watching him warily.
Armand looked at Marina. “It’s a falcon!” he said.
“Yes, I know. Her wing was wounded.”
“A beautiful falcon!” he mused. “Poor thing! Injured. I’ll have a look.”
“She was struck by an arrow,” Marina murmured.
“Carlo!” he exclaimed angrily.
He strode to the falcon, gently moving the bandage, tenderly touching the wing by the wound. He looked up. “Fine work,” he told Marina.
“She can talk,” Marina said.
“Indeed, I often think they communicate, falcons are such fine and intelligent animals,” Armand said.
“No, I mean, seriously, she can talk.”
“Certain cries and calls can mimic words, I suppose,” Armand said, striving to be patient and understanding, since they were all under so much stress.
Marina sighed. “Thomasina, talk to him, please.”
The falcon angled her head, staring at her, then at Armand.
“He’s my cousin; it’s all right!” Marina insisted.
“Be still!” Armand murmured suddenly, and he, too, cocked his head at an angle, rather like the falcon’s. “There’s someone else … nearby,” he said.
Marina moved protectively to the falcon’s side.
“It’s all right,” Armand told her. “If it’s Carlo, I’ll lead him away, somehow.” He hesitated. “You can go on, care for your falcon … talk to it.”
Armand, ever her champion, hurried away to help her in whatever way he might.
Daphne didn’t like to admit to it, in any way, but she knew that she was jealous.
Oh, she was the apple of her father’s eye, all right! And so … day after day, every day, there was something.
And usually something wretched.
Math lessons with the tedious Baldini.
Art with Signora Tuscanianni.
There was the class in which she had to spend hours walking across a room with a book on her head, and needlepoint, and dance, and music …
Well, the dance and music were not so horrible. Serafina was wonderful; she was Daphne’s one insight into the world around their own lands, for Serafina had traveled and entertained great kings and queens across the world. Daphne had often thought that Serafina was secretly in love with her father, Pietro, but if so, Serafina kept her own council. Once, Serafina had told her that Pietro certainly seemed to be intriguedby—if not entirely in love with—Geovana.
“Only because she casts spells!” Daphne had assured her.
Yet, despite her affection for her tutor, Daphne resented the endless hours she was forced to give over to the proper classes. She knew that Serafina herself was puzzled that Marina—destined to marry Carlo—was not forced into the same endless round of learning. “It’s most odd!” Serafina had said, “when she is to be Carlo’s countess, unless …”
“Unless what?” Daphne had queried.
“No, no, that would be … far too horrid,” Serafina had murmured, and would say no more.
So Daphne continued to envy Armand and her stepsister, Marina.
They were always free. Well, there were always numerous chores for them, but they both seemed to take that in stride. Day after day, she watched as they did their work, and disappeared. And sometimes, she would come upon Armand as he sat at a garden bench writing, and he would flush, and hide his poems, except for every so often when he would read one to her, and she would look into his eyes and marvel at the words, and the way he looked at her, at just the sound of his voice …
Then, someone would call her back to a class, remind her she was intended to be the wife of the son of the Great Duke Fiorelli, and Armand would be gone. Oh, yes, she was the child of privilege. And she envied the stepsister who was asked to see to the table settings, the linens, and even, sometimes, the ashes in the hearth. Marina moved quickly, and didn’t mind working in the castle or in the village, giving the castle scraps to the poor, clothing the beggars. She was free when she left the castle. Daphne was never free.
Daphne often wondered why
Armand looked at Marina. “It’s a falcon!” he said.
“Yes, I know. Her wing was wounded.”
“A beautiful falcon!” he mused. “Poor thing! Injured. I’ll have a look.”
“She was struck by an arrow,” Marina murmured.
“Carlo!” he exclaimed angrily.
He strode to the falcon, gently moving the bandage, tenderly touching the wing by the wound. He looked up. “Fine work,” he told Marina.
“She can talk,” Marina said.
“Indeed, I often think they communicate, falcons are such fine and intelligent animals,” Armand said.
“No, I mean, seriously, she can talk.”
“Certain cries and calls can mimic words, I suppose,” Armand said, striving to be patient and understanding, since they were all under so much stress.
Marina sighed. “Thomasina, talk to him, please.”
The falcon angled her head, staring at her, then at Armand.
“He’s my cousin; it’s all right!” Marina insisted.
“Be still!” Armand murmured suddenly, and he, too, cocked his head at an angle, rather like the falcon’s. “There’s someone else … nearby,” he said.
Marina moved protectively to the falcon’s side.
“It’s all right,” Armand told her. “If it’s Carlo, I’ll lead him away, somehow.” He hesitated. “You can go on, care for your falcon … talk to it.”
Armand, ever her champion, hurried away to help her in whatever way he might.
Daphne didn’t like to admit to it, in any way, but she knew that she was jealous.
Oh, she was the apple of her father’s eye, all right! And so … day after day, every day, there was something.
And usually something wretched.
Math lessons with the tedious Baldini.
Art with Signora Tuscanianni.
There was the class in which she had to spend hours walking across a room with a book on her head, and needlepoint, and dance, and music …
Well, the dance and music were not so horrible. Serafina was wonderful; she was Daphne’s one insight into the world around their own lands, for Serafina had traveled and entertained great kings and queens across the world. Daphne had often thought that Serafina was secretly in love with her father, Pietro, but if so, Serafina kept her own council. Once, Serafina had told her that Pietro certainly seemed to be intriguedby—if not entirely in love with—Geovana.
“Only because she casts spells!” Daphne had assured her.
Yet, despite her affection for her tutor, Daphne resented the endless hours she was forced to give over to the proper classes. She knew that Serafina herself was puzzled that Marina—destined to marry Carlo—was not forced into the same endless round of learning. “It’s most odd!” Serafina had said, “when she is to be Carlo’s countess, unless …”
“Unless what?” Daphne had queried.
“No, no, that would be … far too horrid,” Serafina had murmured, and would say no more.
So Daphne continued to envy Armand and her stepsister, Marina.
They were always free. Well, there were always numerous chores for them, but they both seemed to take that in stride. Day after day, she watched as they did their work, and disappeared. And sometimes, she would come upon Armand as he sat at a garden bench writing, and he would flush, and hide his poems, except for every so often when he would read one to her, and she would look into his eyes and marvel at the words, and the way he looked at her, at just the sound of his voice …
Then, someone would call her back to a class, remind her she was intended to be the wife of the son of the Great Duke Fiorelli, and Armand would be gone. Oh, yes, she was the child of privilege. And she envied the stepsister who was asked to see to the table settings, the linens, and even, sometimes, the ashes in the hearth. Marina moved quickly, and didn’t mind working in the castle or in the village, giving the castle scraps to the poor, clothing the beggars. She was free when she left the castle. Daphne was never free.
Daphne often wondered why
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