Quiet Reparations

I have been getting up early in the mornings. It is a peaceful time. Today, it is raining, and the cool air and small drums of the droplets on the house have taken Juliet in, burrowing her under the blankets. She is defending her lair with the surprising strength of those not awake. For their own reasons, none of the others have arisen yet either, and I have the house to myself.

I have taken to eating breakfast on the landing of the great stair. We do not use those stairs, much. Marco keeps the stairs sparse, and there are no pictures on the walls. They are wide, and I feel out of place with my hand on the bannister, with too much room to my left as I climb. I am holding a small plate of cheese and fruit.

On the landing there is nothing but a small window and a tall chair. With the plate on the sill I can rub my arm, and it feels a little better. The chair is thin but strong, and has a low back. I do not know where it came from. It was not always there. I sit, putting my feet on the rung to perch. I can lean over and look out the window. I nibble on some cheese.

There is rain on the window, but only a little. The window is set deep in the wall, and frames the little formal garden that we never use. I cannot see the distance. Instead I watch leaves get heavy with water and drip it away, shaking with each release. The rain is not so hard to chase the squirrels home, but they are slowed by the wet, and move about the lawn with care. The light is soft, and I eat some grapes.

Marco comes down the stairs, softly. I have meant to thank him for this chair, but I have never done, and I stay quiet now.

He asks me, "is Juliet feeling more well?"

I tell him that I think so; she has been eating more, and has begun to disassemble things in her room again. He nods at that. He bends down to peer through the glass. I lean lower, too. Through the window, the garden falls away, and I see the sky, sliding over the distant hills of turning trees.

Marco has his little projects.

Some months ago, we received a long box in the post. I helped him carry it into the kitchen, and we laid it out on the table after some hasty shuffling of the pastry implements. The return address was from a hamlet on the coast, and I did not recognize the name of the sender. Marco stood in the kitchen for some time, considering the box, letting a soft grin spread across his face. We made short work of the ties with the utility knife, and spread open the cardboard and papers to see what he had been sent.

In the box were two planks. They had been scrubbed clean by the sea, and turned white by the sun. They smelled gently of salt. They were very smooth. Marco ran his fingers along their surface, and tapped the table gently with the utility knife.

"We," he said, "must go shopping."

We took the red one into the village, going slower than usual, although Marco still enjoyed himself. In town, he pushed a crumpled mass of bills into my shaking hand and sent me to the Apothecary to purchase little clay crucibles. For reasons I do not know, they came in cases of twenty-seven. They came packed in little nests of bright paper, held set by cleverly notched pieces of card. I bought two cases, and carried them carefully back to the car.

Marco had bought a mirror. It was full length, and leaned against the passenger door, showing us the sky. Marco had also bought wax, white wax, in little straw colored boxes that sported cows. The wax and the crucibles fit easily in the footwell. We pondered the length of the mirror and the lowness of the car.

"This," he said, "will never fit."

We dropped it on the pavement. It broke nicely.

With gentle care, Marco picked up each fist-sized piece and put them in a canvas bag he keeps behind the seat. He borrowed a broom and pan from the smith's, and I carried the frame to the post office and leaned it against the wall, adding it to the collection of things people had thought others might use. When I came back the pavement was clean again, and Marco was ready to go back.

Marco moved the planks to the shop. On one went the crucibles in no useful pattern, set down with weatherproof glue. To the other, he affixed the pieces of mirror, making haphazard mosaic and letting the leading of the wood show through between. He has been teaching me, a little, and I made a crude stand for him out of beech. It was notched to hold the first plank flat, steady and level, and the other plank behind and up, like a picture on the wall. I was proud that it was level. Marco was pleased.

Marco has called us to dinner.

Juliet and I are sitting at the small table in the back of the garden. It is a clear night, and cold, but we are dressed warmly and wrapped in blankets besides, and we both have large mugs of chocolate. There are slim logs burning merrily in the terra cotta oven-pot. Jacobo made mention that he would join us, but was not ready yet (Mr. Shen is at his own devices). Marco is in the kitchen, tending to things and grating cheese. It is quiet here, and I touch Juliet's hand across the table.

Behind us are the planks. The crucibles are clean and pure, and I know that they will change as life outside finds them, but I do not mind. Marco has filled them with wax and wick. Marco has lit them all. The air is very still, and the small flames only tremble a little as it drifts carefully by. The pieces of mirror behind catch the light and send it out around us, and the illumination is gentle, and warms us well.

Marco is bringing the pumpkin ravioli, and a bottle of wine.

It is time to eat.

Marco has taken us to a wedding.

The ceremony was held earlier at the warm end of the day. The church was made of heavy stone, and painted the day's light blue and purple between the leading of the windows. It looked a small place, but it held us all easily in comfort. It became cozy within, filled with candles, the thin stream of grey blue smoke from the censer, and people wishing well. The stout doors kept the cool air without, and left it to play on the steps with the leaves. The place focused us, giving slow and lovely weight to a ceremony which seemed, after, to take no time at all.

We are at the gathering after, now. It is being held on the grounds of the Castle Metle, on a wide and ranging lawn made comfortable and close with plantings and well placed screens. There is something roasting over fire over there, and another over here. Tables groan with fruits and breads and cheeses, and a gentleman in Friar's costume is deftly making highly alcoholic coffees for all who ask. The wind scents us with the aromatics of the nearby pines. The smells mean to overwhelm us. Torch light dances over everything.

There is a square of well-mortared paving stones in the center of the lawn for dancing. The stones are smooth, but the dancers are being careful not to trip, and fall laughingly into each other's arms when they do. The bride and groom are both very good, and have spent the evening taking turns leading each other. I am sitting at a table, hewn from wood. My chair is quite comfortable, and my fingers take heat from the coffee cup they cradle. Marco is standing nearby, with a drink; he looks relaxed.

Two men approach Marco; they are too carefully dressed to be part of the party. I can hear them clearly, but I try not to look like I notice them.

"Marco," one of them says. "You are a difficult man to find."

Marco shrugs at that. "My home is not hidden."

The other man laughs at that. "Perhaps," he says. "Perhaps you live on a road with no signpost. And perhaps your neighbors give poor directions." He has a drink, and he takes a sip.

The first one speaks again: "Well." He has a careful smile, but it is rough with use around the edges. "We have found you now. We would like to ask you some questions."

"Certainly," Marco says. He is swaying back and forth a little, letting the ice in his glass make small music. "Please, first: who are you?"

"Marco," the first one says, holding out his upward hands. "We are police."

I think Marco was ever sober, but he shows it now. His back becomes straight, and the glass stops. The second man is clumsily pulling identification from his pocket, but Marco pats his arm. "Come," Marco says. He leads them off into the shadows of the castle gardens.

Juliet is dancing with a tall and silent man. I cannot complain; I cannot dance. Juliet enjoys it. His light hair falls around his face against the dark of his jacket, and he steps with care, drawing both of them slowly back and forth across the stone. He is gentle, and his arms are strong. The air is cool, and Juliet winks to me.

She moves within them like liquid.