CHAPTER XXXV
Gloom had descended on the house, a melancholy wrought not by fashion but by real loss and grief. Gabriel refused to leave Ned's side, so Coby spent a lot of her time running up and down the stairs with jugs of hot water, or food for both patient and nurse. Meanwhile Mal sat bowed over a lute he had found somewhere in the embassy, playing the same few songs over and over, his face set like stone. Coby brought food for him too, but it sat ignored until, cold and congealed, it had to be taken back down to the kitchens, much to Jameson's disgust. Sandy just lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling in silence. After a few hours of this, Coby retreated to the relative congeniality of Berowne's parlour.
"An ill business altogether," Berowne muttered, leaning back in his chair and drawing on his pipe. "Though to fret so over the death of a foreigner… Doesn't seem right, if you ask me."
"No, sir."
Coby picked up a book lying on the table and began leafing through it, for want of anything better to do. It began as an interesting enough account of the travels of Marco Polo, but some of the pictures of fabulous beasts of the Orient reminded her far too much of the creatures they had fought outside Ca' Dario. She shuddered, and closed the book with a thud that caused Berowne to start.
"I suppose you will all be going back to England now," Berowne said, "what with the skrayling ambassador dead and the rest expelled from the city. Your master has done our country a great service."
"I suppose he has. Though at what cost?"
Berowne didn't seem to have heard, thankfully. She excused herself and went back up to the attic to see if Gabriel needed anything. Mal had put aside the lute and was staring at his hands as if they were a stranger's. Coby cleared her throat.
"I thought I'd go for a walk, to clear my head," she said. "If there's anything you need–"
Mal looked up. "I'll come with you."
She halted in the doorway, surprised but delighted at this evident improvement in his mood. They went down to the atrium in silence, and Mal opened the door to usher her out. Coby realised with a flush of pleasure that he was treating her like a woman despite her boy's garb. Still, she would have given anything to have the old Mal back. His present black humour tore at her heart.
As they crossed the little bridge heading towards San Toma, she ventured to break the silence.
"Sir Geoffrey is wondering when we will return to England."
"I dare say he is. We cannot outstay our welcome, and yet…" Mal sighed heavily. "For Sandy's sake, we cannot leave for a while yet."
She halted. "You think… Lord Kiiren…?"
Mal glanced around the street and lowered his voice.
"We have to allow that he may have been reborn, yes. And if so, we can hardly leave him here, to suffer the same fate as…"
The courtesan's name hung unspoken in the air.
"No, of course not," Coby said hurriedly, and walked on. "But how will you find him?"
"Sandy is looking, even now. But there are hundreds of women with child, and the trail gets fainter with every day that passes."
"What if he doesn't find him?"
"Then we must assume that he is dead in truth, and go home."
They walked on in silence for a while.
"It's not your fault," Coby said at last.
"No? If I had listened to your advice and not interfered, Kiiren would still be alive. Ned would still have his hand… " He shook his head. "Dear God, what is he to do? I have deprived my friend of his livelihood."
Coby had no answer to that.
"Do you suppose anyone else in Venice knows what really happened that night?" she said. "There must surely be rumours flying about the city by now."
"I don't doubt it. And none will contain more than a grain of truth, which is all to the good. I would rather not be suspected of causing trouble in Dorsoduro, would you?"
She grinned back at him. That was more like the old Mal. A moment later, however, his expression grew grave.
"There is something we needs must talk about," he said. "Something I have been meaning to say for a long time."
"Oh?" Her heart sank. This did not sound good.
He gestured to a nearby taverna. "It is not too early in the day for a drink, I reckon."
The taverna was empty of customers, though a delivery man sat talking to the landlord over a bowl of olives whilst his young assistant waited outside, ostensibly guarding the barrow but mostly flirting with any passing women. Mal ordered a flagon of wine and led Coby into the little courtyard out back. Strings of washing crisscrossed the sky above, and no doubt there were listeners up there, ears cocked for the latest gossip, but still it felt like they were alone.
"You are right," Mal said, filling two glasses. "I should have listened to you. I meddled where it was not needed, because I thought I was right, and because I wanted to gain Kiiren's approval."
He pushed one of the glasses towards her.
"However, there is no use crying over shed milk," he went on. "I must take responsibility for the outcome of my decision, as any commander must, as well as resolve to make better choices in future. And to do that, I need good advice. Your advice."
