"Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - St Germain 2 - The Palace" - читать интересную книгу автора (Yarbro Chelsea Quinn)

in his craggy face. "Prego, carina. I would not ask it if it were a trivial thing. You see,
Estasia has been very much upset by the sermons Simone has been preaching to her.
Simone…" He hesitated, not wanting to condemn his brother. "Simone worries for
her soul, and for that reason he cannot accept the way Estasia wants to live. He does
not see that she has fear, too."
Rather dryly Demetrice said, "I have heard him. He was here once last year. He
does not approve of the way Laurenzo lives, either. He told him so."
"San Gregorio protect me." Sandro was acutely embarrassed. "I didn't know. He
should never have… He does not think, Demetrice. His fervor inspires him and he
speaks out. You can imagine, then, how he berates Estasia, which only makes her
more determined to have her pleasures." Again he paused, and searched for words.
"It would mean a great deal to Estasia to have someone call on her. Someone who is
kind."
"Very well." Demetrice sighed and looked at her companion. She wished the
room were dark again, so that they could recapture that closeness. With the room lit
by candles, lanterns and fire, she saw too much and knew too little. "Since you ask
it, I will. But I do not know what to say to her. Tell me: what interests her?"
"Housewifery. She's an excellent housekeeper. Not even Simone can make
complaint on that issue. She knows, particularly, a great deal about cooking. She has
a way with pastry."
Demetrice laughed in spite of herself. "I know almost nothing about cookery. It is
the price of being raised in a scholar's home. Now, if the recipes were in Greek, or
even Seneca's Latin, he might have been moved to care about food. About the only
dish I can make is honey cakes. But I know a little of lacemaking," she offered
helpfully.
"Estasia is expert with her needle. Her embroidery is superb. Take your lace with
you."
"Yes, but, Sandro," Demetrice objected reasonably, "we can't sit there and stitch
at each other."
Sandro shook his head and leaned against the mantel of the fireplace. "Talk of
clothing, then. Compare velvets. Or gossip. Surely there is fruit enough for that in
Fiorenza." He waited until the servant was gone from the room, then said, "I fear for
her when she is alone. She is terrified, sometimes, thinking that she is forever
abandoned. I cannot let her suffer because of me. She makes light of it, but I have
seen her eyes when she has been alone too long, and they are bright like a trapped
animal's." He sighed, turned to her. "It is not your responsibility. She is my cousin. I
know that. But if you would help me, I'd be truly grateful. Who knows," he added
impishly. "I might even do your portrait."
"With those new pigments Laurenzo wants you to test?" She, too, moved away
from the fire. "It grows late, Sandro, and I have not yet eaten. Will you join me at
table? I fear we must take it in the pantry, for the household sat down some time
ago."
"No. But it is gracious of you to ask me." Sandro shook off his somber mood
and strode to the door. "I, too, have not eaten, and it is time I was home."
Automatically Demetrice glanced toward the windows and saw the last glow of
dusk in the cold March sky. "I didn't realize we had talked so long. Yes. Perhaps
you'd better leave. Have one of the servants accompany you with a lamp."
But Sandro laughed this suggestion away. "There's no need. The thieves are not
that desperate. I'll be safe, I promise you."
She did not object, but when the door was closed behind him, a frown settled on