Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [11]
“What could that be?” He asked because he needed to know what she might say to others.
She gave a tiny, delicate shrug. “I have not even thought so far.”
It was the answer he wanted.
“Other people may ask,” he said quite casually.
Helena lifted her head, her lips parted as she drew in her breath. The fear was there in her eyes only long enough for him to be certain of it, then she masked it. “Perhaps I am fortunate in not knowing anything.” There was no lift of question in her voice, and try as he might, he could not read her face.
“Yes,” he agreed smoothly. “I will be comforted knowing that you are quite safe from that added distress in your time of mourning.”
There was understanding bright in her eyes, and then it was gone again, replaced by the calm, almost blank stare. “You are so kind to have called, Your Grace. Remember me in your prayers.”
“Always, my child,” he promised, raising his hand piously. “You will never be far from my thoughts.”
He felt certain that Helena was not foolish enough to speak too freely to the Nicean eunuch, should Anastasius call and seek further knowledge from her. But as Constantine went out into the brightening sun and the slight wind off the sea, he was equally sure that she knew more than he had supposed and that she would be willing to use it for her own ends.
Who had made Helena laugh so freely and given her the exquisite perfume bottle? Constantine wished he knew.
Four
ANNA WENT OUT OF HER WAY TO SPEAK TO NEIGHBORS, prepared to waste time in conversation about the weather, politics, religion, anything they wanted to discuss.
“Can’t stand here any longer,” one man said finally. It was Paulus, a local shopkeeper. “My feet are so sore I can hardly get them in my shoes.”
“Perhaps I can help?” Anna offered.
“Just let me sit down,” he said, grimacing.
“I’m a physician. Perhaps I can offer a more permanent solution.”
With his face reflecting disbelief, Paulus followed her, walking gingerly along the uneven stones until they covered the fifty yards to her house. Once inside, she examined his swollen feet and ankles. The flesh was red and obviously painful to the touch.
She filled a bowl full of cold water and put an astringent herb in it. Paulus winced as he put in his feet, then she saw his muscles slowly relax and the sense of ease come into his face. It was more the chill than anything else taking the burning out of his skin. What he really needed was to change his diet, but she knew she must be diplomatic about telling him so. She suggested he might care for rice, boiled with seasoning, and should abstain from all fruit, except apples, if he could find some that had been stored and were fit to eat at this time of year.
“And plenty of spring water,” she added. “It must be spring, not lake, river, well water, or rain.”
“Water?” he said with disbelief.
“Yes. The right water is very good for you. Come back any time you wish to, and I will bathe your feet in herbs again. Would you like some herbs to take with you?”
Paulus accepted them gratefully and paid from the purse he carried with him. She watched him hobble away and knew he would return.
Paulus recommended her to others. She continued to visit the shops within a mile or so of her house, always speaking to the shopkeeper and to other customers as the opportunity arose.
She did not know how far to indulge her own tastes. As a woman, she had loved the feel of silk next to her skin, the soft way it slid through her fingers and pooled on the floor as if it were liquid. Now she held up a length, letting it slither through her hands, watching the colors change as first the warp caught the light, then the weft. Blue turned to peacock and to green; red turned to magenta and purple. Her favorite was a peach burning into flame. In the past, she had worn silks to complement the tawny chestnut of her hair. Perhaps she could still wear them. Vanity was not specifically feminine, nor was the love of beauty.
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