the bottom of the tower.
I press myself against him for one more kiss, then hurry to the bench and take up Juliet. Crossing back through the courtyard, I climb the stairs to the sala and spirit one of the dinner knives from the credenza. Back in our chamber, I set Juliet in her cradle, making a quick bow to San Zeno before I pull back the wall-hanging. I kneel before the tower door like a penitent before his priest, my lips moving not in prayer but in impatient oaths while I tilt the knife into the lock.
Once the metal working turns and the door heaves on its hinge, I turn back to the window. Pietro is crouching before the hive, Tybalt beside him. My husband points, explaining as he used to do with our boys. Tybalt nods, hungry with questions. But I’m hungry, too. I swing the window wide and wave at Pietro.
He twists a fat cork from a hole in the log. The first bees fly out, turning one loop in the air and then another. As Tybalt spins beneath them, following their paths, Pietro crosses to the tower, his feet quick on the worn stone steps. He is barely in the room before he’s inside me.
“Tybalt?” I ask, worried the boy might burst in on us.
“I told him he must count the bees.” Pietro runs kisses frombeneath my ear all down my neck. “That will occupy him, while I occupy something else.” He pulls himself nearly out of me, then plunges slowly in again. Over and over, working up his whetted rhythm, setting off the first tremors deep within me. But as I thrum with pleasure, the prime-hour bells ring.
“Lord Cappelletto.” I gasp out the name.
Pietro goes limp inside me. “Angelica, you’velet Lord Cappelletto—”
“No. Never.” I cannot find words fast enough. “He’s a shriveled old thing. But he’ll be coming here now, to see Juliet.”
I push my husband off me so fast, he rolls to the edge of the broad bed. I give him one more shove, sending poor Pietro tumbling to the floor, and whisper for him to stay there. Working my way back to the other side of the bed, I pull Juliet from her cradle just as the door from the sala opens and Lord Cappelletto stalks in for his morning visit.
I tip my head, making doe-eyes at Juliet in a grand show of my innocence. Only then am I reminded: the prickle marks still taint her.
“She’s just started to give suck.” I pull Juliet to me, rubbing my breast against the corner of her mouth. She burrows into me as though she is a rooting pig, and I work the folds of my nightdress to hide her face from Lord Cappelletto.
But he jabs a hairy-knuckled finger at something behind me. “What’s that?”
My throat tightens as I turn. Pietro is pressed against the bottom of the bed, hidden from view. The tower door is pulled shut,covered by the wall-hanging. But there, at the feet of the statue of San Zeno, is the dinner knife.
“Tybalt brings things in to play,” I say. “He’d invent a broadsword out of anything, to pretend that he’s a knight at jousting.”
“The Cappelletti have foes enough for him to raise a blade to when he comes of age. But our family silver is not for a child’s play. Have Tybalt—”
“Is that the crier, already coming up the Via Cappello?”
Lord Cappelletto, ever impatient to calculate how to turn the day’s first news to his family’s advantage, forgets whatever was about to trip from his wagging tongue. He makes his daily retreat through the sala, his footsteps echoing down the stairs and into the entryway to Ca’ Cappelletti.
Pietro pulls himself back onto the bed. “This is no way for a husband to be with his wife.”
“This is the only way for a wet-nurse to be with her husband.” I wrap my hand around him, careful not to disturb Juliet. It has never taken much to firm Pietro, and our months apart serve in my favor. As soon as Juliet’s had her fill of me, he lays her on the bolster above our heads, as though this was our bed and she our babe.
But once he and I are done and laced back up again, Pietro kneels
I press myself against him for one more kiss, then hurry to the bench and take up Juliet. Crossing back through the courtyard, I climb the stairs to the sala and spirit one of the dinner knives from the credenza. Back in our chamber, I set Juliet in her cradle, making a quick bow to San Zeno before I pull back the wall-hanging. I kneel before the tower door like a penitent before his priest, my lips moving not in prayer but in impatient oaths while I tilt the knife into the lock.
Once the metal working turns and the door heaves on its hinge, I turn back to the window. Pietro is crouching before the hive, Tybalt beside him. My husband points, explaining as he used to do with our boys. Tybalt nods, hungry with questions. But I’m hungry, too. I swing the window wide and wave at Pietro.
He twists a fat cork from a hole in the log. The first bees fly out, turning one loop in the air and then another. As Tybalt spins beneath them, following their paths, Pietro crosses to the tower, his feet quick on the worn stone steps. He is barely in the room before he’s inside me.
“Tybalt?” I ask, worried the boy might burst in on us.
“I told him he must count the bees.” Pietro runs kisses frombeneath my ear all down my neck. “That will occupy him, while I occupy something else.” He pulls himself nearly out of me, then plunges slowly in again. Over and over, working up his whetted rhythm, setting off the first tremors deep within me. But as I thrum with pleasure, the prime-hour bells ring.
“Lord Cappelletto.” I gasp out the name.
Pietro goes limp inside me. “Angelica, you’velet Lord Cappelletto—”
“No. Never.” I cannot find words fast enough. “He’s a shriveled old thing. But he’ll be coming here now, to see Juliet.”
I push my husband off me so fast, he rolls to the edge of the broad bed. I give him one more shove, sending poor Pietro tumbling to the floor, and whisper for him to stay there. Working my way back to the other side of the bed, I pull Juliet from her cradle just as the door from the sala opens and Lord Cappelletto stalks in for his morning visit.
I tip my head, making doe-eyes at Juliet in a grand show of my innocence. Only then am I reminded: the prickle marks still taint her.
“She’s just started to give suck.” I pull Juliet to me, rubbing my breast against the corner of her mouth. She burrows into me as though she is a rooting pig, and I work the folds of my nightdress to hide her face from Lord Cappelletto.
But he jabs a hairy-knuckled finger at something behind me. “What’s that?”
My throat tightens as I turn. Pietro is pressed against the bottom of the bed, hidden from view. The tower door is pulled shut,covered by the wall-hanging. But there, at the feet of the statue of San Zeno, is the dinner knife.
“Tybalt brings things in to play,” I say. “He’d invent a broadsword out of anything, to pretend that he’s a knight at jousting.”
“The Cappelletti have foes enough for him to raise a blade to when he comes of age. But our family silver is not for a child’s play. Have Tybalt—”
“Is that the crier, already coming up the Via Cappello?”
Lord Cappelletto, ever impatient to calculate how to turn the day’s first news to his family’s advantage, forgets whatever was about to trip from his wagging tongue. He makes his daily retreat through the sala, his footsteps echoing down the stairs and into the entryway to Ca’ Cappelletti.
Pietro pulls himself back onto the bed. “This is no way for a husband to be with his wife.”
“This is the only way for a wet-nurse to be with her husband.” I wrap my hand around him, careful not to disturb Juliet. It has never taken much to firm Pietro, and our months apart serve in my favor. As soon as Juliet’s had her fill of me, he lays her on the bolster above our heads, as though this was our bed and she our babe.
But once he and I are done and laced back up again, Pietro kneels
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