The pan handle was too hot, but she couldn't seem to let go of it. "So he's still alive, then. The last I heard, he was meant to be dead."
"Honey." He sounded upset about something.
"Well, that's what I heard. They sent a cavalry army or something specially to get him. Don't say they made a mess of that too."
"Apparently." She could feel him willing her to turn round.
Instead she rested the pan carefully on the stove top and let go. "Honey, you aren't worried about anything, are you?"
"Of course I'm worried, if that horrible man Psellus is going to be running the Guilds," she snapped. "He's strange, I don't like him. He wants something from me and I don't know what it is."
"Fine." Now he was going to lose his temper. "So what am I supposed to do about it? Challenge him to a duel or something?" He paused; when he spoke again, his voice was colder. "Are you thinking, that's what Ziani would've done, if someone was bothering me like that? Well, maybe you're right. As we both know, he was crazy in the head."
"I really don't want to talk about him," she said, loud and quick. She scooped the beans out of the pan, added them to his plate and stabbed the fire with the poker as if it had been Lucao Psellus.
"All right," he said. "I just thought you'd be interested."
"Well I'm not."
That night, when he'd gone to bed, she opened the triangular cupboard in the corner of the kitchen and took out a packet of cardamom seeds, which she emptied into a bowl. Then, with a small peeling knife, she carefully slit the edges of the packet and smoothed the coarse parchment out into a sheet. It was a bit too shiny, so she took a minute or so to smooth it down with the kitchen pumice, until the surface was dull. From his study she took the brass inkwell and a new goose quill-he'd miss it, but that couldn't be helped; he was always losing things, so it wouldn't be too much of a problem. She sharpened the quill with her peeling knife, taking care to scoop up all the shavings and put them on the fire. As a final precaution, she wedged the door with the kitchen chair.
It was a while before she could nerve herself to start. She hadn't written anything for years now. Did he know she even could? The question had never arisen. Probably he assumed she couldn't; it wasn't a highly valued accomplishment among women of their class. She smiled, remembering Ziani's stupid book, which he'd left lying about in his study because he had no idea she could read it. Not that it had been worth reading.
Slowly and carefully she wrote the address. Important not to get ink on her fingers; you had to pumice them to the bone before you could get rid of the stain, and he wouldn't believe her if she said it was soot. She winced at the unfamiliar pressure of the quill against the side of her knuckle. People who did a lot of writing got used to it, presumably, but it had always struck her as an uncomfortable tool to use. My husband says…
A clumsy way to start; still, she'd written it now. My husband says Psellus is going to be the new head of necessary evil…
(Should that have been capital N and capital E? Not that it mattered.)
…and I'm worried. Is it true? If he starts asking questions again, what should I tell him? If he's going to be in charge of everything, sooner or later he's going to find out something bad. You promised at the start nothing bad was going to happen to me. You never come and see me anymore…
She lifted her hand away so she could read the last few words. Shouldn't have written that. It was what they all said, sooner or later; the women she'd always pitied, promising herself she'd never be one of them. She thought for a moment; inspiration struck.
…so I can't ask you face to face what's going on. It scares me, not knowing, I'm afraid I'll get something wrong. I don't want to make things bad for either of us. I know you can't come and see me any time soon, because of what's happened, but you must have friends who could bring a message. I…
She stopped just in time. She'd been about to write I miss you or I want you. That was the trouble with writing; so easy to get carried away and put down something without thinking. I know what a difficult time this must be for you and how hard it'll be to find someone to bring me a letter, but please try. For both our sakes. You know I wouldn't pester you like this if I wasn't really scared.
Best to leave it at that. She laid the quill carefully on the side of the table, the nib hanging over the edge so as not to stain the wood, then put the lid back on the inkwell. She didn't have any sand to blot with, and she wasn't sure if you could use flour instead; better to leave it to dry off in its own time. That, of course, meant waiting around, since she couldn't very well leave it lying there while she put the inkwell back in his study. She considered replacing the quill as well as the inkwell, since they cost good money, but it wasn't worth the risk. She picked it up carefully, just in case there was still ink on it, and flipped it into the fire, her nose crawling at the foul smell of burning feather. While the ink was drying she put some beans in water to soak overnight and scrubbed out tonight's pan with a thorn twig.
Once she was sure the letter wouldn't smudge, she folded it; once lengthways in the middle, then three times sideways. A drop of tallow from the candle was all she had to seal it with; and while the tallow blob was still soft, she pressed the letter A into it with her fingernail. Then she got the long-necked stone bottle she collected the beer in and wedged it in the top, with just a corner sticking out. To be on the safe side, she put the bottle away in the cupboard and closed the door. The last chore was finding ajar to store the cardamoms whose packet she'd cut up.
He was asleep when she climbed the ladder to the upstairs room; lying on his side. She sighed quietly. When he slept on his back he snored, so he made an effort to lie sideways, but clearly he hadn't got the hang of it yet; his left arm was trapped under his body, which meant he'd wake up with pins and needles in the morning and make a fuss. As she climbed in next to him, he grunted and twitched away. It wasn't like she hated him or anything, but there were times she wished she hadn't had to marry him. It had made sense at the time, of course, when he'd explained it to her.
For various reasons she didn't sleep well; and, as is so often the case, when she finally did fall asleep, it was only an hour or so before dawn, which meant she woke up late, after he'd already left for work. Infuriating; she had to dress in a hurry (she hated leaving the house with her hair in a mess) and dash down to the market with the beer bottle so as to hand the letter over in time. The courier (she didn't even know his name) leered at her annoyingly as he stooped to pick up the scrap of paper she'd apparently let fall from her pocket. His hand brushed hers as he mimed handing the paper back, which made her feel slightly sick. It wasn't a deliberate try-on, she knew that; probably he wasn't even aware he was doing it. She hated men, sometimes.
Once he was safely out of sight, she sat down on one of the stone ledges beside the market-house wall. Her hands were aching, and when she looked down she realized the knuckles were white. Deliberately she relaxed; hands, then arms and shoulders, then her back and legs. It made her wonder how people who lied for a living managed it. Presumably they got used to it, like slaughtermen or butchers, or soldiers after their first few battles.
With a click of her tongue she got up again. She hated running late. She'd have to rush to get Moritsa to school (was today the spinning test, or was it tomorrow?), and after that, all the usual chores to cram in before he came home again. Some days she had no idea where the time went.
The door was open when she got back. She was cursing herself for not shutting it properly on her way out when she realized there was someone in the house: two men in military uniform, light armor but no weapons. She felt all the energy drain out of her.