Page 68 of Thus with a Kiss I Die

“Is there no improvement?” At my sad denial, he said, “I pray that God’s will be done; her return to health or her quiet passing to the heavenly gates.”

I lifted the flowers. “I prefer to draw her back to life.”

“An excellent strategy! Scent can be invigorating.” Energy infused him. He strode into the herb garden, blade in his grip. As he moved from plant to plant, he said, “Mint to rouse the mind, oregano to remind her of God’s gift of food, lemon balm to brew, garlic chives . . . ah, the savory glory! And lavender to bring serenity, should she embrace her passage into paradise.”

He used his knife swiftly, skillfully—clearly, a healer at home in an herbal garden. In only a few moments, I had a basketful of fragrances for Nonna Ursula, and felt more at ease with Friar Camillo. He was a nice young man, caring and generous, and again I assured myself he had no ulterior motive for his appearance in the palace garden, except, perhaps, to ingratiate himself to the podestà and his intended bride. That was not such a terrible ambition for a young monk, was it?

Nevertheless, I escorted him to the door onto the street and raised my hand to him, urging him to go in peace . . . but to please go. (I didn’t say that last part.) When the door had shut behind him, I moved in all speed to Nonna Ursula’s chambers.

I found the kitchen boy gone, Old Maria sitting beside the fire looking more like a withered crone every time I saw her, Tommaso standing at attention, and Princess Isabella and Cal scraping the last of the soup from the pot.

Cal looked better for his sleep, rested and less pained. He dressed himself once again in the dark and brooding prince of Verona uniform; the warrior had returned. Really, it was too bad; I enjoyed having him at a disadvantage.

“Rosie, you tossed our cook from the house!” Princess Isabella said in awe and gratitude.

“To be precise, Marcellus tossed him.” I grinned in remembrance of that well-placed fist.

Cal looked up with interest. “Did he?”

“I merely had to duck away from the flying body fluids,” I assured him. I placed the basket on the table and reached for him; I thought to examine his shoulder.

With a single cool glance, he refused my support.

I halted, feeling an ego-deflating sense of rejection.

His gaze slid to his sister, to Old Maria, to Tommaso, all watching with interest.

I understood. He’d allowed me to care for him when he needed it, but now we returned to the proper-in-public, hands-off betrothal, and maybe some sneak-around, hair-sniffing behavior in private. I wished that he’d make up his mind! I asked, “How is the shoulder?”

He placed his hand on the joint and carefully exercised it. “It will do.”

Gentle reader, can you say, “Damned with faint praise”?

He added, “You’re a good apprentice apothecary.” Considering what scoffing had ensued when he had discovered me working in Friar Laurence’s shop, this was a vast improvement.

“Yes, I am.” I saw no reason for false modesty.

Cal placed his spoon in his now-empty bowl and pushed it away. He folded his hands on the table and stared at me. “How was your walk in the garden with Friar Camillo?”

Princess Isabella sat straight up, and her eyes sparkled. “Friar Camillo was here? I wished I’d seen him. He’s so handsome!”

Cal and I both looked at her.

“And charming!” she added artlessly.

We turned back to each other.

“I went out to find you and saw you rushing after him into the herb garden,” Cal said.

“You . . . watched me? Us?”

“I didn’t watch you. I simply didn’t know he was visiting you.”

“He wasn’t visiting me. Friar Laurence sent him to see what more he could do for your soldiers and he stopped at the shrine to pray.” I could have told Cal about my mission in the garden, but I didn’t appreciate the sensation of being interrogated. “Friar Camillo was helpful to me.”

“He’s very at ease for a young man.” Cal seemed to find that offensive.

“From what he told me of his early life, I think he has reason to behave in a manner that increases his social value.”