Beta'd by Anbessette. Many thanks!

Chapter 5: Reasons To Live

Ignazio twists his hands together. The man looks nervous as a priest in a whorehouse. "I told you, Master Shylock, it was naught but a hasty word or two. He spoke it after much drinking, and I may have taken more offense than I should."

My servant has been giving me flat-out lies for ten minutes and I am ready to shove burning coals down his throat. "Ignazio, if thou wilt not tell me the truth, we may be forced to part ways. I will have no liars in my house."

"You cannot!" Ignazio looks horrified. This might actually work. "I have served you well—"

"Until thou stumbled home three days ago having started the destruction of half a tavern," I point out. Having dealt with the furious owner after the fiasco with Tubal's creditor, I know this is only somewhat exaggerated. "So do explain just why it was vital to cost me such a purse as I paid to keep thee from a court."

"I will repay you—"

"Thou couldst not for six months."

He halts, half-choking. "Six months?"

"Yes, thou blithering, idle, cross-eyed milksop, it was that bad. They continued their charming brawl after thou escape'st."

"I — I am sorry—"

"Ignazio." I pin him with a glare. "Explain."

"As you say." He stares at the floor. "Please do not tell Rosalba. It would frighten her."

Some of my anger drains away, concern replacing it. "What dost thou mean? Has she reason to be frightened?"

"The man I hit has called Rosalba a whore since I married her, and I have paid him no mind. But that evening he said he needed amusement, that I should loan him my wife for the night. They laughed, all of them, and said they should like to come along and take turns, whether or not she willed it."

"They—" I stop as memory floods me, of a debtor who had snarled the same threat to Leah as she bargained for cloth in the market. Memory of my longing to kick him in the skull or break his neck with my bare hands. And memory of instead gritting my teeth, despite my wife's terrified eyes, because I wore a yellow badge and he wore a cross.

Ignazio looks at me entreatingly. "You must understand. I had to hit him!"

"Thou did'st not have to do anything," I snap. I'm perfectly aware that I'm being unjust, that the old fury is not for him, but I care not. "Thou couldst have controlled thy temper."

"But Master Shylock, you had a wife once! Would you not have done the same for her?"

My stomach roils, but I try to control myself. "Be quiet."

"And you have a daughter. Surely if anyone had threatened her so—"

Jessica. My daughter, who I had always wanted to protect, and never could. Jessica, alone in a Christian's house. Her anxious voice echoes in my mind. Father, what would you do if a man came to beat me? "Ignazio. Shut thy mouth."

"Rosalba is my wife! I love her. You would do the same for anyone you cared for. Even Signor Antonio. If someone came to hurt him—"

Now 'tis Antonio's voice, and his agonized face. I spend my days up there unable to forget even a second of what that gang did to me. Rage swamps my thoughts, and distantly I recognize that if Ignazio says one more word, I'm probably going to hit him. "Get out. For thy own sake, get out now." Fortunately, he retains enough sense to flee. I drop into a chair, squeezing my eyes shut.

My custom is to save my curses for others, but at the moment I acknowledge I'm a fool. A mangled, pathetic, slug-witted fool whose brain is rusting away. Jessica, my daughter who ran away, and Antonio, my enemy who converted me. Two people I should hate, two people I have proclaimed in public to wish dead. And yet all Ignazio has to do is say a few words reminding me how they could be hurt, and I want to beat any attacker senseless and bloody.

When did my life stop making sense?

I'm up the stairs and pulling out the Shabbat candlesticks before I realize what's happening and how unreasonable it is. I care not for God. I have no company. I do not even have any challah.

Oddly, I find I care not.

"Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheinu, melech ha'olam, asher kid'shanu be'mitz'votav v'tzivanu l'had'lik neir shel Shabbat."

The candles flicker and glow, creating shadows on the walls. The light skims over the silver candlesticks and they gleam. Leah's candlesticks.

