same come evening, working with an apothecary’s care.
The measuring and mixing vex me even in my sleep, and I wake early, urging Juliet through her suckling so I can begin to work my flow into the thimble.
A cart wheel thumps across the courtyard stones, and Tybalt calls from the far side of Ca’ Cappelletti, “The honey-man is here.”
I drop the thimble and hurry my lacings closed. Hugging Juliet against me to smother her startled cry, I hie through the sala anddown the stairs into the courtyard. But I stop short when Pietro, who’s pulling a handcart, turns to me.
I cannot kiss him, cannot even let on that I know him. Not here, where the pompous cook or the prickling page or any other member of the household might peer out and see us. Lord Cappelletto forbids the wet-nurse even a sprig of parsley. He would never tolerate any of her husband’s humors tainting her milk.
I nod toward Tybalt, who’s dancing with excitement atop the curved ledge of the courtyard well, and say, “You might have sense enough not to wake the whole house, banging about at this hour.”
Pietro answers my scolding by shaking a handful of honeyed walnuts out of his pocket and offering them to Tybalt. “Do you know what a swarm is?”
Swarm . Such a soft-sounding word, to carry such threat of stinging.
Tybalt leaps to the ground, stretching himself before Pietro, eager to show off. And even more eager to earn the candy. “That’s when bees attack,” he says.
Pietro draws back the sweets, shaking his head. “There’s no danger in a swarm. They are how new hives are made, like the building of a new church when a parish gets too crowded. When a hive becomes too full, the queen leads some of the bees out to look for a new place to live. That’s when the honey-man husbands them. He must make sure they survive in their new home.” He pulls the canvas covering off the cart, revealing a log as long as his outstretched arms, capped on each end. “There was a queen whose hive was at my house. But now, she’s here.”
His words sting in a different way than any bee could. The sting’s made all the worse because I do not dare reply, not here.
“Show him where to set the hive in the arbor,” I tell Tybalt, “so you and Juliet can watch the bees from her window.” And I can see the beekeeper when he comes to tend them, without the rest of Ca’ Cappelletti knowing.
I lead the way, settling Juliet onto the bench beside the new-built dovecote while Tybalt and Pietro maneuver the cart through the narrow archway into the arbor. A person could stand within the Cappelletti courtyard all day and not suspect what lies on this side of the passage, hidden behind the kitchen and the chapel. Pietro surveys the copse of fruit trees, amazed, before lifting the hive-log from the cart. Broad-shouldered though he is, still he staggers under the weight of it, his face reddening as he sets it on the ground.
“The honey-man needs a cup of something,” I say to Tybalt. “Fetch him some trebbiano.”
Tybalt pouts. “I want to see the bees.”
“I’ll keep the bees sealed in the hive until you’re back,” Pietro promises.
Tybalt smiles and tumbles off. He’s barely out of the arbor before I’m in Pietro’s arms. I close my eyes, savoring the feel of his big hands on me, the taste of my mouth on his.
“Angelica, where can we—”
“The boy will be back in only a minute.”
Pietro pulls me tighter, as though he means to take me right here, in that single minute. By my troth, were I a younger woman, I might let him.
But age has made me one who savors more slowly. And now that I have Juliet—secluded though the arbor is, I’ll not risk having one of the feckless servants bumble in and discover us.
Juliet’s chamber is just above us, over the chapel. And beside it is the tower, its dark stair hidden to even the most curious eyes—but opening right into her chamber. “Come to me through there,” I say, pointing to the low arch at
The measuring and mixing vex me even in my sleep, and I wake early, urging Juliet through her suckling so I can begin to work my flow into the thimble.
A cart wheel thumps across the courtyard stones, and Tybalt calls from the far side of Ca’ Cappelletti, “The honey-man is here.”
I drop the thimble and hurry my lacings closed. Hugging Juliet against me to smother her startled cry, I hie through the sala anddown the stairs into the courtyard. But I stop short when Pietro, who’s pulling a handcart, turns to me.
I cannot kiss him, cannot even let on that I know him. Not here, where the pompous cook or the prickling page or any other member of the household might peer out and see us. Lord Cappelletto forbids the wet-nurse even a sprig of parsley. He would never tolerate any of her husband’s humors tainting her milk.
I nod toward Tybalt, who’s dancing with excitement atop the curved ledge of the courtyard well, and say, “You might have sense enough not to wake the whole house, banging about at this hour.”
Pietro answers my scolding by shaking a handful of honeyed walnuts out of his pocket and offering them to Tybalt. “Do you know what a swarm is?”
Swarm . Such a soft-sounding word, to carry such threat of stinging.
Tybalt leaps to the ground, stretching himself before Pietro, eager to show off. And even more eager to earn the candy. “That’s when bees attack,” he says.
Pietro draws back the sweets, shaking his head. “There’s no danger in a swarm. They are how new hives are made, like the building of a new church when a parish gets too crowded. When a hive becomes too full, the queen leads some of the bees out to look for a new place to live. That’s when the honey-man husbands them. He must make sure they survive in their new home.” He pulls the canvas covering off the cart, revealing a log as long as his outstretched arms, capped on each end. “There was a queen whose hive was at my house. But now, she’s here.”
His words sting in a different way than any bee could. The sting’s made all the worse because I do not dare reply, not here.
“Show him where to set the hive in the arbor,” I tell Tybalt, “so you and Juliet can watch the bees from her window.” And I can see the beekeeper when he comes to tend them, without the rest of Ca’ Cappelletti knowing.
I lead the way, settling Juliet onto the bench beside the new-built dovecote while Tybalt and Pietro maneuver the cart through the narrow archway into the arbor. A person could stand within the Cappelletti courtyard all day and not suspect what lies on this side of the passage, hidden behind the kitchen and the chapel. Pietro surveys the copse of fruit trees, amazed, before lifting the hive-log from the cart. Broad-shouldered though he is, still he staggers under the weight of it, his face reddening as he sets it on the ground.
“The honey-man needs a cup of something,” I say to Tybalt. “Fetch him some trebbiano.”
Tybalt pouts. “I want to see the bees.”
“I’ll keep the bees sealed in the hive until you’re back,” Pietro promises.
Tybalt smiles and tumbles off. He’s barely out of the arbor before I’m in Pietro’s arms. I close my eyes, savoring the feel of his big hands on me, the taste of my mouth on his.
“Angelica, where can we—”
“The boy will be back in only a minute.”
Pietro pulls me tighter, as though he means to take me right here, in that single minute. By my troth, were I a younger woman, I might let him.
But age has made me one who savors more slowly. And now that I have Juliet—secluded though the arbor is, I’ll not risk having one of the feckless servants bumble in and discover us.
Juliet’s chamber is just above us, over the chapel. And beside it is the tower, its dark stair hidden to even the most curious eyes—but opening right into her chamber. “Come to me through there,” I say, pointing to the low arch at
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