The River of Time Series

by Lisa T. Bergren

  “Come,” he said, lifting his hand. “You can see the well from where I’ll take you. Let me teach you the dances of Toscana.”

  I lifted my brows, knowing I had asked this of him, but now wondering at the wisdom of it.

  “Come, come,” he said, flicking his fingers, sensing my hesitation. “I have found someplace private where we can practice.”

  I studied him a moment and then agreed. It was far better to suffer embarrassment with him, someplace private, rather than in the middle of a ballroom floor. He cocked a grin and offered me his arm. “M’lady.”

  “M’lord,” I returned.

  “Nay,” he said, leading me down the corridor on his arm. “Such a title is reserved for Marcello or Lord Forelli. Take care with it. Sir is title enough for me.”

  “Understood, Sir Luca,” I said, with a curt nod. He wasn’t chastising me, I realized, he was attempting to help me.

  We climbed a narrow stair, then another, and still another, until we emerged on the rooftop of the palazzo. I turned, full-circle, in wonder at the view. Past the towers and the city wall, I could see miles of green rolling hills. “It is marvelous,” I said.

  “Indeed,” he grinned. He closed the door and then turned to stare at me, crossing his arms. “So, tell me of what you know about formal dance.”

  I sucked in my breath and gave him a sorrowful glance. “I am afraid it is not popular in my own land. I know little.” There was no way I was going to pretend I knew anything. Not here. Now.

  “Hmm. Very well.” Luca stepped forward, all man. I felt a pang, wishing I felt something more than a let’s-be-friends thing with this guy. He raised his hands and waited for me to place mine in them. “The first is an estampie. Step forward, step left, step backward, then pause, and then forward again….” He repeated it, counting, as if in time to some unheard song.

  A four-square sort of step. I nodded and moved into his arms. We made it through the first three counts, and then I missed the pause. He released me and then looked at me, his eyes slightly narrowed, as if exasperated, as if we had gone through it a hundred times.

  Oh, come on. “Give me a chance!” I cried. “That was once! How many times were you taught that square?”

  He cocked a brow, apparently reluctant to give me room to fail. He flicked his fingers forward. “Let’s give it another try,” he said tiredly, acting as though we’d been at it all night. “This time, close your eyes. Think only of the rhythm.”

  I sighed, trying to get above my frustration. I closed my eyes and listened to the beat of the dance, along with his counting, feeling the shifts, the pause at the end, then resuming. “Good, good,” he encouraged.

  On and on he went. “Ahh, yes. That is it. Perfecto,” he said.

  I gloried in his praise, melting into the feel of his hand at my waist, the other at my shoulder. “I’m going to release you for a moment, but you keep your count, as if another man is taking my place, as they will in the dance on the morrow.”

  His hands left me, but then slid back in place, at my waist, but wrapping a bit more behind my back this time, as if a tiny bit more possessive.

  My eyes fluttered open. And encountered Marcello.

  I stopped, glancing at Luca, his profile aglow in the setting sun. He shrugged. “What m’lord asks, he receives.”

  I looked up to Marcello and stared hard into his eyes. “And what the lord wishes is to dance with a sword-carrying girl with a penchant for running off?” I asked.

  “Tonight that is my wish,” he said, his voice strangely husky, his eyes unwavering. He began to count off the dance again, and I, apparently devoid of will, followed it.

  “Now, has Luca taught you this one?” he asked, raising both hands to me, palm up.

  I frowned and shook my head, then glanced toward Luca. He was gone. I sighed. I was alone with Marcello, receiving a dance lesson. This was fraught with disaster, as my grandmother would say. I could do nothing but place my hands in his.

  “This is an eight-count dance,” he said, staring down at me with all earnestness.

  He dropped my hands and counted it out, as if I were in his arms, closing his eyes, turning at the fifth count, and again at the seventh.

  “Tricky,” I said, raising a brow.

  “The key is following your partner’s lead,” he said, a teasing glint in his eyes. He cocked his head. “Tell me, Lady Betarrini, can a woman who can wield a sword find her place on the dance floor?”

