The Wager by Donna Jo Napoli Page B

was angry at him, almost as though he’d been an unfaithful lover. Her eyes were bright. Saucy. The way she looked at him . . . why, he’d been a fool not to realize.
    It was late October. Don Giovanni had nowhere to go, nothing to eat. The fat times were over, such as they were. He shivered violently.

All Saints and All Souls
    â€œ COME HERE, BEGGAR .”
    Don Giovanni didn’t lift his head. He had found a stable door unattended, a rare bit of luck, and slipped in. The dark of a corner allowed him a place to nestle, away from prying eyes, enveloped by this horse’s warm, wet, hay-sweet breath. Sleep had already coated him when the rude words scrabbled at the edge of his consciousness.
    â€œYou won’t regret it, beggar.”
    The man’s voice and language oozed nobility. Don Giovanni was sorely tempted to take the bait. He was hungrier than he’d ever been. He could hear his erratic heartbeat. His skin itched from dryness. The cracks at the corners of his mouth were deceptively small for the pain they gave. He was constipated, irritable, starving.
    He needed work. Absolute need. But there was that hateful word; it never failed to jangle his nerves.
    â€œThat’s a promise . . . beggar.”
    The lingering of the first words and then the tacking on of the last one felt like a purposeful insult, as though the man knew the effect he’d evoke.
    Any true man took taunts seriously. And every Sicilian man was a true man. Don Giovanni looked up.
    The man stood by the horse’s rump. Even in the meager moonlight from the high window, his fine clothing was apparent. He could pay well. Was the humiliation worth it?
    Tomorrow was November 1. Randazzo would celebrate All Saints’ and All Souls’ Day with morning mass and dancing in the streets. Tonight was the vigil. No one in town had eaten or drunk all day. So tomorrow they would feast. There would be food even for Don Giovanni. He might get a meaty bone if he was lucky. Bread. Maybe even a pastry of ricotta. But it wouldn’t last.
    And this job would pay well.
    â€œStop debating and get over here, beggar.”
    Was he a witch?
    Don Giovanni got to his feet. Now he could see the outline of the man’s face—unusually handsome. Something stirred in Don Giovanni’s middle. A sense of competition? A month ago he had been devastatingly handsome himself. Put a little food in him and he would be again. Handsomer than this dandy.
    The man brushed off his cape, ran his fingers through his hair, smoothed his beard to a point. “Good-looking beggar, despite the touch of emaciation. I have to hand it to you.”
    â€œYou said I wouldn’t regret it. Yet already you’re breaking that promise. What should I call you, dishonorable sire?”
    The man threw back his head and laughed. “Oooo, what style.” He made a tsk. “Would you like to be rich again?” He didn’t move his hands as he talked. It was as though a statue spoke. “Would you like a life of immeasurable luxury? Beggar.”
    Don Giovanni willed himself to be a statue as well. The moment felt classic. Recognizable. He could almost walk away from this trap. It had to be a trap. Did Pandora feel like this when she accepted the fateful box?
    â€œWho wouldn’t?” he murmured through unmoving lips. Such logical words, each one belying what his heart knew.
    â€œSee? Now that wasn’t so hard, was it, beggar?”
    The man’s teeth picked up light that wasn’t there. Everything else was in a haze, yet his incisors gleamed. Did he have an internal fire?
    He laughed again. “Easy. Let’s keep this easy.” He reached inside his cloak and took out a purse. A small thing. White as new snow. Rich people would pay Don Giovanni a slab of suckling pig for snow as white as that purse. Or they would have, before nature had stolen his means of survival by dumping snow for free everywhere.
    The man