I always scorned those who talked to the dead. Best to resign yourself to the fact that they were gone. But had I allowed myself to grieve, I might not have driven the memories so far away. And with them the notion, so often declared by my wife, that I could be loved. And, just as important, that I could love others.

"Leah," I murmur without thinking. "I hope thou canst not see us. Look at me. They turned me into a monster — or perhaps I did that to myself. Now my daughter is gone, the last thing I had of thee. I would have broken thy heart." I pause, realize what I'm doing, and decide to continue anyway. Why not? There's no one here to call me mad.

"If thou canst see us, I hope thou laugh'st at Ignazio, beetle-witted fool though he is. For he loves his wife and daughter, in the way I would have wished to love Jessica and thee, had thou live'st. I wonder if thou watch'st Naomi and her children, whether thou art glad of thy friend's joy or are as jealous of her as I am of Tubal, for the life they share. If thou canst see us, thou know'st if Jessica is safe and happy, and how much I fear for her some days, now that I cannot protect her. Not that I was ever truly able to. Art thou as confused as I that Brother Rafaele does not seem to hate me? What wouldst thou say of..."

No. I'm not going to speak of my former nemesis to some imagined spirit of my dead wife. I look at the cup, which, were I to smash, no one would care or join with me. I think of the prayer, which I have not translated because no one has asked. I look at the table, which has no challah under the cover, because there is no one I am trying to persuade to eat.

"Leah, I should be delighted that he is not still in this house, plaguing me with his insults and his constant fear. I should rejoice over his absence. But I do not. I worry for him, if thou canst believe it." I laugh, and 'tis bitter. "Weakness, in truth. That's all worry is. Though I did not always think so, did I? No, because I admired thy kindness and thy delight, and wished I could be like thee. Thou made'st me human, in truth. What happened to all that?" Though I ask the question, I know the answer.

Grief for a beloved wife hurts. Fear for a daughter's safety hurts. Empathy for a stranger's pain hurts. I did not want to hurt, so I hated instead. Hate became my god. I was Shylock, the monster with the bond and the knife, not just in the eyes of the Christians but in my own eyes as well. And I liked it that way.

"That should be the final word, should it not?" I trace the pattern on the challah cover with a finger. "Close the book, end the story, the players take a bow, and Shylock the monster dies empty, still railing at the world from the hole he crawled into. But no. Fortune is a double-crossing whore and throws my nemesis on my doorstep. He makes me feel and I hate him for it, but at the same time—" I halt, realizing.

"Antonio is not my nemesis, is he, Leah? But nor is he my friend, or a man I picked up off the street. He's what thou and Jessica were. He's family." My mind is whirling, but I know what I say is true. "And thou — thou made'st me human. God help me. He makes me human." I groan and pinch the bridge of my nose. "I should have Ignazio drown me in the canal, for 'tis clear who's the bigger fool of the two of us."

"Master Shylock?"

I whip around to see Rosalba peering into the room. "Curse it, woman, why didst thou not knock?"

Rosalba shrinks back. "I did, twice. Please, I'm sorry—"

"Stop flinching," I say irritably. "Thou hast lived in this house four months, and yet every time I snap at thee, thou look'st ready to faint. Art thou not used to it yet?"

"I mean not to displease you."

"Obviously." I roll my eyes. "Thou hast not an insolent bone in thy body, from what I can see. I would never have suspected it of Ignazio, chatterer that he is."

"Do you think Ignazio will get rid of me?" Rosalba blurts out. "Because I am not like him?"

I stare, almost disturbed by how vulnerable she suddenly sounds. "I meant I never suspected Ignazio could court a woman without tripping over his own feet and knocking her into the gutter by accident. He will not get rid of thee; he is very lucky thou wert mad enough to marry him, and he knows it. Do not be such a fool; thou wouldst not die in any case."

"Perhaps not. But a Moorish woman with a fatherless girl child? 'Tis mere luck Teresa and I are not starving on the street." Rosalba stares at the floor. "Do you wonder that I fear my husband leaving me?"

