Page 16 of The Scent of Snow
“That was a caricature. The journalist intends it as a joke,” Pedro said, but it was not far from the truth. The king required guidance from time to time.
“Are you a ruthless politician? The newspaper said that, too.”
Pedro’s grin showed too many teeth. “I’m a ruthless everything.”
The boy chuckled. “Maxwell used to say you were an evil man. Nowadays, if he says something cross about you, my mother swats his arm.”
Pedro frowned, disliking the subject. “I’m glad to hear I have a protector in your house.”
“Mother is just a girl. Anyway… You don’t look happy to be here. Aninha forced you, didn’t she? Well, I suppose one can lead the king by the string but still be led around by a girl.” Lifting his brows, the boy smirked.
Statesmen had regretted disrespecting him. Pedro’s temper flared at the insolence, but he banked it, exhaling through his mouth. A ten-year-old boy would not goad him.
“A man must compromise to his wife now and then.”
“Why?”
Pedro noticed the broken twigs and found Anne’s champagne hair poking from an olive tree. He halted to give them more time to play their ruse.
He addressed the boy. “You will learn the merits of it when you grow up.”
The boy’s expression turned gloomy, and he shrugged. “Who taught you that, your father? I heard he was a war hero. If he was such a dashing man, why did you end up bad?”
Pedro’s fists clenched, and his breathing grew shallow and rapid. Hero? He would’ve liked to see how Antonio fared in one of the duke’s lessons. His grip tightened involuntarily, and before he could control himself, he had caught the boy by the lapels, lifting him to eye level. “Do you care to find out?” Pedro’s tone was low and dangerous.
The boy’s breath hitched, and he shook his head quickly, his chin trembling.
Anne’s alarmed voice cut through the tension, her face a mixture of concern and shock.
Swallowing hard, Pedro set Antonio down, cursing his impulsive reaction.
Anne pulled the boy closer, her stance protective, like a guardian fairy shielding her charge. Pedro could feel the weight of her assumption, casting him as the villain. He glared at Tony, who returned it with a smirk full of childish triumph. Clara attached herself to his coat, her little paws grubby with mud.
Pedro’s heart sped. He looked from Anne’s exasperated face, which seemed to question his every move, to Antonio’s smug expression, reveling in the chaos he’d caused.
Pedro took a step forward and then another. Before Anne could open her mouth, he kissed her senseless, pulling her into an embrace that silenced the world.
Anne fed a carrot to Hemera, the scent of hay and fresh straw mingling in the air. As she caressed the mare’s velvety nose, a gentle nuzzle reciprocated her touch. “And after that kiss, Pedro just left me there, no words, nothing. I had to take the children back home, my legs barely functioning…”
The horse seemed restless, and the distant thumps in the background revealed why. Erebus was in his stall, his hooves angrily pounding against the door.
“I guess you can’t comfort me today, Hem. You have your own problems. I promise I will talk to my obstinate husband.” Anne whispered, her voice echoing softly in the spacious stable.
Deep down, she knew it was a battle she might not win. Ever since she met Pedro, she tried to convince him to allow the horses to mate, to no avail. Another of the subjects that were forbidden to discuss. Brushing her arms, Anne left the stables.
The afternoon sun shone brightly in the sky, with no sign of snow. The Christmas season would soon end, and they would return to Lisbon, where, more often than not, Pedro got immersed in work and social obligations. She was still as far from convincing him to start a family as when she began this crusade, perhaps even further away.
The river’s sad murmur lulled her to the bridge. Watery shadows formed over the ancient walkway, giving the Misarela an otherworldly glow. She had neared the riverbank when a poignant sound reached her ears. Music.
Her chest constricted as she recognized the virtuosity of the player.
Pedro played the guitar, fingers dancing across the strings, pressing and releasing the frets, drawing out notes, sometimes crisp, sometimes low, whispering and crying, imbuing the winter air with the fado’s deep, resonant longing. Each note he played, each flair of the strings, each melody he wove, struck a chord in her chest.
The wind had loosened his hair, now a curtain caressing his shoulders. He seemed impervious to the cold. The weight of the bridge lodged itself inside her chest. His profile, chiseled from marble as enduring as the bridge’s arches, called to her. Yet, she couldn’t command her legs to move. She had not heard him play with such sorrow since… since before their marriage.Love, why so sad?Had she not helped him vanquish the shadows? Anne watched, awed by the song, eyes filled with tears, her throat aching at the sorrow she sensed in Pedro’s notes. How could there be so much beauty in heartbreak, and beauty be so heartbreaking?
They were happy. They loved each other. Of course, they disagreed, but which couple didn’t face difficulties? Not a fortnight ago, they had spent an entire week on the yacht, feeding on nothing but oysters and champagne and making love under the Algarvean moon. By God, she wished those arms were around her, instead of playing the guitar by himself, that they were teaching her to play, infinitely patient, even though she was helpless with the strings. Was he really happy? Of course, he was. She had mended him. Hadn’t she? It had been the biggest accomplishment of her life.
Then why the melancholy? It was the bridge. Something about the curse was affecting him. Anne retreated, her steps hesitant, the bridge’s lore pressing upon her. She needed to understand this curse once and for all.
