Summer, 1459
Rhodes Town
A door slammed. The quick slap of sandals on stone echoed in the corridor.
The servants and slaves walked so silently they often appeared in a room without warning, like puffs of smoke. As for Anica’s parents, they both moved through the world with calm, measured steps.
But not her sister.
“Anica!”
Heleni flung open the door, Maria close on her heels. The two of them were about the same age, but Maria looked much older than Heleni. In her sixteen or so years on the earth, she had experienced enough heartbreak for a lifetime—and the furrow of worry between her brows was already deep. Heleni, in contrast, was coming into the bloom of womanhood like a flagrantly scented scarlet rose. Her full lips and enormous brown eyes turned heads whenever she left the house, and to their parents’ dismay, she loved the attention.
“A merchant fleet is approaching Rhodes,” Heleni reported breathlessly. “Along with Hospitaller ships from France.”
Anica turned to the slave with a questioning look.
“It’s true.” Maria drew two eggs from a pouch and laid them on the table. “I heard the news in the lane from the soap man.”
Anica nodded her thanks for the eggs. “And you had to tell my sister because . . . ?”
Maria shrugged. “She asks so many questions. I can’t lie to the girl, can I?”
“Everyone’s going to the harbor in the morning to watch the crews unload their cargo.” Heleni turned to Papa with a pleading look. “Can’t we go, too?”
“Your mother—” he began, then trailed off, looking thoughtful.
“It would be good for her to get out of the house,” Anica said. “A distraction could raise her spirits.”
He nodded slowly. “You’re right. Perhaps I can talk her into it.”
“Help me sand some panels while Papa speaks with Mamá,” Anica said to Heleni.
Heleni stayed where she was. “I hate such work.”
Her sullen tone was nothing new, but for some reason it grated on Anica more than usual.
“Do you like this house, Heleni?” Papa asked, his voice flaring with irritation. “Do you like to eat? Do you want fine silks, pearls, and silver plate in your dowry chest?”
She glowered at him in silence.
He gestured at the easel, the pots of pigment, the brushes lined up on a rectangle of canvas. “The gold earned in this studio makes your comfortable life possible. It’s your duty to help. In fact, we won’t go to the harbor unless you sand the panels Anica prepared.”
Without another word, Papa stalked from the room.
Anica went to the table where the pine panels lay. In silence, she handed one to her sister.
Snatching up a square of parchment coated with a fine layer of crushed seashells, Heleni set to work with a heavy hand, making deep slashes in the gesso.
“Gentle!” Anica warned. “You’ll go all the way down to the grain.”
“Who cares?” Heleni flung a dark glance at her.
“I do. Papa does. Mamá does. Your attention to the smallest details is important.”
Heleni rolled her eyes. Anica tried to steady her breath. Later, she would have to go over Heleni’s work and correct any mistakes.
Her father’s reputation—indeed, their entire family’s—depended on it.
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