No wonder she will meet no one's eyes, I realize. The life she has created for herself and her baby must feel incredibly precarious, built as it is on Ignazio's good will and a master's willingness to hire him while she is his wife. Why did I not think of that, when I know well how it feels to be dependent for everything on those more powerful than me?

Rosalba clamps a hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry. I did not mean..." Suddenly she tilts her head to one side, her gaze going off to my right, and comprehension dawns on her face. "Shabbat. You are celebrating Shabbat."

The candles. And the wine and the challah cover. Have I dropped deadly nightshade in my own cooking, that I was mad enough not to stop her at the door? "What wilt thou do?"

She looks bewildered. "What do you mean?"

"Art thou snail-brained? I know Ignazio has told thee my history. Wilt thou tell him of this, and both declare me to the city?"

Rosalba draws herself up indignantly. "And see you imprisoned for it? I think not."

I blink. "Why?"

"Because you do not strike my husband, or bed me against my will, or try to drown my child, or throw us into the street without a ducat," Rosalba says matter-of-factly. "I am not so snail-brained as to believe candles and pretty cloth and nonsensical prayers matter so very much."

"Oh." That was certainly not the response I expected. "Well. Then. Why didst thou come in? 'Tis not time for supper. Am I needed?"

"There is a priest here to see you — the one who married Ignazio and me. Brother Rafaele, is that his name?"

"What by every ship in Venice is he doing here?" The man is a positive menace.

"I know not. Ignazio asked, four times. But he would not say."

Perhaps Brother Rafaele will cut Ignazio's throat and I will not have to. Not that I have ever seen any sign of bloodlust in the priest. 'Tis part of what makes him so very annoying.

Though blowing out the Shabbat candles still seems sacrilegious, I have little choice but to do it anyway, and to follow Rosalba down the stairs. Ignazio is hovering around Brother Rafaele, bobbing up and down. "Did you bring a very large jar of honey for him? Is that why you are come?"

"I fear not," Brother Rafaele replies cheerfully. "Had I such a jar, I would be glad to share it, but sadly, I do not."

"Did you find a Bible verse on feeding songbirds? I pray, read it to him if you have. He would rather feed the pigeons."

"The Sermon on the Mount does speak of Our Lord feeding the birds of the air. But I am sure that includes pigeons as well as songbirds, so Signor Shylock is already doing his duty."

I'm counting how many steps it will take me to get to Ignazio so I can pull off his boots and shove them in his mouth, when he speaks again. "Is this about Signor Antonio?"

"How did'st thou know?"

Just having stepped off the last stair, I stop so suddenly Rosalba walks into me. "Pardon? You are here about Antonio?"

"Indeed I am, though how your servant knew it I am not sure."

"Mostly, I'm three-quarters a clodpole," Ignazio announces. Why does nothing I do ever frighten him properly? "Master Shylock says I always am, but he's wrong. On good days, I drop down to half. Today is one of those."

"To call your servant a clodpole is hardly Christian, Signor Shylock," Brother Rafaele scolds.

Ignazio reflects a moment. "Then every master I have served is a heretic. But leave that. Master Shylock is worried about Signor Antonio, and that makes me worried, because Master Shylock does not usually—"

I find my voice. "Ignazio, hold thy tongue or I shall lock thee in the cellar and force thee to chew on gravel!"

He waves me off. "If you cooked gravel, it would most likely taste better than normal food."

Brother Rafaele speaks before I can get another word out. "Ignazio is right. I'm concerned about Signor Antonio."

"I'm not surprised. He has less sense than a leaking gondola. But why should I care?"

"Well, perhaps because he cares about you."

"What are..." I splutter to a halt. "Where by the Duke's palace did you get that idea?"

"He told me this past Sunday." Brother Rafaele taps his fingers together. "When he came to me over a matter of faith. He seemed — as if he was being dragged one way and then another by his own mind. As if his thoughts were unruly horses he could not keep still."

"It matters not to me," I snap, trying not to show how disconcerted I am by the priest's words.