  “I believe them to be quite similar,” I said, moving toward him, placing my hands in his. “Don’t you agree? Swordplay is a dance of sorts, an understanding of the logical, most sophisticated next step. Except that in a fight, one must take the unexpected step. In dance it is all about taking the right, expected step.”

  He stared down at me, clearly wondering at my odd words, but letting them slide.

  He began counting the dance, turning me at count five and seven. I moved with him, without hesitation, and the eighth count found my left hand in his, at chest level, and my right hand above my head, facing him. Our mouths were inches away from each other. “I believe you have this mastered, m’lady,” he said, still not releasing me, still staring into my eyes.

  “I believe you have taught me well, m’lord,” I returned, staring steadily back at him. Oh my gosh, I thought. I so wanted him to take me into his arms and kiss me for all I was worth. I had never been kissed like that. And in that moment, I was clear on who I wanted to be the first.

  I turned away when no matter the cost cascaded through my mind.

  It could cost a great deal. For me. For him.

  “Lady Betarrini?” he asked. “Gabriella,” he said, dropping his tone, in such an enticing manner, I nearly turned.

  “You need to go, Marcello,” I said. “Depart.” Vamoose, I added, in my thoughts. Hasta la vista, baby. “I only represent danger for you. Loss. All you need is below us, in this house.”

  “How can you be so certain? Might there be a new path for me? One my parents might never have foreseen?”

  He was speaking of me. I drew in a shaky breath. What could I promise him? A wife who disappeared into the future? No, it wasn’t fair.…

  I looked back to give him a pretty speech, some small comfort, but he was already gone through the gaping door, taking my hesitation as answer enough.

  I stared for a long time at that empty doorway, recognizing that I had killed any chance to be with the hottest guy I had ever run across. But it was for a good reason, a solid reason. I was being responsible.

  I tried to swallow the regret that filled my throat, tried to feel assured, courageous. But I couldn’t even manage that.

  My mouth was dry.

  And my heart was empty.

  CHAPTER 12

  In my dreams that night, I did all the steps the men had taught me. And no, they weren’t cool, romantic dreams, all about Marcello and his warm hands and strong arms, holding me. No, they were all the nerdy counting thing, freaking out when I missed a step.

  Call me a perfectionist.

  Whatever.

  I just knew I was about to mess this up. The coming dance drew us all in, the house abuzz.

  I had a sense of destiny about it all.

  I also had a distinct sense of disaster about it too.

  The combination wasn’t pretty.

  I paced the room for hours before it began, already in the deep, wine-colored gown. My carefully coiffed hairdo began to pull and curl—What I’d do for a little product, I lamented again—and yet not able to summon up the strength to stop walking.

  Tonight, tonight, Lord Rossi would share with all his friends and acquaintances my plight—sending out word to every corner of the kingdom that a girl was here, longing for her mother, her sister.

  In days I would know if o
ne or both of them were here…or if I was all alone.

  I managed to make it down the steps without catching a toe in my skirts and tumbling all the way to the bottom. I thought that was a major plus. Luca was waiting for me. He put a hand over his heart as if it was about to burst out of his chest. “Truly a vision, m’lady.”

  I smiled and looked ahead, catching a glimpse of Marcello’s curly hair and Lady Rossi’s golden gown. Gold? That was a little much, I thought. She might as well be wearing an “I Belong to Marcello” T-shirt. I sighed. I was just jealous, jealous over a guy I couldn’t have anyway.

  “I thought I might be of service as an escort,” Luca whispered. “If you’ll have me. Otherwise, I’ll never get a chance to dance with you, once the men of the city catch a glimpse of you.”

  “I’d be most grateful,” I said, looking up at him. The last thing I wanted was to go solo to this party. He offered his arm, and I rested mine on top of his. Although I knew the palazzo had a private door onto the piazza, it was likely down in the kitchen. So we left through the front entrance. As we, the household of Rossi, paraded down the street, I realized that half this deal was like any high school dance at home. The point was to see and be seen.

