The Smile by Donna Jo Napoli Page B

open. We have Egyptian lotus. And African vines.” She waves her hand expansively. “We have everything.”
    â€œAnd how much did you say the roses are?” Roses keep blooming. They’d be perfect.
    â€œPersistent, eh?” One corner of the woman’s mouth goes up reprovingly. “The Medici don’t sell. They keep or give. Nothing in between. And I don’t see my master about to give you anything.”
    Could this woman be any ruder? “Who might I ask is your master?”
    â€œGiuliano de’ Medici himself. He oversaw the selection of which flowers to bring.”
    My heart thumps like a fist. “Is he here?”
    â€œHe was. He insisted on coming with me, though we had to leave the city long before dawn. Just a while ago he left.”
    â€œWhere did he go?”
    â€œWhy are you asking?”
    â€œI know him.”
    â€œYou know Ser Giuliano?” The woman frowns. I can’t tell if she doesn’t believe me or if she regrets having summed me up so wrong. “He brought his own horse, tied to the back of the coach. When we got here, he mounted and rode away. He said he wanted to see the countryside.”
    â€œWhen is he coming back?”
    â€œHe’s not. He left me here with the coach driver. We have rooms for as long as the flower show lasts. But Ser Giuliano is returning to Florence on his own horse today.”
    â€œDo you think he might come back to Greve before leaving for Florence?”
    â€œDo I look like a mind reader? He told me nothing.”
    I suddenly feel like crying.
    The woman tilts her head. “Is something amiss?”
    I can’t understand why I’m acting like this. I’m too frustrated to talk.
    â€œI wouldn’t expect him to come back to Greve. People talk of the charm of the villages, but really it’s much exaggerated. I should think Ser Giuliano will find his countryside ride boring.”
    I grit my teeth and curtsy good-bye. Then I spend the rest of the day choosing flowers. None rival the exotic ones from the Medici garden. And I didn’t even learn the name of the tall bush with the pink buds. It would be humiliating to return to that supercilious woman and ask now.
    I buy flowers and aromatic bushes till the wagon is full. But nothing overcomes my glumness. I stare at the wagon and realize there’s no excuse for not returning home.
    â€œWhat hurts?” asks Silvia. She stands beside me and takes my hand.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œDon’t talk rubbish. It’s me. Something’s biting you. And hard. If you tell me, it’ll hurt less. And that’s the truth.”
    I move closer to her and my eyes blur with tears I can’t understand. It’s been a beastly day. First Old Sandra, with her treating us as though we’re not nobility. Then that servant of Giuliano’s acting like anyone out here is a country bumpkin, no matter how they’re dressed. Did she even see my fine clothes? I hate her. And then there’s Giuliano himself. He was here. So close to where I am. And I didn’t get to see him.
    â€œCome on,” says Silvia. “You can tell me.”
    But I can’t. I can’t talk about any of this to Silvia. She’s not part of noble society. And she is part of country folk. If she doesn’t already resent me, talking about these things now certainly would. My best friend, and I can’t talk to her. It’s maddening. I hate the world.
    â€œKeeping secrets from me now, is that how it is?” Silvia’s face shows hurt.
    â€œNo, no,” I say quickly, “it’s no secret. I’m just thinking about my party. Worrying.”
    â€œWorrying? What on earth for? Florence has dozens of middle-aged men on their own. And them fellows, oh, when they see you, just wait. One will snatch you straightaway. Then you’re set. Sitting pretty. No cares for the rest of your life.”
    I pull away from her in