The Smile by Donna Jo Napoli Page A

nonstop.”
    I pinch my lower lip. “How will it look for a noble girl to be in a wagon with a young man and no one else? Especially a young peasant man.”
    Mamma stops dressing and looks at me. “Clever again. You use my own worries against me.” She shakes her head. “I miss your old direct ways, Elisabetta. All right, I can ask Sandra if she’ll accompany you.”
    I look to Papà for help. He just watches Mamma and me with a half-amused expression. I could strangle him. He should be on my side, for I’m always on his. I’m his amazing daughter. Has he forgotten? Help me, my eyes plead.
    But his don’t change. This is my battle. All right, then. I shall be direct. “Old Sandra needs to stay with her ailing husband, Mamma. We both know that.” I go to her and wrap my arms around her waist. “Talking with Silvia hasn’t changed my talk. Listen to me, Mamma. Hear me. You understand me better than anyone. At times better than I wish you did. You know I obey you. I don’t adopt Silvia’s ways of speaking.” Even when she makes fun of me, I think. But I don’t tell Mamma that. Besides, Silvia hasn’t said a peep about my language for a long time now.
    Mamma takes a deep breath and strokes my hair. “I don’t know why you’re so set on her. You should have outgrown that friendship by now. It only happened because you’re so isolated out here. The two of you have little in common. But all right, take her. As your helper, not your friend. And outfit yourself properly. A nice dress.”
    â€œA shift makes more sense, with all the dirt from the plants and everything.”
    â€œYou won’t touch the plants. Cristiano will. And Silvia will.”
    â€œBut . . .”
    Mamma puts her hand up in the halt signal. “What if someone should see you, Elisabetta? Aren’t you the one who just brought that possibility to my attention?” Her face softens. “You know I want the best for you. Always.”
    I wonder if her idea of best might be at odds with mine. But I love her so much. I kiss her on both cheeks.
    Soon I’m sitting on the wagon bench beside Cristiano. Mamma wouldn’t hear of me sitting in the wagon bed with Silvia. Especially not in my dress. Arranged like this, it’s hard to talk. So we’re silent most of the way to Greve.
    The main piazza of Greve overflows with flowers. My chest swells in happiness. Children run through the pots, pointing at the brightest ones, the biggest ones, the most unusual ones.
    And there are some unusual ones, indeed. Black roses. I’ve never seen such a thing. As I approach, I realize they’re not really black, but of such a deep, rich red, they appear black from a distance. Beyond them is a tall bush of shiny, thick green leaves all peppered with large pink buds that I’m sure will open before my party. “Good day, fine lady,” I say to the vendor. “Can you tell me about your flowers?”
    â€œThey’re not for sale, if that’s what you want to know.” The woman is dressed well. Not richly, but not in farm clothes. She has a city accent.
    â€œWhat a pity. I’d love to have some for my party.”
    â€œThese flowers are beyond the means of a girl like you.”
    I stiffen in offense. “Please state your price.”
    â€œI told you, they’re not for sale. They’re here only to allow the country folk to see what fine things grow in the Medici gardens at Careggi.”
    â€œMedici?”
    â€œThose roses you had your eye on are from Spain. And these . . .” She points to large white flowers. “They’re sea daffodils from Crete. They don’t usually bloom till autumn, so that makes them even more special. And those ones over there . . .” She points at small blue buds. “They’re also from Crete. Those irises bloom only in the second half of the day. At noon you can watch them