The compassion in Cato’s voice soothed his irritation, althoughValens regarded the sudden helpfulness with suspicion. “What did you do?”
Cato leaned forward as if about to reveal a great secret. “I walked right up to her. Looked her straight in the eye... and kissed her breathless.”
“Cato.”
“Don’t argue until you’ve tried it.”
A knock sounded at the clinic door and Cato hopped off the table to answer it.
“What if she doesn’t feel the same way?”
Cato paused, his hand on the latch. “If you think that, then you really are stupid, and no one can help you.” He swung the door open. “There’s ink in the culina. Ask Phoebe for it.”
XLVII
IRIS TRIED TO FOCUSon the dough moving and stretching beneath her hands, the one constant in her world. Dough would rise and bake into bread. It always had and always would.
Her movements might have been precise and controlled, but she could not say the same for her mind. She’d sent a message to Titus asking how her pater fared and if there was any word on the auction, but no response had come. Perhaps the message hadn’t reached him. She tried not to worry. And failed.
The yeasty smell of bread filled the empty culina. Iris had jumped at the chance to help when she heard Martha directing Phoebe to bake bread for the widows’ food baskets. If Iris didn’t put her hands to use, she was going to go mad, confined to this house. Bread, at least, was something she knew, something she could control. When half of the loaves had been baked, Phoebe, Martha, and Delphine had gone to deliver the filled baskets, promising to return in a few hours for the rest. With Beatrix watching the children, Iris remained alone in the culina. Perhaps she should have specified that she’d never actually done thebaking.
The dough went tight and firm beneath her hands. With a wince, Iris plunked it onto the floured counter. Overkneaded. So much for control. It would bake into a brick. She imagined the diatribe Epimandos would have given, the mounting doom of an overkneadedloaf, which would end with eviction and death by starvation for them all. She smiled and almost missed him. Sweat beaded on her upper lip. She wiped it on her shoulder, noticing the front of her amaranth dress covered in flour. She’d discarded her palla long ago and tied her sleeves up to her shoulders but neglected an apron.
Outside in the courtyard, Bea cheered as the troop of children squealed and raced around the covered portico. Iris couldn’t help but smile. Delphine and Cato had stepped in seamlessly, ushering all six of the orphans under their wings. They seemed reticent to divide the children into different homes, and after what Valentine had told her, Iris understood the delight the couple found in them.
Iris pulled the wooden oven door open just a hint to see the bread.Perfectly golden brown,she’d heard Paulina utter with delight when Epimandos carried in baskets of fresh loaves. Was that golden brown? The inside of the oven was so dark she couldn’t tell. Iris shoved a lamp inside. Brown. Definitely brown. Setting the lamp aside, she used a wooden paddle to retrieve the bread, which emerged a solid nut brown with nothing golden about it. It clunked like pottery as she set it on the table to cool. Perfect. A black spot marred the side where she’d scorched it with the lamp.
Iris thought about the poor unlucky widow who would get this loaf. Hopefully she still had a good set of teeth and possibly a chisel. At least it wouldn’t spoil quickly. She replaced the oven door and turned back to the table of waiting dough lumps, jumping at the shadow in the doorway.
“You scared me!”
The look on Valentine’s face suggested that she’d been the one to startle him. He coughed and settled himself in the open doorway. Behind him, the children shrieked and raced through the courtyard in a tight pack. Bea cheered them on.
“Do you have the rest of the notes?” Iris pointed to his right. “Those baskets there are waiting.” She blew at a strand of hair dangling in her eyes, trying to ignore the way his appearance sent her stomach into a confusing tumble.
With a deep breath, Valentine stepped over the threshold as ifpreparing to do battle. “I ran out of ink.” He nudged the door closed with his foot.
Iris tried to ignore the sudden jitters that action sent through her and bent back over the counter, turning her focus on shaping the next loaves. “The ladies will be devastated. Delphine said it’s the second thing they all ask: ‘Where’s Valentine? Did he send a note?’ I must admit, I’m a little curious about what these notes entail. Makes me want one of my own.” She settled two loaves on the bread paddle.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He crossed the room, eyes shifting over the neatly ordered shelves, searching. “Everyone left to deliver baskets?”
“The first half of them.” She wiggled the loaves off the paddle and onto the bottom of the oven. “The bread and notes are the last things to go into the rest.”
“Makes sense, putting you in charge of the baking.” He moved closer, nudging aside jars and bottles on the shelves.
“I’m not sure how sensible it was.” She leaned the paddle against the wall and replaced the oven door. “My baking skills are better suited to brick kilns.”
He chuckled, moving beside her to peer at the shelves lining the wall above the oven.
She straightened. “This is when you say, ‘No, no, I’m sure it’s delicious.’”
He smiled in a way that said he hadn’t heard her. She frowned, and he flinched when she touched his arm.
“Is something wrong? Are you all right?” She stopped as he turned, his face suddenly inches from hers.
“I’m—” His eyes locked on hers. “Fine. I’m fine.” His voice dropped low and husky.
“Are you sure?” She rubbed a lock of hair from her cheek with her shoulder.
