Page 37 of Of Love and Treason
Iris reached back and felt for the chair, carefully lowering herself into it as Beatrix settled across from her.
“Now.” Beatrix heaved a contented sigh. “How do you know my nephew?”
“I met him in the market and then he came into Paulina’s.”
“I love meeting Val’s friends. I fear he doesn’t make enough friends his own age, but you must be much younger—how old are you, dear?”
Iris’s cheeks warmed. One and twenty wasn’t what anyone wouldcallyoung. She answered and Beatrix gushed on, barely stopping for breath. “Valens is two and thirty. You’re not that far apart in age; how wonderful.”
Whatever Beatrix had interpreted, Iris certainly hadn’t gone so far as to compare her and Valentine’s age compatibility. She was interested in hisgod. Anxiety prickled her stomach. What if she told Beatrix about the flashes of sight and she didn’t believe her? What if she laughed and thought Iris addled in the head?
“I...” The word came out on the back of a long exhale. Her mind ran. “I don’t even know where to begin.” Iris carefully laid her walking stick on the ground at her feet. “Valentine told me the Christian god was calling me. That he could restore my sight.”
“Ah.” Beatrix elongated the word with understanding. “You’re the jailor’s daughter, aren’t you?”
Iris’s hopes sank as she nodded. Beatrix would never answer her questions now.
“How long have you been blind? Don’t mind me, I’ll just fix our calda.”
“Seven years.”
Cups clicked as Bea set them down. “You would have been, what, fourteen? That must have been very difficult.”
“Yes.” It had been difficult. And terrifying, depressing, lonely, achingly sad. And once she’d spiraled to the bottom of that pit, the climb out was long and slow. Some days she still felt herself sliding back in. “But anymore I’ve grown used to it—thank you.” Iris took the warm cup Bea nudged against her knuckles. The sharp scent of peppermint rose on the steam. “I think it bothers other people more. My pater and Titus, they—I can tell they pity me, and I wish they wouldn’t.”
Beatrix let her talk, encouraging her, asking questions here and there in a kind voice. Iris talked on and on, sipping the calda and beginning to feel safe and comfortable and... and strangely enough, loved. By a stranger. When her stomach rumbled loudly, she gasped.
“What time is it? How long have I been here, rambling?”
“It’s near dinnertime, I suppose.” Beatrix’s chair creaked. “Willyou eat with me? I’m afraid I’ve asked you too many questions and you haven’t asked me any.”
Iris shook her head. “Pater will wonder after me, and I’ve imposed on you long enough.”
“Nonsense. It’s been an utter pleasure getting to know you. You’re such a sweet thing.”
Iris bit her lip; if she didn’t ask now, she might never get the nerve again. “Do you believe in the Christian god?”
“I do.” Beatrix’s voice went low and serious. “His name is Jesus.”
“Jesus.” A shiver ran down her spine as Iris repeated the name. “Valentine said he could restore my sight.”
“Yes, He can.” Beatrix’s tone implied there was abut. Iris waited for her to continue.
“Hecan, but that does not always mean Hewill.”
Iris’s shoulders sank. “Then he is not so different from all the other gods.” She fought irritating tears of disappointment into the back of her throat. “They allcan, but they don’t.”
“No,” Beatrix said even more softly. “They don’t because they can’t.”
“And yours can but doesn’t. How is that different?”
“It is vastly different.” Beatrix’s cup clinked against a table. “And difficult to understand.”
“Valentine told me this—thisJesusgod could heal me. That he called to me. Why is he calling me? What does he want?”
“Ah.” Beatrix’s chair creaked as if she settled herself deeper into it. “Nowthatis a question Icananswer.”
Iris waited.
