by Annette Lyon
“We’ll hire a carriage. It’ll probably be dark, and we won’t want to walk mountain roads then anyhow.”
A carriage would be private and intimate, Sofia couldn’t help thinking, even though the thrill was quickly tempered by the reminder that in two weeks’ time, she wouldn’t be anywhere near Antonio or the castle.
They walked along the gorgeous cobbled road, through the castle gate, down toward the center of the capital of Monterra. Delicate flowers in a variety of colors — yellow, purple, red — lined the road, and beyond them grew shrubbery and trees in a range of greens Sofia had never seen.
Perhaps the world simply had more color now that a piece of her had come alive thanks to Antonio. Walking at his side, how could she not see every shade, notice the sweet cooing birds, the scrambling squirrels, and so much more? She felt as if all of her senses had been heightened.
Yet it would soon all be gone. After she went home, she would never again walk to the city along this winding cobblestone. She wouldn’t knit stockings for the royal family. She probably wouldn’t be knitting at all. Her hands would get to rest from work as she nursed Mother back to health with the money she’d earned here.
That should have been a happy thought. Indeed it was, if tainted by sadness. Would Antonio would miss her? Would she ever see him again after the wedding?
Along a sharp turn in the road, Sofia stepped on some loose pebbles and slipped. Antonio caught her before she landed on the hard stone, and when she’d righted herself, he slipped her hand through the crook of his arm.
“Let’s be sure you don’t fall again and hurt yourself,” he said as they continued walking, still side by side but closer to each other. “Unless you’d rather not be seen on the arm of a servant. The townspeople have wagging tongues, you know.”
Sofia paused in her step and responded to his teasing tone with a smile. “I don’t mind at all. But if you’d rather not set their tongues wagging, I would certainly understand.” She drew her hand back, or rather, attempted to.
But Antonio caught it, holding it fast against his forearm with his other hand. His hands were large and warm, and his eyes said things she wanted to understand. For a moment, she felt as if she’d been transported into a dream world. This kind of thing didn’t happen to her, Sofia Torre, a maiden from a village hardly known even within their tiny kingdom. Antonio lowered her hand to his and intertwined their fingers; her skin felt wonderfully alive.
“This arrangement,” Antonio said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze, “feels far steadier.” He held up their intertwined hands and tilted his head to one side. “Unless you’d rather not, of course.”
“Not at all,” Sofia interjected, then realized her words sounded ambiguous. “I mean, I don’t mind at all. It’s perfectly fine with me.” In truth, it was more than fine. It was perfectly glorious.
But you sounded like a fool, she bemoaned. Of course she’d rather hold his hand, wagging tongues in town notwithstanding. His actions said that he felt much as she did, but they both knew that she would be going home soon. What that meant about his true feelings, or about their future, she didn’t want to consider too carefully.
As they walked, Antonio’s stride shortened and his pace slowed, making it easier for Sofia to keep up. They talked about things entirely unrelated to their work at the castle — nothing to do with the wedding at all. Instead, they spoke of childhood memories and favorite songs and dances. Of fairy tales and bedtime stories. Antonio had received more formal schooling than she had, though Sofia quickly found herself to be his equal regarding literature. She had her mother to thank for instilling a love of books and reading.
Antonio quoted one of his favorite sonnets. He couldn’t have known that it was Sofia’s favorite as well, and that those words won her over completely and utterly.
When they reached the town center, they first visited three fabric shops to compare their brocade offerings. Neither had any that perfectly matched what had been destroyed — Antonio had brought a swatch to use for comparison — but they found the best match and requested the entire bolt. The bill and fabric would be sent to the castle, so there was no need for Antonio to pay for or carry the heavy bolt around town.
“You mentioned other errands earlier,” Sofia said. “Where to next?”
“Yes. I figured we might as well make the most of our trip to town and save me a dry, far less enjoyable, trip alone later this week. Next is the milliner across the street.”