  We moved down Via di Banchi and then through the tunnel that led to Il Campo. The piazza was more as I remembered it from my time, with no vendors and stalls, but rather groups of regulars, standing about to gawk at the rich and powerful in their brightly colored gowns and elaborate jackets. I tried to ignore the pain in my thigh—now a massive, purple-green bruise—and focused on not tripping. As a part of the Rossi party, I somehow represented them. I didn’t want anything to get in the way of their aiding me in my search. Like falling flat on my face in the middle of the plaza. That would not be good.

  It was like we were on a virtual red carpet or something. I briefly imagined Entertainment Tonight’s pretty-boy host stopping us, microphone in hand, asking us who designed our clothes, where we got the diamonds—not that I was wearing any—and who our hopefuls were for the Oscars tonight.

  At the bottom of the piazza, we entered the small courtyard of the Palazzo Pubblico, then through the doors to the grand salon on the main floor. In my time, the place had been made into a museum, with carefully restored, famous medieval frescoes on the wall. Now I was staring at those same works, but it was like the paint had just barely dried, the colors as rich and vibrant as the silk the women wore about the room. Mom would totally pee her pants.

  It was in this building that the Nine and their buddies met to discuss political matters, making military plans to protect the city from her enemies, negotiating issues that arose among the guilds—basically the workers’ unions of the day. It was with some surprise that I remembered all that from the charmless museum guide who droned on and on, and who Lia had become quite adept at impersonating, making us both dissolve into giggles. Now I was seeing his boring stories explode into a 3D movie. Men were shaking hands and laughing, others with chin in hand, listening earnestly.

  I couldn’t see Marcello at the moment—there were hundreds of people in the big room—but I caught sight of Lord Rossi, and when he pointed in my direction and the man with him regarded me, I turned to Luca. “Might you be able to find a cup of water for me? I’m feeling just a bit faint.”

  “Of course, m’lady,” he said, looking concerned. Of course he was nervous; he’d seen me pass out cold before. He took my elbow and led me to a chair at one of the long tables and then set off on my quest. The tables were covered in a rich, light sage-green cloth, the color of Siena’s hills in late summer, and in the center of each were massive platters of fruit—apples, oranges, pears, pomegranates, grapes—so enticing and gorgeous that if Lia had been there, she would’ve whipped out her sketch book to capture the image. It was almost too bad they would be eaten.

  I finally saw the place cards among the hand-blown, red crystal goblets, in a delicate, artistic script, and I realized that was how Luca knew where to park me. Mine said N. Rossi at the top, Lady Gabriella Betarrini at the bottom. N for Nine? I wondered idly, searching the crowd for my escort, suddenly desperately thirsty. Parched.

  I still didn’t see Marcello, and I berated myself for looking for him. Perhaps he and Romana were in the other wing, around the corner. Scanning the cards, it appeared that the Rossi household was split up a bit; every other couple had a different “N” name at the top. Perhaps a plan to force some mixing.

  With this many people, there was a slight chance I wouldn’t see him all night. Perhaps that was Lady Rossi’s grand scheme. To keep him all to herself.

  As it should be, Gabi.

  I knew that upstairs was another grand salon—I remembered it from the tour. Might that be where we would dance after we ate? I cast aside my concerns over remembering the dances when I saw Luca, with my water, as well as Lord Rossi and a nobleman approaching me. I hurriedly took a sip before the men arrived, then set the glass down on the table before rising to greet them. Introductions were made. A description of Lia was shared. The man had reach, across hundreds of miles, to the east of Siena, he said, and he promised to tell everyone he knew to be looking for la familia Betarrini.

  “Tell me of your mother,” he said. “She is a merchant? In what, specifically?”

  My mind spun. What was logical to say? I decided to stick with my story. “Artifacts. Especially Etruscan artifacts.” It would hardly do, telling him she was an archeologist. Not that it mattered. It was highly unlikely that she was here. My goal was to find my sister.