"You have it. Always."
"And shall make better use of it, I swear." He took a sip of his wine. "But I have need of your service in another capacity. If… If Sandy is right, we will have to take the child home with us. And I want to raise it as my own. My son and heir, if it be a boy."
"You are asking me to look after this child?" she said. "But I know nothing of infants. I helped my mother with Kees, true, but that was many years ago…"
"No. I'm not asking you to be a nursemaid. I can hire a woman for that. But… he will not be an ordinary child. And I fear he will not want to stay with us, once he remembers who he is."
"You think he will want to go back to the New World and be reborn as a skrayling?"
"I'm certain of it. And Sandy will want to go with him. I… I might never see them again."
Coby reached out her hand, and he took it, rubbing her knuckles with his thumb as if to assure himself of her solidity.
"But that won't be for years, surely?"
"I hope not," he whispered hoarsely.
They sat in silence for long moments, then Mal reached for his glass with his free hand and drained it in one go.
"The thing is…" He cleared his throat. "If he won't stay, I need a real heir, one born of my own flesh. And for that I need a wife."
He caught her gaze, held it. Realisation dawned, and she stared back at him, hardly able to believe what she was hearing.
"Jacomina Hendricksdochter, will you marry me?"
Coby nodded, her heart too full for words. Then the full implication of his offer struck her. To be a married woman, the respectable wife of a respectable gentleman, she would have to give everything up that she had worked for. Her life as Jacob Hendricks would be over.
"I know I ask a very great deal," he said, as if guessing her thoughts. "If you would rather seek your fortune elsewhere, then so can I." He looked more miserable than ever, if that were possible.
"No." The thought of him marrying someone else was too much to bear. "I accept your offer. On one condition."
"Anything."
The look on his face, of hope renewed beyond expectation, was so adorable, she almost burst into tears of laughter.
"I will be your faithful wife at home and in sight of our neighbours," she said carefully. "But if ever the Queen or Sir Francis Walsingham require your service, then I ask leave to become your servant Jacob for as long as you need me."
He laughed, and raised both her hands to his lips to kiss them.
"Agreed."
She got to her feet slowly and went round the other side of the table. For a moment she feared he would stop her, that he would remind her she was still dressed as a boy, but he only watched in silence. She sat down on the bench next to him, slipped her arm around his waist and pressed her forehead to his chin. His beard was scratchy on her skin, but she didn't mind as long as she could be this close to him. After a moment he took her in his arms and kissed her brow, her nose, her lips…
"You're not afraid someone will see us?" she murmured between kisses.
"This is Venice," he replied, "where even the women wear breeches."
She chuckled. "Perhaps we should stay, then."
Ned cursed as the nib splayed, spattering ink across the page.
"It's no good, I'll never get used to writing left-handed."
He threw the quill down and wiped his inky fingers on the rag as best he could. The stump of his right forearm ached, as if his missing hand had been clenched in frustration throughout the exercise. As well it might. He had known this was a stupid idea when Gabriel suggested it, but he hadn't the heart to refuse.
"Nonsense, it's my fault for cutting the nib poorly," Gabriel said. "You were doing very well with it."
He tried to kiss Ned's brow, but Ned pushed him away and got to his feet, pacing the attic room to ease his cramped muscles. The skraylings' potions had taken away the pain of surgery, but a week of lying drugged and immobile, and two more of being cooped up in this attic with nought to do but think, had left him both weak and restless.
"Much use I will be," he muttered. "A one-handed scrivener who can't even cut his own pens."
"Perhaps you could get work in a printer's shop," Gabriel replied. "I hear they need men with a keen eye to set the lettering."
Ned made a rude noise. "I'm too old for an apprenticeship. No, I shall have to rent out the house and hope that brings in enough to keep me."
"I shall earn enough to keep us both," Gabriel said cheerily. "Between my acting and what I can get for my plays–"
"You don't want to be bothered with an old cripple like me."
"No, I don't."
Ned turned to stare at his lover. Gabriel folded his arms and glowered. It made him look like one of the sterner archangels, barring sinners from the gates of Heaven.
"No?"
"Not if you're going to wallow in self-pity all day, I don't." Gabriel sighed. "You're alive, aren't you? That's more than can be said for some."
"Ah, but Kiiren's not really dead, is he?"
"You believe Sandy has found him, reborn as a Venetian child?"