The Born Queen - J. Gregory Keyes [24]
My Cazio? Why had she phrased it like that?
“Nevertheless,” the Sefry said, “I shouldn’t have left you with only one guard. But the inside of the monastery is secure now.”
“Good,” Anne replied. “We’ll go there, then. And I think I’d like to dine.”
“It’s nearly that hour,” the Sefry said. “I’ll have something fetched.”
By the next bell Cazio was sitting with Anne in a small room on the west side of the building. St. Abulo was driving the sun down the Hesper sky, but he still had a few bells to go this long summer day.
“I’ll miss this,” Anne sighed, gazing out the window and sipping her wine.
“Miss what?”
“These outings.”
“Outings? You mean our fights with the Church?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Just sitting on the throne is dull, and the details of war—well, the generals don’t really need me to work those out. This feels real to me, Cazio. I can see the faces of those we rescue.”
Cazio sniffed his wine, then raised it up.
“Az da Vereo,” he toasted.
“Yes,” Anne agreed. “To the real.”
They drank.
“This is Vitellian,” he murmured. “From the Tero Vaillamo region if I’m not very wrong.”
Anne tilted her head. “Why does it matter? Wine is wine, isn’t it?”
For a moment Cazio had no idea what to say. He’d known Anne for almost a year and been almost constantly at her side during that time. He’d formed a pretty good opinion of her and had certainly never suspected she was capable of what could even charitably only be called a moronic statement.
“I, ah, you’re kidding with me,” he finally managed.
“Well, there’s red and white, I suppose,” she went on. “But really, beyond that I’ve never been able to tell the difference.”
Cazio blinked, then held up his cup. “You can’t tell the difference between this and the frog blood we drank at that inn on the way here? You really can’t?”
She shrugged and took a large swallow, then looked thoughtful.
“No,” she said. “I like this, but I liked the ‘frog blood,’ too.”
“It must be like being blind or deaf,” Cazio said. “I…it’s really absurd.”
She pointed the index finger of the hand holding the glass at him. “That’s just the sort of comment some queens might have your head struck off for,” she said.
“Yes, well, I’d rather have it struck off if I couldn’t discern Dacrumi da Pachio from Piss-of-the-Cat.”
“But you can,” Anne said, “or say you can, so best start walking backward now.”
“My apologies,” Cazio said. “It’s just that this wine—” He tasted it again and dropped his eyelids. “Close your eyes,” he said, “and taste it again.”
He heard Anne sigh.
“It’s five, maybe six years ago,” he began. “The hills in the Tero Vaillamo are purple with the blooms of wild oregano and lavender; the juniper trees are swaying in a slight breeze. It’s hot, and it hasn’t rained in a month. The vines are heavy with little purple grapes so ripe that some have already begun to ferment. The familia is picking them, old men, young men, girls and boys, handling each grape like a little jewel, fruit from the same stock their grandparents and great-grandparents picked two hundred years ago and more. They put the grapes in a big vat, and as the afternoon cools, they feast on roast pork, they open last year’s wine, and there’s music while they smash the grapes with apple-wood pestles. They ferment it carefully, the way they’ve done it for centuries. They take their time, and the method never leaves the family. They let it ripen in a cellar, not too cool, not too hot. Perfect.” He took another sip. “Taste. The oregano, the lavender, the juniper. The smoke is their cooking fire, where they roasted the boar for the vatting feast. The art, the care…”
He suddenly felt breath on his lips.
“Hush,” Anne said as she kissed him.
She smelled like the wine and apricot and fresh green apple. Her tongue searched against his, and his whole body flashed hot. He fumbled his wine down and stood, reaching for her head, cupping behind her ears, and drawing her up against him. She laughed and pressed close.
Cazio took a breath—and lifted his head.
“Wait,” he said. “What—what?”
“I had to shut you up,” she said, reaching