Free The Sweet Girl by Annabel Lyon Page B

nothing.”
    I go quickly to Daddy, slipping my hand in his.
    “I was just explaining about the farm,” he says. “Richest land in the world. I plan to take a much larger role in the running of it, now we’re living here. I have some theories I intend to implement.”
    “Quite so,” Plios says, loudly, patting his shoulder like he’s stupid and deaf. “May I tempt you with a quince cake, little one?”
    Before I can do anything to spare Daddy, the magistrate has led me away to a low table of food surrounded by rich-fabricked couches. “So much food.” He shakes his head, gives me a plate, and takes one for himself. “You’ll help me make a dent in it, won’t you?”
    I’m not used to eating in front of strangers. I take a few almonds, a few grapes. I expect Plios to make some joke, but he watches me gravely. I can see he’s deciding something.
    I wonder what grown women say to grown men. “Your house is beautiful.” This sounds about right.
    “It’s yours,” he says. “Open to you anytime, I mean. Is the villa terribly small, compared to what you had before? Are you comfortable there? I can send over whatever you need: servants, furniture. Say the word.”
    I thank him, tell him we’re fine.
    “Eat,” he says. “I’ve embarrassed you. Eat your grapes. We help each other here, you’ll see.”
    “Here you are.” My father takes a couch and pats the spot next to him, bringing me close. I make a plate for him and he eats hungrily, cheese crumbling down his front, lips glistening with the oil he dipped his bread in. I catch his eye and touch my lips casually. He looks for a napkin.
    Euphranor, the young officer, takes the couch next to ours. “I’ve been thinking about your farm.” He pours a cup of wine and pushes it towards Daddy, across the low, food-laden table. “I could take you out there, if you like. You and your family. We could make a day of it, take a picnic. I have a small property close to where you describe. I wouldn’t mind popping my head in on the way. In fact, I think we might evenbe neighbours. I’m terribly interested in the theories you plan to implement. Animal husbandry, is it? Crop rotation? Fertilizers?” I have to squeeze my lips together despite myself to contain a smile.
    Then they’re pouring the wine unwatered, and my eyes are closing, and the music is faster and louder, and it’s time to go. I am pressed to chest after chest, and offers of help, anything we might need, are repeated in my ear. My great daddy is puffed up with wine and food and respect, and doesn’t notice the crisscross web of curious glances that weave around his head. Tycho, waiting at a distance to escort us, is holding an enormous basket.

    “So?” Herpyllis says. She must have heard our footsteps coming up the path, and is waiting in the doorway for us.
    We follow Tycho to the kitchen, where he sets the basket on the table. Herpyllis unpacks eggs, cheese, cake, wine, cold pies, fruit. Daddy grunts, kisses her and then me, and wanders off—to bed, or to work. To his solitude, anyway. Herpyllis sorts grimly through the food, finally slamming a crock of soft cheese on the table and breathing deeply through her nose. “Charity,” she says. Her kohled eyes are bright with hatred. She looks beautiful.
    “I want to get this off.” I wriggle inside my dress.
    She follows me to the butterfly room and helps me with the unpinning, unwinding, unbinding, releasing of hair, washing of face, unlacing of tight sandals designed to emphasize the tininess of my not-so-tiny feet.
    “Are you going to tell me about it?” she says finally.
    So I tell her about the food, the music, the perfume, the people we met, the quality. I don’t patronize her by pretending I didn’t enjoy it. She listens, and asks the occasional question. I see her struggling not to sneer or criticize.
    “There was an officer named Euphranor. He offered to escort us to the farm, on a picnic.”
    She flinches slightly and looks at