  The stranger seemed intrigued. “There are many who believe we should be students of the past, that we have forgotten much of what our ancestors knew, learned. But why Etrusca? Why not Romana? Were the Romans not far more powerful?”

  “Only because the Etruscans came before them,” I said. “The Etruscan cities, their ports, gave the Romans an unprecedented base of operations from which to expand, but eventually they wiped out the remnants of Etrusca itself. They were a fine and mighty society. My mother has found a good trade in their wares.”

  The man raised an eyebrow and then gave me a thin-lipped smile. I’d said too much. “You feel passionately about it.”

  “Forgive me, m’lord. I have heard my mother defend her chosen profession all my life. Mayhap it is because I miss her so that I feel…defensive.”

  “Pay my words no heed, m’lady,” the man said. “Your overbearing nature is already forgotten.”

  I stomped down my irritation at his high-and-mighty manner, knowing that I needed this man on my side if I was going to find Lia.

  “Tell me, m’lady, does your mother resemble you?”

  “Nay, my sister favors our Danish mother, with long, blonde hair and blue eyes. I take after my father. His grandfather came from Italia.”

  “I believe,” he said, leaning in toward me, “that you inherited the best traits of both. The room is abuzz about your beauty, m’lady. With hair the color of the river at night, and such expressive eyes.…” He leaned back, chin in hand. “If you should decide to stay with the Sienese instead of returning to Normandy, I have no doubt you could find a suitable husband. You may miss your family sorely, but are you not of an age to begin your own?”

  I leaned back. How to answer that? Why no, you creepy old man, looking at me like I’m a sweet little sow ready to be bred. I’m only seventeen! I have my whole life ahead of me!

  Luca coughed and leaned in. “We are doing our best to convince her, of course, m’lord.”

  I faked a flirty smile as the men laughed and patted Luca on the back. More men joined us. Soon I had met seven of the Nine. Two were young men, in their late twenties. The rest were in their fifties or sixties, kinda old in this era. Unless you were rich, most died of disease or of things as silly as an infected cut or an impacted tooth. Mom always said that infection was the number one killer of people through the ages, more than
war, even. Maybe that’s why I was so obsessed with scrapes and cuts—I was always certain they’d become infected and become gangrenous or something.…

  Sometimes death came hunting and there was no way to cut it off at the pass. I shivered. I really had to take care of myself here. If I landed in their version of a hospital, I was as good as dead.

  A stately servant called out that dinner was to be served, and conversation moved to the long lines of tables as we all took our seats. I saw Marcello and Romana then. They were hard to miss, seated directly across the twelve-foot-long table from me. I looked everywhere but at Marcello, and he carefully did the same.

  Red wine was poured into the goblets, and I was thankful I had sent Luca in search of some water. I needed to keep my wits about me, especially with the dance still ahead of us. People reached for fruit as servants brought in small plates of hard salami and tiny wedges of pecorino cheese, as well as thick slices of crusty bread. Bowls of coarse sea salt were passed, and I sprinkled some across my fruit, as the man to my right did, and Luca did after me. No one baked bread like the Italians, I thought, relishing my first bite.

  After that, small Cornish-like hens were distributed, a whole one on each plate, covered in a thick, brown sauce full of dried fruits. I sighed with relief that I saw forks here at each place setting. Ahh, a tiny bit of civilization. Maybe the city dwellers were early adopters. I tried not to gloat as I picked mine up and used it with ease in tandem with my knife, ignoring the admiration of those about me. Finally, something that was not foreign.

  Plates of gnocchi were passed, but I only took one. I’d never been fond of the little dumplings. They always got stuck on the roof my mouth. After that, people took more fruit and sat back, enjoying their wine and conversation. That was the first time I glanced Marcello’s way and found him looking at me. Our eyes met, held, and then we both broke away. His intended was to his right. Her sister was to his left. I couldn’t risk looking his way again; but then, wasn’t that obvious in itself?