"I very much doubt that. But to tell truth, I was more alarmed when he told me he ate less than once a day."

I'm about to tell Brother Rafaele he can push his doubts into a muddy hole when his other sentence hits me. "Are you jesting? Less than once a..."

"So he said. Perhaps you can see why I'm—"

"That wayward, ungrateful son and heir to a pox-marked whore! After all the work he put me through, he's going to starve himself to death? Infectious idiot. Well, I will not let him. Ignazio, didst thou build up the fire for cooking?"

"Not yet."

"Good. I do not wish the trouble of dragging the fool back here. I'll just use his kitchen to cook." I grab my coat and turn around to meet three astonished faces. "Stop gaping. Ignazio, Rosalba, fetch Teresa and come with me."

My servants blink in unison, then move to do as I say. Once Rosalba has dashed back with her sleepy-looking daughter and they have both donned their coats, Brother Rafaele follows us out the door. "Should I—"

"No. You would reproach my every insult, and I have no desire for that." I spin around and set off for Antonio's house, Ignazio and Rosalba hurrying behind.

"Why do you need both of us?" Ignazio asks. "Would not one be enough to assist with cooking?"

"Rosalba will help me with cooking," I inform him. "Thou wilt keep Antonio from trying to kill us all."

"Oh. That makes sense."

I spend a good portion of the walk cursing Antonio very loudly for being a dullard. Next I curse his friends for not noticing his extreme dullness. Then I move on to his ancestors in case said dullness is hereditary. After this, I curse the food he has bought for not being attractive enough to make him eat it. I continue the string of foul words until I hear Ignazio giggling, and glare at him.

"Did you just curse Signor Antonio's shoes?"

To be frank, I had run out of other ideas. However, I'm not about to tell him this. "Rosalba, clean out thy husband's ears when we return."

We arrive at Antonio's house just as I finish my thorough damnation of him to the level of hell reserved for those who try and eat worm-filled meat and steal from beggars. I knock at the door, and after a minute or two the servant I saw the other night opens it. "Greetings, Signor. Shall I call Master Antonio to speak with you?"

"'Tis not necessary that he speak." I push past the surprised-looking servant and peer around. "Where is the kitchen?"

"The kitchen? 'Tis just through there. But why—"

"Ignazio, Rosalba, come." I stride through the doorway indicated and stare around with dismay and disgust. A layer of dust and ash, unwashed wine pitchers, what appears to be rancid grease. 'Tis plain no one has given this place a true cleaning in at least a week, probably more. "Art thou bat-brained, to cook in here? Dost thou favor weevils in thy food?"

"Master Antonio dislikes it when we cook in the house," the servant protests. "He gives me coin and tells me to pay the neighbors or go to the market. When I try to clean, he shouts at me to stop."

"Ignazio, look for wood so we can light a fire. Rosalba, find water and fill that bucket." I jerk open the nearest cupboard. Nothing. I yank at the door of the one beside it. Soap and some rags, but no food. The next reveals bread almost too stale for pigeons, a very bruised apple, and what might once have been cheese, but is no longer. "Prating wretch!" I stomp across the kitchen to continue my search.

The situation is not quite as hopeless as it at first appears. There's flour and it appears decent, as well as salt and oil. And — yes, some ginger. I'm on the verge of dragging it all out when I remember the dust and grease.

"I brought the water, Master Shylock." Rosalba has returned, with Teresa now riding in a sling and not one, but two full buckets. "Shall I wash these counters?"

"Yes. Get the soap from that cupboard, and give me a rag as well. Ignazio, where art thou?"

"Here!" 'Tis an irksome mystery how Ignazio manages to still skip while carrying such an enormous armful of wood. "I'll build up the fire. I hope they have some coals still burning at least. Oh, they do! I'm a lucky man."

"Thou say'st that nearly every day. Art thou so often lucky?" I turn in time to catch a brief grin on Rosalba's face as she speaks. 'Tis a startling change. I realize how sad she looks most of the time, and unexpectedly wonder if that is how other people think of me.

