A breath escaped, and Emilia realized that she had barely breathed while she was staring into Iago's rage-contorted face. Had the calmness of her words truly saved her from the anger of her husband? If so, then here was a goodly weapon to be added to the wifely artillery. She was surprised that her attempt to calm him had worked so well, but at the same time, it made sense: both husband and wife had an inclination toward choleric humors, and for choler to meet choler and gall to meet gall-it was naught but a brewing storm. If she simply showed him that she had no desire to argue, then his, too, would melt away for lack of an adversary...
"Wait, Iago!" Emilia cried as the door closed, leaving her alone within their chambers. Where was he going? She could not let him roam about in this condition…! Her mind's eye, frenzied by fantasy in her frantic state, saw a vision of her husband throwing himself into the Cypriot sea. Know you what it is, to have all you have worked for, all you have known, torn away from you in one fell swoop? Ay, ay, she would-if she ever lost him, then she would know, and how dearly she would mourn the knowing…!
"Iago! Husband…!" She snatched up her shawl and threw it about her shoulders in a hasty attempt at decency before throwing open the door and looking desperately down both halls, a small wave of relief flooding through her as she finally spied him.
"Iago, I will not follow you, but please, please, tell me where you are going and when I might expect you back!" she cried, forgetting to mind the fact that she was within door. She leaned forward against the doorframe for support, clamping her fingers about the wood and stone as she strained to see him in the torchlight, each of her eyes as wide as that full moon in the night sky.
You are a fool, Emila scolded herself, repulsed by the neediness in her voice. Iago is too ambitious. He would never take his own life. She had seen her husband knocked down a thousand times, and each time his insult had only inspired him, if dangerously, to pursue his goals with even more fervor. Surely this time could be no different. But suppose that this was the thousand and first time he had been knocked down, but the first time he did not pick himself back up? If the thought was unlikely, never mind that-she was still worried by it.