woke me.”
“You are not one of the servants. That is not possible.”
The wan cheeks flush an imperceptible pink as she draws herself up in the depths of the chair and lifts her chin for the first time. “This is my guardian’s house.”
“Truly? I was told that the owner of this house had died.”
The momentary bravado fades; she droops again and her small voice falters. “He did. But he was still my guardian.”
He looks at her bowed head. “My dear, I am so sorry. I was not thinking …” She does not move.
“What is your name?” he says gently.
“Clara. Clara Adler,” is the whispered reply.
“Then, Miss Adler, as there is no one to introduce us properly, please allow me to introduce myself. I am Mario Alfieri.”
“How do you do, Mr. Alfieri.”
“Well, thank you. Very well. And how do you do, Miss Adler?”
“Better,” she says. “I am better, now. I have been ill.” Her own words suddenly recall her to herself. “Oh, but you mustn’t look at me,” she says, shrinking further into her chair.
“Why?”
“My hair …” At her words he realizes, with a small jolt, that it has been cut pitifully close, like a boy’s. Unable to hide the disgrace of her shorn head with her hands, she covers her face, instead. “Please don’t look at me.”
“And if I told you,” he says, “that until this very minute, when you brought it to my attention, I had not noticed your hair, would you believe me?” He touches her sleeve. “I promise you it is true.”
“How can that be?” she says through her hands. “I am so ugly.”
“Not ugly. Never ugly. Only recovering from an illness. Your hair will grow back.”
“Not for years.”
He laughs. “Do you wish to know why I did not notice your hair? I was looking too much at your lovely eyes.”
She lowers her hands. Those eyes are spilling slow tears, which she wipes with the handkerchief he offers her. “I am sorry,” she says. “Please don’t think badly of me.”
“Badly? Of you?” He shakes his head. “You are still weak and you have had a shock, which is my fault. I do not wonder at those tears. Are you strong enough to return to … where do you live in this great house?”
“My rooms are on the next floor. I will be all right. I am stronger than I look.”
“The stairs will not be too much for you? Let me help you.”
He takes her hand again and helps her to rise. Her head, with its ragged, dark curls, reaches no higher than the middle of his chest.
“You needn’t,” she says. “I can get there by myself.”
“No gentleman,” he replies, “would ever permit a lady of his acquaintance to return home unescorted. Now that we have been introduced, I must see you safely home.”
They climb the stairs together, stopping every four or five steps to allow her to catch her breath and rest.
“You are so kind,” she says. “I hope it didn’t frighten you too much to find me there.”
“Oh, after the initial shock I bore up quite well. I must admit that, at the very first instant, I did think that I had stumbled upon a ghost—which would have been most interesting, for I do not believe in them—and for a few moments I thought that I would have to rethink all my most deeply held philosophies. But it is you who are truly brave. To wake and find a total stranger in your house, tearing the covers from the furniture? How I must have frightened you!”
“No,” she says. “I heard you singing. I knew you wouldn’t hurt me.”
When they reach their destination, Alfieri opens the door for her and stands aside to let her pass.
She hesitates, not knowing what etiquette might demand in such a situation. To remain alone with a stranger cannot be proper; but he has been so kind that, surely, it would be terribly rude simply to send him away. “Would you like to come in?” she says shyly. “Perhaps you would like a cup of tea?”
Alfieri loathes tea. A true son of his country, his beverage is coffee: thick, strong, and taken black.
“I would love a cup of tea,” he says.
HOME” CONSISTS of two rooms, a bedroom and a sitting room, facing south and east over the garden at the back of the huge house. The sitting room is a pleasant, airy chamber, with sunlight falling like water through curtains of lace, and its bright comforts seem touched with some kindly magic, permitting it alone to escape the dark spell which has plunged the rest of the house into profound sleep. Adding to the feeling of enchantment is a table before one window, set with covered dishes, a cup and saucer, a round blue teapot, and a small kettle which steams cheerfully above a spirit lamp, as if invisible hands had been there only moments before. While Clara busies herself with the tea things, taking for her own use a glass tumbler fetched from the table beside her bed, Alfieri examines his surroundings.
His eyes travel from the soft rugs on the floor to the books piled on the tables, to the hoop of half-finished embroidery lying on the window seat, to the mantelpiece, which is white marble carved with swags of roses. Upon it sits a vase filled with tulips and anemones, a fountain of bright reds, blues, and yellows; on the wall above hangs a portrait of a girl with long chestnut hair tumbling about her shoulders, looking like a flower herself in a pale blue gown. The artist, with masterly hand and eye, had captured his subject at a magical time—no longer a child, not quite a woman—and Alfieri stares at it, once more feeling something that he cannot explain … the tilt of the head, the slant of the eyes, the oddly knowing expression, smiling and infinitely sad … all achingly familiar—and then he is back, and realizing that the wan little creature now pouring out tea is the faded shadow of the portrait’s original.
“My guardian had me sit for it, two years ago,” Clara says, following his gaze. “I was very young then.”
“So I see. How young, if I might be permitted to ask?”
“Seventeen.”
“Why then you are very old now,” he says gravely, and is rewarded by one of her rare smiles.
“Sometimes I feel very old. I tire so quickly.”
“You must give it time.”
“It’s taking so long.”
“I know. But you will grow well and strong. If you do not believe me, I will show you.” He takes the teacup she has handed him and quickly drinks off its contents, leaving a small amount in the bottom. Swirling the remaining liquid around, he pours it out into his saucer and holds the empty cup out for her inspection.
She peers into it. “Do you read tea leaves?”
“I am famous for it. In my family I am the only one permitted to read them. It is a rule.”
“Whom do you read them for?”
“My brothers and sisters and their children.”
“Does what you read always come true?”
“Always.”
“What do you see there?”
He holds the cup to the light and rotates it between his hands. “I see a very beautiful young lady—radiant with health, and with long, chestnut hair—in a park. Not a little park, like the one outside here, but a big one, like the Bois de Boulogne, in Paris. See this?” He points to a smudge of tea leaves inside the cup.
“What is it?”
“A ship. And here are waves and seabirds.”