Free Fruit of the Golden Vine by Sophia French

shaking hand, Silvana took the flask of milk. The cool liquid settled her stomach, and her head cleared. It was over, at least.
    Footsteps echoed in the corridor. She looked up as Rafael put his head through the door. “That girl just ran past me in tears,” he said. “What did you do? Tell her she was ugly?”
    “Don’t talk about it.” Silvana lifted a slice of honeyed bread. “Hungry?”
    “I’ve already eaten. Hell, I’ve already dressed.” He gestured to his outfit, a tightly-buttoned jacket, patterned trousers, polished boots and a feathered hat tilted at an absurd angle. “I suppose I’ll try to cheer up the poor creature while we’re in town. Tell her a few funny stories.”
    “If you like. I don’t care.”
    “Well!” Rafael whistled. “You certainly put the steel back into your spine.”
    “She’s just another woman in my wake, Rafael.” Silvana drained the last of the milk straight from the flask. “Now we won’t have to worry about any trouble with her father.”
    “Not on that front, anyway. Well. Good.” Rafael frowned. “Silvana, this doesn’t sit right with me. You were so dewy-eyed when you spoke of her last night. You’re not acting, are you?”
    “Why would you think that?”
    “Well, you’re not ordinarily so hard-hearted. It’s almost as if you’re trying to convince yourself.”
    “I’m only angry at myself for being so witless. Now will you leave me to dress and bathe in peace?”
    Rafael raised his hands. “Fine, fine! I’ll see you this afternoon when we return. There’s to be a musical recital this evening. Don’t look too excited.” He grinned and shut the door.
    Silvana sat for some time, chewing on a scone and considering the morning sky beyond the window. Thoughts and feelings moved treacherously within her, but she ignored them. She’d forget Adelina eventually—forget the way she’d reached for that goblet, forget the rush of emotion that had stopped Silvana as she lay with Nerine. Forget it all. The way she’d forgotten the names of her kittens. Even the one that had fought so hard to live.
    Silvana took the final scone and hesitated. A folded piece of paper lay beneath it. She frowned, set the scone aside, unfolded the paper and held it to the light. It was a note, pleasantly perfumed and written in a careful hand.
    A life of loveless solitude is destined as my role,
    “ From birth to death in servitude” is graven on my soul.
    Yet still I hope with every breath for fate to be unwound,
    My destiny to know redress, that love be in me bound.
    Oh, be the mercy I have sought, and save my dreams from dust!
    Your beauty stills my every thought, your touch inflames my lust.
    I yearn for you, with thoughts impure, I cannot but confess,
    And against all I shall endure, in hope of your caress.
     
    I love you; be mine. Adelina.
    Nobody had ever written a poem for her before.
    Silvana lowered the page and raised a hand to her cheek. The skin burned beneath her touch. How could that be? She never blushed, not since she’d had her first woman, all those years ago. She traced the lines with a fingertip—her finger trembled, why did it tremble?—and she whispered the words as a mist fell over her eyes.

Chapter Seven
    Adelina huddled in the back of the coach and willed the world to burn. Infuriatingly, it continued to thrive with its usual blissful idiocy. The town passed by the coach windows, a sunlit confusion of stupid people and ugly buildings. But moronic as they all were, nobody topped Adelina herself for sheer slackjawed stupidity. She was the unquestioned queen of the idiots, a stupid child who’d put her heart on a page and left it for a callous bitch to laugh at.
    “Oh, Ada,” said Irena. “Must you look so surly on such a beautiful day?”
    “I think you might be getting the pox. You’ve hideous spots all over your face.”
    Irena shrieked and pawed at her face. Rafael laughed. “Your sister is teasing you, my dear,” he said. “Your face