looking at Emilia as if he had some business with her. But he had no right to gaze at her so boldly, as if he could picture her dreaming about an Italian villa where she walked in a loose white gown, barefoot, the grass soft, a paintbrush in her hand, a canvas on the easel. As if he saw the table for making paper-cuts and her mother walking toward it from the villa, holding a tray of fruit for their lunch. There was no brick wall. You could see for miles.
    “Am I right, Miss Rosenberg?” he asked.
    “I’m sure I don’t know.” She could have any number of admirers sitting in her father’s parlor. She didn’t need Mr. Levy and his eyes digging into hers. Mother would at least agree to a winter cloak with a fur collar.
    “What you need to know,” Father said, refilling his wineglass, “is what a person does behind your back. Let’s say you have a wife. A beautifulwife. Other people might also like to admire her beauty. Can you be sure of her when you’re not there? Beauty, my friend, conceals slyness.”
    Emilia’s brothers were not too beautiful, nor were their wives. They motioned to the maid to bring more food while Emilia wished herself young enough to hide behind the damask curtains.
    “My daughter is clever as well as beautiful,” Father said. A stranger might think it was a compliment.
    Mother fell silent. She put her hand on Emilia’s. “I expect to be a wife and mother like any other girl,” Emilia said. “Mother taught me what I need to