“All about Daniela?” he asked.
“Yes. That she has a feel for the cloth. It speaks to her. She said you know all about it,” Zuzana replied.
Dani winced but didn’t raise her eyes from her work. She wouldn’t give Zuzana the satisfaction. The old woman was a bit of a troublemaker. She forgot nothing, she forgave nothing, and she missed nothing.
“Our father, Daniel Kos, had the same sense,” Lenka said, shooting a warning look at Zuzana. “But Papa wasn’t as good at the stories as Daniela. And our sister, Vera, knew what the cloth could be, how to use it to its full potential. A suit or a sail, she had an eye.”
“You must demonstrate for our boarder, Daniela,” Zuzana said. “He’ll think we’re telling tales.”
“I cannot demonstrate the intangible,” Dani mumbled. “And often it isn’t remotely interesting.”
In the flickering light, the shadows beneath Malone’s eyes and the hollows of his cheeks were even more pronounced, and he regarded Dani in silence, his shoulder propped against the mantel, the poker gripped in his right hand.
“There are no stories in me tonight,” she said. It was a lie. The skirt she was holding was ripe with a tantalizing tale. It belonged to a woman who was pregnant, and she wasn’t sure the child was her husband’s.
Zuzana harrumphed, not buying Daniela’s protestations. Unless the fabric was new—and often not even then—there was something hiding in the weave. Family drama, secrets, guilt, love, and loss. There was always something, and though Dani was careful with confidences, she was liberal with her storytelling. Not tonight. Zuzana could sulk all she liked; Dani would not be the carnival barker with Malone watching.
“Tell me about your family,” Malone said softly, making the request to no one in particular. “What is your story? The story of the Kos family? That I would like to hear.”
Lenka, with no work in her lap and none of Dani’s reticence or Zuzana’s mistrust, responded eagerly to Malone’s request. She regaled him with the exodus of the Kos family from Bohemia—Daniel, Eliska, and his three daughters. Pavel was born in America, and she glossed over his story, as was often the case with poor Pavel.
“Our grandfather, Daniel’s father, was a clothier too. His name was Kristof Kos. He made clothes for Franz Joseph the First.”
“Ahh. Yes. The emperor. I remember that part,” Malone said.
Dani raised startled eyes from the hole she was mending. Malone regarded her with a small smile.
“He was the emperor of Austria and the king of Bohemia, Hungary, and Croatia,” Zuzana retorted. “We have always moved among royalty. And what of your family, Mr. Malone?”
“They were farmers. No emperors in Ireland. Just Catholics and Protestants and the occasional English lord, though there are far fewer of those now, I’m guessing.”
“And which are you? Catholic or Protestant?” Lenka asked.
“I was raised Catholic,” Malone said.
“And do you still practice?” Lenka pressed.
“I suppose I do.”
“Thank goodness for small mercies,” Zuzana sniffed.
“We are—or were—a house divided between the Catholics and the freethinkers,” Dani interjected, trying to move them from the sensitive subject.
“I can’t be both?” Malone asked.
“No.” Zuzana snorted. “You cannot. You clearly do not know Bohemian politics.”
“No. But my parents were Irish. I understand familial divides well enough.”
“Tell us more about your parents,” Dani pleaded, dancing away from the topic before Zuzana gave Malone a very hostile primer.
“My father was from Belfast. My mother from Dublin. They came to America on the same ship when they were still in their teens. My father’s accent was so thick you could hardly understand him. It never faded either.”
“And your mother?” Dani asked. “Did she have an accent too?”
“The accents in Ireland vary, depending on where you’re at. Dublin and Belfast aren’t even one hundred miles apart, but the accents are distinct. Belfast sounds like Scotland. Dublin, more like England.”
“I don’t know about that. All Irishmen sound the same to me,” Zuzana said.
Malone repeated what she’d said, his impersonation of her accent exact, his look sardonic. He even spoke with the same expressionless face, the barely moving mouth, and the sound at the back of his throat.
Zuzana gaped at him, her pale jowls quivering with outrage. “Do you think you are comical, Mr. Malone?”
“No, ma’am. I was just demonstrating my skill,” he responded, dropping the eastern European accent, though he kept his gaze lifted to hers. “Accents are a hobby of mine.” Dani guessed he’d grown weary of her gibes.
“He sounded just like you, Zuzana,” Lenka snickered, waving her handkerchief in the air like she was surrendering. “Do it again, Mr. Malone.”
“I’m going to bed,” Zuzana said, pushing herself to her feet. She reached for her cane, her chin high and her nostrils flared.
“Good night, Tetka,” Dani said.
“Good night, Miss Kos,” Malone echoed.
“Good night, Zuzana dear,” Lenka said cheerfully, but as soon as Zuzana had exited the room, she rose and made to depart as well. As she walked past Dani, she laid a hand on her bowed head.
“I’m going too, Daniela. Don’t wear out your eyes, now. The work will keep until tomorrow.” Lenka looked over at Malone and winked, as if the two of them had a secret. “Good night, Mr. Malone,” she simpered.
“Good night, Miss Kos.”
“Oh, please call me Lenka,” she said, conspiratorial. “I am not a girl anymore.”
“Good night, Lenka,” he said dutifully.
He shifted, as if he too should leave, but he remained in front of the fire, his hands in his pockets, his expression thoughtful. Dani laid her mending aside and exhaled. It came out with more feeling than she’d planned, and Malone raised his eyes to hers.