They crossed and went inside, where Antonio approved several items, requested changes in others, and asked Sofia’s opinion, especially on the ladies’ headwear. She enjoyed trying on various fascinators, admiring her reflection in the mirror and imagining herself dressed like a royal or walking into the cathedral to witness the wedding as a guest. Taking the pieces off and returning to reality as a commoner felt a bit like a kite dropping from the sky, but after Antonio took her hand again on their way out, her heart soared once more.
The two of them walked another block to the cobbler, where they conducted similar business, and then Antonio showed her the way to his favorite restaurant. He’d visited the place, Sciarra’s, often enough that the owners knew his name as well as his favorite table.
The moment they stepped inside, a boisterous voice called out, “Antonio!” A portly, middle-aged woman appeared.
“This is Mrs. Sciarra,” Antonio whispered as she shuffled their direction.
The sweet woman kissed Antonio on both cheeks, although he had to lean over to oblige. She held him at arm’s length to study his face then patted his cheeks with both hands. “You look good,” she said with approval, then turned to Sofia. “Tell me, who is this lovely sight?”
“This is Miss Sofia Torre. She’s helping us prepare for the wedding.”
Mrs. Sciarra studied Sofia far more intently than she had Antonio. She looked at him, then again at Sofia, who felt as if she were on trial. Should she say something? Do something? If so, what? Fortunately, Mrs. Sciarra saved her from having to make such a decision. She pulled Sofia closer and kissed her right cheek, then her left, and then her right again. When she pulled back, she still held Sofia’s face between her hands, and she whispered so Antonio couldn’t hear.
“His mother died years ago, so I’m his mother now, and I get to approve of any woman he has his eye on.” She patted Sofia’s cheek, smiled warmly, and released her.
Sofia straightened with flushed cheeks and a modicum of confusion. Did Mrs. Sciarra know how Sofia felt about Antonio? Were the words a warning? She tried to put such thoughts out of her head with the reminder that in two weeks, none of this would matter, so she should enjoy the time she had left. Mrs. Sciarra led them to Antonio’s favorite table, brought them cool well water in a pewter pitcher, then shuffled back to the kitchen, where she promised to prepare them her famous tortellini.
The meal tasted even better than the one Sofia had on her first night at the castle, if that was possible. She could hardly believe she’d lived more than twenty years with a diet consisting of the same four or five flavors, while countless others — and their combinations — were out in the world, waiting to be experienced and discovered. As she took the last bite of macaron with a ganache filling, she wondered if her sense of taste had increased as her other senses had. Perhaps the meal wouldn’t taste the same back home without Antonio, Mrs. Sciarra, or the quaint atmosphere of the restaurant.
All too soon, their plates were empty and their appetites comfortably satisfied. Antonio discreetly left several coins beside his glass as they stood to leave. Mrs. Sciarra appeared out of nowhere. Sofia guessed she’d been watching them through a crack in the curtain leading to the kitchen. What all had she seen and heard?
Mrs. Sciarra reached for Antonio’s face again, and he leaned down for her kisses on his cheeks. Sofia graciously received the sweet woman’s farewell too. Mrs. Sciarra held one of Sofia’s hands, took one of Antonio’s in her other, and then, with a sparkle in her eye, said, “She passed.” Wi
th a chuckle that shook her shoulders, she turned and shuffled back to the kitchen, leaving a stunned Sofia standing there, mute.
“Don’t mind her,” Antonio said, laughing quietly.
He slipped a hand around her shoulders, a touch that sent her heart racing and most certainly unplanted her feet from the wood floor, then led her outside to the street. Sofia surprised herself by putting her hand around his waist as they walked. Being so close to Antonio felt perfectly natural. With his arm around her, she felt safe and cared for, and a weight lifted from her shoulders. She’d spent years having to be the one in charge at home, making sure everything got done and everyone got fed.
Now she relaxed against Antonio and even rested her head against him as they walked, and her worries eased. She wasn’t in charge of the workshop. As long as she worked hard at her duties, which she had every intention of continuing to do, she would be paid handsomely. Her worries drifted far away.
