“I would hope you’d prioritize his willingness to love and care for you,” her grandmother said with disapproval, as if her own marriage nearly fifty years prior hadn’t been calculated to raise her family’s communal status in exchange for a decent dowry and an uncommonly pretty face. Her fondness of Isabelle’s grandfather had been a happy accident. Until he succumbed to age, leaving sorrow and a deep longing that her grandmother thought Isabelle didn’t notice.
The older woman smoothed the edges of her own yellowed prayer book with her long, slender fingers.
Isabelle gave her best emulation of her grandmother’s vague, noncommittal tut to stave off the brewing argument. She would have a traditional marriage—two strong families pooling their resources and influence, with a common vision for the best future. A union that would enhance her abilities to achieve her goals, instead of subjecting herself and her family to the unnecessary risk of ephemeral emotion.
The ridge of her thick bracelet dug into Isabelle’s fingers as she clasped her wrist, trying to calm herself. She would succeed. Her future husband and his family would be in agreement, and her grandmother would acquiesce, despite her recent uncharacteristic sentimentality.
All too soon, the prayers concluded—unfortunately for her, with the Ashkenazi-favored “Yigdal” and not the rousing “Adon Olam” to which she was accustomed—so when she faced the crowd, she forced the most dazzling expression she could muster as she followed her grandmother through the throng of women, murmuring polite greetings. They spiraled downward, a heavy cloud of perfumes, florals and fruits and powders mixing and latching onto every pore in a nauseating crush. Isabelle clutched the rail in an effort not to swoon and crash into the hundreds of well-dressed ladies.
At the bottom, just outside the main sanctuary, her grandmother placed a hand on her puffed sleeve. “Are you all right?” she whispered.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Isabelle asked to avoid a lie. Her skin itched beneath her collar as nerves swirled. Why was it so hard to breathe in such close quarters? “It’s just, I want to leave a little mystery for the festivals, build the anticipation.”
Always the worrier, her grandmother examined her face, searching for any sign she was upset and not merely tired.
“You’re just like your father, always so dramatic,” she said, seemingly satisfied. She pointed over Isabelle’s shoulder. “Stay over there until the majority leaves. I’ll do the greetings and hint at what’s to come—add some ‘anticipation,’ as you call it.”
Isabelle backed away to the outer wall, leaning beneath yet another set of impossibly high arched windows. As the sun trickled in through the glass, the crowd thinned until quite suddenly—she was alone in the stone corridor.
Well, almost alone.
A small wooden door to the side of the sanctuary creaked open. Out stumbled a dark-haired man wearing no coat or vest, merely a dusty shirt and trousers, with a group of small children following in his wake. They hurried past, near enough that the flannel beneath her skirt rustled but oblivious to her position between the massive columns.
The man paused in a nearby alcove, reaching into his pockets. Out came—she twisted to get a better view—lemon drops, deposited into tiny outstretched hands. Mercy, she could use something to settle her stomach. Pity she was no longer a child.
With his head bent, she could view only the stranger’s profile—soft, thick wavy hair; full lips; a firm, sculpted jaw; and a coarse stubble of hair dotting his cheeks and chin that somehow made him more, not less, attractive. He was young too. Most likely around her own age.
Though clearly without her heavy responsibilities.
“Tell us more of the story,” the smallest of the boys demanded in a soft but insistent voice, the early-afternoon sun setting his face aglow.
“I have work.” The man ruffled the child’s hair around his yarmulke. “And you have parents to mind, who will not take kindly to finding you here.”
Why not?Isabelle wondered. They were in a synagogue, for goodness’ sake. Isabelle craned her neck to get a better view.
“Please.” Another child tugged on his rumpled trouser leg. “Just a bit.”
The man glanced at a tatty broom leaning against the stone wall, as well as a large stack of books set haphazardly atop a cart, begging to be reshelved by—ah. A custodian. That was who he must be. This was the best entertainment the Great Synagogue could muster for its children?
“Please,” the tiny chorus resounded.
The stranger brushed a hand through his thick hair and held up a single finger. “Just a bissel more, but then you need to run along. You have real meals to eat.”
Isabelle’s lips twitched as a cheer rose and, in an instant, the small bodies made a circle around the taller figure.
“Where were we?” He crossed his legs and settled on the bare, probably freezing—not to mention dirty—stone floor without hesitation.
“The prince had come upon the tower with no windows and no doors,” a boy with curls so voluminous they nearly swallowed his yarmulke shouted out.
“A good place to start.” The man gave a serious nod, and Isabelle edged closer, despite her low expectations of the man’s tale-telling prowess. After all, who didn’t enjoy a good fairy story?
He beckoned his little group closer. “Just as the prince was about to search for an entrance, he heard footsteps approaching. And”—he scrambled back, crouching down to the level of his audience and lowering his voice—“Quick as a wink, he hid behind a tree. From that position, who did he see but—”
“The witch!” all the boys cried at once before devolving into hoots as the man threw the tail of his shirt over his head like a cloak.
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair,” he called in a warbled, cawing voice that had the boys doubling over. Even Isabelle had difficulty not giggling out loud. The custodian was actually entertaining—magnetic, even. Who’d have thought?
A pity he was performing menial tasks instead of performing on stage. He’d probably be enthralling.