"Truly, I believe I am. Just yesterday I did not spill the wine when I tripped, and I saw a new kind of songbird, and I remembered I was married to thee. Is not that proof enough of my good fortune?"

"Ah." I snort and reach for the now-soapy water. "Perhaps this is some new definition of good fortune I knew not before."

"What in the name of the devil is going on here?" Antonio storms into the kitchen, pale with rage. I stare at him incredulously. The man looks like a skeleton, and his hands are visibly trembling. "Shylock, you evil-eyed gudgeon, how dare you barge into my house like this!"

I throw down the rag. "I dare because you are clearly starving yourself to death. When did you last eat?"

"When did I — what does it matter? I'll eat when I choose, and it will not be at your bidding! You make everything worse, you get inside my head even, but I will not be told what to do like some child!"

"Then why do you not act as a man?"

"Go away! I want you out!" Antonio sounds positively hysterical. Instead of amusing me it alarms me, and my stomach twists. "Do not speak to me, do not look at me, do not think of me! Ever! Just let me die!"

Let him die? I take a harsh breath, shocked by both the words and the depth of my reaction to them. How has he dropped so far? And why did I not see it? Despite everything, I had somehow assumed his mind would heal as his injuries did, but now I see 'tis the other way around, whatever a physician might say. The illness of his mind is sapping the life out of his body.

"Just — just let me die," Antonio mutters, avoiding my eyes.

"No."

"What?"

"No, I will not let you die," I snap. "And I do not think for a moment you truly want me to. If I believed everything you shouted at me, I would think I was a more hideous monster than Leviathan and you would be a corpse in the street."

"Give me one reason I should live, then!" Antonio yells. Rosalba winces and tries to sooth Teresa, who looks ready to cry from all the noise. "Give me one good reason."

"Do you want to help your attackers, then? Help those plague-ridden filth-eating rats who came to ruin your life? Just let them win?"

"They have already won!" Antonio laughs wildly. "Look at me. They have made me a wreck, or perhaps I even did that to myself. Who would miss me now, were I gone? Who would care a ducat?"

I grab Antonio's shoulders. "I would care, you ditch-born snipe!"

He goes still in my grip, eyes wide and shocked. "You?"

"And Ignazio, and Lorenzo and Jessica, and Brother Rafaele, and your friend I saw that night, whatever his name is." I take a breath. "And yes, I would as well. I cannot and will not act like your Christian friends, but I can see to it that you do not die of starvation." I release him and step back, to see Ignazio and Rosalba staring at me. "Stop gawking."

Rosalba immediately looks away, but Ignazio actually has the cheek to beam like a daft drunkard as he goes back to lighting the fire. I turn back to Antonio, who still looks as if a fence post had begun proclaiming scripture. "Call your servant and give him money so he can go buy eggs and butter. Mayhap cheese. Oh, and some parsley or sage. Your kitchen is an utter disgrace."

Luckily, Antonio seems too stunned to argue, and we send the puzzled man, apparently named Pietro, off to a nearby neighbor. By the time this is completed, Rosalba is already prying grease off the worst of the stone — that woman is truly a model servant. I grab two rags and wet them, then shove one into Antonio's hands. "Scrub that counter."

"What?"

"Scrub the counter. You are not going to wander around like a spoiled noble's brat while the rest of us clean your house."

"I'm not spoiled, you pernicious—"

"Prove it, then."

Antonio throws me a furious scowl and falls to work on the nearest counter. I start wiping dust and ash off another, my rag quickly turning almost black. When I'm finally finished, I glance over and sigh. Verily, Antonio's cleaning is so uneven that he's almost no use at all.

"Dip your rag in the water. You are merely spreading the dirt around now."

"I'm trying!" There's a desperation in his voice that seems disproportionate to the simple task he's attempting. "Can you not see I'm trying?"