Though she walked through a strange city at night, past more people and buggies and carriages than existed in all of Provenza, she didn’t feel uneasy. In other circumstances, being a woman automatically placed her in a certain amount of danger. Not here, not now. Antonio wouldn’t let her get hurt, and no one would try to attack someone so tall and strong anyway, presuming they didn’t know he worked for the monarch. She felt warm and entirely safe.
He hailed a carriage, and soon they rode inside, Antonio’s arm still around her shoulders, holding her gently, yet protectively. Fatigue began to wash over Sofia, and as she drifted off to the rocking of the carriage, she found herself leaning closer to him. Her head and hand rested on his chest as the carriage jostled its way back up the mountain.
She wasn’t sure whether she dreamed it, or whether Antonio really smoothed back some stray wisps that had escaped her bun, then pressed a kiss to her hair.
In her half sleep, she smiled and hoped that part was no dream.
Chapter Eight
Antonio’s dreams of Sofia were rudely interrupted the following morning, not by his clanging alarm clock, but by the sounds of moaning and retching coming through his bedroom wall. Odd. He’d probably imagined it. He cracked open an eye, and the sound stopped. He checked the clock. With another half hour left to sleep, he intended to use every moment of it. He punched his pillow into shape and closed his eyes, but the retching sound resumed.
He sighed and sat up slightly, resting his weight on one elbow as he knocked on the wall. “Max? Are you well?” he called through the wall.
He leaned close to listen and made out heavy breathing, followed by the fellow tailor’s weak, “I — I don’t think so.”
“I’m coming,” Antonio called back. In a trice, he got out of bed, put on a robe, and left his room before he had it tied. Instead of knocking, he turned the handle and pushed the door open.
He expected to see Max sitting at the base of the bed, leaning over the chamber pot, but something else assaulted the senses first. The stench of vomit — and likely something else — hit him with such strength that it was as if Antonio had walked straight into a stone wall. He tried to quickly hide any sign of disgust that might have shown on his face.
And that’s when he took in Max’s appearance. His nightclothes were drenched with sweat, and his hair was matted. His face had turned yellow, almost green, and his eyes had dark circles beneath them.
“I don’t think...” Max had to breathe for a moment before continuing. “Don’t think I can work today.” Every word took effort.
The workshop had gone two weeks without Teresa and Mara, and while Teresa had returned, now Antonio was losing Max. The time until the wedding could be counted in days; he needed as many working hands as possible.
Sofia is worth two people all by herself, Antonio thought. We’ll make it work. Max will be right as rain soon, and we’ll all be basting and stitching again before I know it.
Or so he tried to assure himself as Max made a heaving sound and groaned as he gripped the chamber pot.
“I’ll send for the doctor,” Antonio said. “You rest. I’ll tell Cook to make you broth and have Mrs. Rinaldi see to it that your bedclothes and chamber pot are changed.”
“Thank you.” Max pushed his sweaty hair out of his eyes and eyed Antonio miserably. “I’m so sorry. We can’t afford for anyone to get sick right now.”
“It’ll be all right, you’ll see.” But Antonio was still trying to convince himself of that. He took a steadying breath, only to be met with the fetid stench. He braced himself against a wave of nausea. “I’ll go tell Cook and Mrs. Rinaldi.”
Antonio closed the door behind him then took a much-appreciated deep breath of basement air, something he never before would have considered fresh. He returned to his own quarters long enough to get dressed and comb his hair so he wouldn’t completely shock the women servants. Upon hearing the news, Cook turned to the stove to heat up chicken stock, and Mrs. Rinaldi revealed a gentler side by assuring Antonio that Max would be fed, cleaned, and cared for.
“Shall I fetch the doctor?” she asked.
“Yes, please,” Antonio said, noting the time. He needed to open the workshop soon; he was already late, having missed breakfast while trying to help Max. The women would already be waiting outside the workshop. Thanks to Marcell’s antics from the day before, Antonio had to create a new schedule with new assignments. If the seamstresses were to get in a full day’s work, he needed to get the workday started posthaste. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Rinaldi.”
