Page 70 of Thus with a Kiss I Die
She didn’t, and I heard Cal and Princess Isabella sigh in disappointment. They, too, had begun to cherish a gleam of hope that this would bring her back to us.
When I crushed the garlic chives, we all blinked at the pungent odor, but nothing moved on Nonna Ursula’s face. Finally I indicated the pink flowers to Cal. “These hold sentiment for her. Hold them under her nose and talk to her in your man-voice. Remind her of her past when youth and love were sweet, and her lord husband brought her flowers like this to warm her heart.”
Cal looked at the flowers, then looked at me. In his gaze, I saw something deep and dark, brooding and sure. Gathering the blossoms, he cupped them in his palms and leaned close to Nonna Ursula’s ear; with the scent wafting over us all, he spoke of his grandfather, how much he’d adored his wife and family, his strength in his role as podestà, and how before his death, he taught his son and grandson about ruling justly.
Princess Isabella sniffled and rubbed her nose on her sleeve.
The first I knew of Elder’s presence was a manly sob and his deep voice saying, “God bless the boy, I’m glad he remembers my father so fondly.”
Cal finished by saying, “Nonna, I’m going to put these flowers in a bowl by your bedside where all night you can smell them, and when the morning comes and the sun rises, you’ll rise, too. You’ll look on the world made new, and we’ll be glad of your return.”
I teared up, too, and hugged Princess Isabella, and Cal hugged us both together, and if Elder had had breath, he would have honked his nose like one of Hannibal’s elephants.
From the corridor, we heard a clatter of blades and the thump of many booted feet.
In a brotherly gesture, Cal kissed first Princess Isabella, then me, on the forehead. “I’m off! Say a prayer for our victorious delivery of Verona from this turbulence. Watch over Nonna Ursula.” He fixed his stern gaze on me. “For this night at least, stay safe within the palace.”
“Of course.” Although I wished mightily to go home to see my family and sleep in my own bed.
Reaching into his black shirt, from the place over his heart, he brought forth a slightly crushed, dark red rose. He pressed his lips to the opening bud, and taking my hand, he placed it in my fingers and lifted it to my lips. “Drink in the scent. It is you. Watch the blossom unfold. It is my heart triumphant.” He spoke in a quiet voice meant to reach only him and me.
He was loud, though, for even Tommaso sighed at the romance.
“Rosa centifolia,the rose of many petals, came from the Far East, from Cathay, and grows in dirt laced with well-rotted manure. The intoxicating fragrance and glorious color attracts bees and butterflies, while the thorns keep browsing animals away.” He clutched the stem into my hands in reassurance. “I removed all thorns from this rose for you.”
“Thanks.”Well-rotted manure?
In his deep, soft, passionate tone, Cal continued. “God in His power created the thorns to protect the rose’s beauty, and perhaps in the far-distant reaches of the desert and dunes, to catch sand that blows in the wind and thus bring shelter to its roots. Birds feast on the fruit of the rose, and when at long last I’ve made you my wife, I’ll brew you a posset of flavorful rose hips, a drink so healthful and rich your hair will gleam, your fingernails will grow strong, and you’ll stalk like a wild beast across the world of men.”
“Our cats are like that when we feed them venison liver.” I winced at my own ineptitude.
He smiled, apparently undeterred. “All will fear you, and you’ll easily give birth to our healthy sons and daughters.”
Just like our cats produce too many kittens.But no. What could a woman say to such a declaration of, um, horticulture? “As they fear you tonight, Prince Escalus, my betrothed, as you plunge into battle to save our fair Verona.” That sounded so silly I felt as if I had fumbled the ball.
Cal crushed me to him in a swift embrace, pressed his cheek against my forehead, then departed, leaving me holding a battered rose and feeling quizzically unbalanced.
Princess Isabella lamented. “For a moment there, he was doing so well.”
CHAPTER37
Actually, on the rare occasion, Cal had been quite accomplished with poetry. Not that I’m a poet, but all my life I’d been surrounded by iambic pentameter and romantic declarations and glorious moments that required lovers to go somewhere . . . to the spangled heavens, to faraway imagined white-sand beaches, to the cliffs of romance towering over the clawing tidal waves of tragedy . . .
I really hate poetry. All that unnecessary traveling.
I suppose, when push came to shove, I preferred the earthy monologues of horticulture and Cal—passionate Cal who loved his exotic plants and found all the details about them enticing, never noticed my lack of true rose culture enthusiasm. He was, perhaps, unable to conceive of a person who wouldn’t look upon the petals of a rose and think of its origins, its preferred growing medium, and what use to make of its parts.
I smiled at the dark red rose.
“Hey! You! Lady Rosaline!” Old Maria beckoned me over, and for the first time it seemed she viewed me with respect. “I didn’t believe it before, but you’re smarter than hair.”
“Thank you.”I guess.
She gestured toward the basket of flowers and herbs. “The words weren’t working, and neither was all that rubbing her, but the odors—when I smell something I knew long ago, for a moment, I’m back in that place. Maybe she will be, too; be back here with us.” She stared at her mistress. “Although not yet.”
“No, not yet. Maria, after the séance, did you remove the skull bag from the table by the fire?”
She barely glanced in that direction. “I keep this room tidy. I don’t let clutter overcome the order, which at all times Princess Ursula demands.”