Several insults spring automatically to my tongue. Then I take another look at his shaking hands and twisted face, and bite them all back. "I know you are trying, Antonio," I say instead, quietly. "Dip your rag in the water and wash off the dust. It will be easier that way."

Slowly, Antonio does as I say. I join him by the mostly-still-filthy counter, and in a few minutes we have it clean. Little thanks to him, but I suppose he does well enough for never having scrubbed anything. Not that I tell him so.

When Pietro returns, I set him to cutting ginger, which he does despite clear and understandable misgivings about all of us. Rosalba makes dough while I crack eggs and mix them with cheese and Antonio grinds herbs — one task which, I discovered when he stayed with me, he is truly good at. Ignazio minds the fire and Teresa, as letting him near any cooking process is the act of a lunatic.

And he talks enough for all the rest of us combined.

"Guess what happened to me two days ago on the way back from the market! You never will, so I'll tell you. I saw two ladies just outside a door, ladies with these velvet dresses and jeweled necklaces, and one of them was reading from a piece of paper. And what do you think? It was a love letter from a man who was not her husband, whom she had only met twice! And then the other lady took out a letter, and read it, and it was a love letter from the same man! Verily, it was the exact same letter, even, with only the names changed! When I left they were plotting revenge. They planned to make a great fool of him, and I warrant they will."

"I doubt it not," I mutter.

Once the dough is finished, we line a pan with it and add the eggs, cheese, and herbs. Rosalba takes Teresa back and I set the food to cook. A glance about the kitchen reveals little to drink, so I turn to Pietro, who is nearest. "Where dost thou keep the wine in this house?"

"'Tis in the room to the right of this one," Pietro replies. "Shall I fetch it for you?"

"No, thou canst not." Antonio is suddenly on his feet, with what I would swear is fear in his eyes. "Leave it be."

"We will be thirsty, you dolt." I walk out of the kitchen.

"Stop! Shylock, do not go in there!" I ignore him and stride into the room Pietro indicated. Only to stop dead, unable to believe what I'm seeing on the table.

Two silver candlesticks with candles half-melted, a full glass of wine, and a loaf of bread covered with embroidered cloth.

Antonio dashes in after me. "You cannot..." He sees my shock and drops into a chair, covering his face. "I did not want..."

I shut the door with a snap. "Shabbat. You of all men. Celebrating Shabbat."

He nods, defeat in every line of his body.

"But why?" Only silence, and he is trembling again. Still reeling, I pull another chair beside his and sit. "'Tis how Jews worship. And I who showed you this cannot claim to have a true place in any faith."

"It makes me feel safe." Antonio's voice breaks and he raises his head. And I see, to my disbelief, that he is weeping, a sight I never glimpsed in his months at my house. "I am always frightened, always. This house is like a prison, and yet I fear to leave it. Even God seems to have vanished. I'm lonely and I'm doubting and I'm so, so scared..." he trails off.

This is just cruel. Antonio needs friends now, people who can shine light, but instead he has me. Sardonic, vengeful, bitter Shylock, a man who wanted to torture him to death until eight months ago, and is now, if 'tis possible, more confused than he. A man who has not received any comfort or real love in years and therefore has little sense of how to give them. I cannot shine light. But his cheery, affectionate friends are not here, and I am.

Leah, help me.

"Would you like to learn the prayers?"

He stares. "The Shabbat prayers, you mean?"

"Well, I'm not going to teach you the ones we say to summon the devil and force him to our will. No doubt that is a great disappointment."

He actually laughs at that, infuriating bastard, and manages to wipe a few tears from his cheeks. "If the devil heard you calling, he would run away in terror." He pauses. "Yes. Yes, I want to learn the prayers."

Truly? It crosses my mind that this is possibly the most ironic situation I have ever found myself in. But if it helps... "All right. I'll teach you the prayer we say over the candles. Light them."

Face still wet, Antonio strikes a match and touches the flame to the candle wick. It springs to life as I try to wrap my head around this. I'm going to teach the man who converted me to Christianity to say Jewish prayers. It would be less crazed to try handstands on a rooftop while drunk. Shadows flicker on the walls as the second candle is lit. Antonio blows out the match and covers his eyes, and I follow suit.