She nodded. “Of course. It’s for the good of His Royal Highness. Anything for him and the royal family.” She turned and walked slowly toward the staircase that led to the upper floors, where she’d send for the doctor.
Antonio returned to his bedroom to fetch the workshop key from his dresser, having picked it up from the floor last night where Max had slipped it under the door. He headed toward the workshop, his mind racing as he tried to figure out how they’d finish the monumental amount of work. When he arrived, Sofia stood beside the locked door. His step slowed, and he couldn’t help but smile, even with his worries over Max and the wedding preparations. Sofia eclipsed all of that. She looked even prettier than he’d remembered, if that was possible.
“Good morning, Antonio,” she said, and her tone spoke volumes.
He tried to slip the key into the hole, but thanks to her touch on his arm, he failed — twice. “Good morning to you too.” He palmed the key for the moment and leaned against the door. “Sleep well?”
She nodded with a dreamy look in her eyes. “Very well. And I had some wonderful dreams.” She stepped closer, until he could smell her hair.
Had she dreamt of him? He’d certainly dreamt of her.
“I’m glad,” he said, and then all words fled from his mind, though he wanted to talk with her for hours. Last night, they’d managed to do that very thing without effort. Now he was acutely aware of her beauty, her wit — her very presence. Overnight, he’d acknowledged to himself that he was drawn to her in a way he never had been toward another woman. Sofia was pretty, yes, but far more than that. She had a quality that transcended external beauty.
And it ties my tongue in knots.
What luck that the two of them were the only ones at the door right then. Usually, by the time Antonio got to the workshop, Max for certain, and at least two or three seamstresses had already arrived, and the rest always followed within minutes. Yet by some miracle, they had this moment to themselves, without even a footstep in the distance to disrupt their privacy.
Why? Oh, no. Perhaps something is dreadfully wrong... Alarmed, Antonio straightened.
Sofia wrinkled her forehead and stepped back. “What is it?”
“Max is very ill this morning. Mrs. Rinaldi sent for the doctor.”
“I hope it’s nothing serious,” Sofia said.
“I do too. Regardless, Max is far too ill to work today, and I’d be surprised if he’s well tomorrow, either.”
“How awful.” Sofia frowned in sympa
thy. She glanced at the workshop door, and her face fell. “That’s not good for the work.”
“No, it isn’t,” Antonio agreed. “But I’m afraid it could be worse. Where are the other women? I was late. Yet Donya, Elena, Angeline, all of them—”
“No one else is here yet.”
“Yet they’re always early,” Antonio said. “Did you see them at breakfast?”
She shook her head and bit the corner of one lip. “No.”
“Are you certain?”
“Definitely. I’ve always followed one of the other seamstresses here to be sure I didn’t get lost, but this time, I didn’t see anyone to follow. I’m more familiar with the hallways now, so I came on my own, assuming they’d all gone ahead. I didn’t want to be late.” One hand went to her mouth in worry, and then dropped again. “What could possibly be the matter? They can’t all be sick, can they?”
“Only one way to find out.” Antonio slipped the key back into his shirt pocket, took her hand, and together they hurried back to the servants’ quarters.
He flew to Max’s room while Sofia went to the women’s wing and checked on the seamstresses. Antonio found Max on his bed, which had new sheets, and he wore a fresh nightshirt. The room smelled slightly better than before, largely thanks to a new chamber pot, but Max hadn’t improved.
Antonio touched his clammy forehead, pulled up a chair, and sat on it. “Has the doctor been here?”
Max managed a slight nod. “He thinks I ate or drank something tainted, like spoiled meat or unboiled water.”
“How can he be sure?”
Max gave a barely discernable shake of his head. “He can’t be. But the illness came on so suddenly—” He cut off and sat bolt upright, holding his belly with one hand as his eyes widened.
Antonio grabbed the chamber pot and held it up for Max. “Here.”
“Go,” Max said urgently, waving Antonio away. “I need it the — the other way.” His meaning took a moment to sink in, but when it did, Antonio set the pot on the floor and hurried out to give Max privacy.