"Repeat after me. Do the best you can. Baruch ata Adonai."

He repeats the words, slowly. "Baruch ata Adonai..."

I go on. "Eloheinu, melech ha'olam."

"Eloheinu, melech ha'olam..." His tongue is clumsy with the words, but it stuns me how hard he seems to be trying.

"Asher kid'shanu be'mitz'votav."

He stumbles over that one a few times. "Asher kid — kid'shanu — be'mitz — be'mitz'votav."

"V'tzivanu l'had'lik neir..."

"V'tzi — v'tzivanu l'had'lik neir..."

"Shel Shabbat," I finish.

"Shel Shabbat," Antonio echoes.

"You can stop covering your eyes now." I lower my own hands and watch him do the same. "I was merely hoping to fetch wine. One of us should inform the servants that no one's died in here."

Antonio snorts. "Ignazio probably thinks we are gathering flowers for the table."

I go to the door and open it a crack, just as Rosalba comes out of the kitchen. "Master Shylock? Are you—"

"Leave us," I order her. "If the food is cooked before we return, thou may'st begin."

"Oh. Thank you. Is there aught you need?"

"No. Do not let our supper burn. Thy husband can ruin a meal by his mere presence." I shut the door with a snap and return to my chair. "Starving yourself will not help, you know."

Antonio raises an eyebrow. "That's right. I sat down one day and decided to stop eating. It was absolutely a logical train of thought arriving at a flawless conclusion."

"You have been studying the art of sarcasm, I see."

"Well, you were an excellent teacher."

"My thanks," I say dryly. "So why?"

"I know not." Antonio sighs. "Vicenzo, my business partner, asked me the same question. So did Lorenzo. 'Tis humiliating to have no answer, but...I simply know not."

"What? Why have they not helped you, if they knew of this?"

"Not everyone is you, Shylock, by which I mean, not everyone is rude enough to barge into my house and cook in my kitchen when I specifically tell them not to." Antonio looks at the candles. "They tried to help. In their way. Tried to cheer me up. Lorenzo and I drank far too much wine one night, which just made me sick. Vicenzo told me that, as I'm not married, I might visit a whore, and I actually did it. Though not in the way he meant, as you are probably aware."

"You onion-stinking milksop." I glare. "That's dangerous. What if you had been caught?"

"Oh, I did not get nearly to the point of law-breaking." Antonio gives a twisted smile. "I followed him to his room, got through the door, and then turned around and ran out. Which was your fault, by the way. All I could hear was your voice in my ear calling me an idiot. Utterly impossible to manage the deed in that state."

"Why go that far, even? Did you truly think it would help?"

"No. But seeing as the only things that will make me feel better are impossible, why not distract myself?"

I shoot him a mutinous look. "Distract yourself in a manner that has less risk of getting you hanged for sodomy, you mewling numbskull. I worry about you enough as it is."

"Fine." Antonio folds his arms. "Then teach me to make challah."

Either his brain or mine must have snapped. "Challah."

"Yes. There's a kind of bread Jews bake, you see. 'Tis for Shabbat. Have you not heard of it? Because I had the distinct impression—"

"Oh, go fall in the canal and drown." I resolve to ask Brother Rafaele if sewing Antonio's mouth shut is a sin I must bother confessing. "I'll teach you to make challah. Just do not visit any more prostitutes."

What by Venice have I gotten myself into? Any loaf of challah we bake together will probably have either his blood or mine in the dough. But Antonio needs help. Inconceivable as it is, he needs my help. And if I am perfectly honest with myself...

I need his help as well.

Author's Note

The story Ignazio tells about the two ladies who get the same love letter and plot revenge is, as some may recognize, the premise of Merry Wives of Windsor. The two ladies do manage, naturally, to make a great fool out of their erstwhile suitor.

Reviews are highly appreciated!