Rebalancing his load against his hip, Aaron Ellenberg narrowed his eyes at the stunningly beautiful woman in shimmering blue silk. What was she about? She might talk of witches, but for now, she just seemed meshuggenah.
Did she really not know who he was? Impossible. He glanced around for the gaggle of friends hiding behind a pillar and waiting to witness whatever prank she was about to play—the only reason her set ever bothered with the likes of him. They’d get him all tongue tied and flustered, proving their superior intellect—well, that, or they’d point out a spill that needed his attention.
And yet they were still alone, and she’d not commanded him to clean any additional messes.
“Are you going to tell me why children shouldn’t accept candies and stories from you, or am I going to have to guess?” As she lifted her wrist to adjust her stack, rings and bracelets covered in twinkling stones glinted in the sunlight. A perfect complement to her impossibly white gloves. “I’m good at guessing.”
She stuck out her rather determined chin, her deep red, shiny lips parting. Oy. What was she playing at? She knew his position. No one who attended the Great Synagogue escaped the gossip, told in hushed tones he somehow always managed to overhear: how sad it was, the orphan with neither a head for knowledge nor talent for a trade, with no prospects, and completely dependent on the community’s largesse.
The least valuable among them. Who parents strove to prevent their children from becoming.
Only one step above those who’d left the community altogether. He shuddered at the memories of the brief time he, tired of the whispers and tuts, had attempted that life, rendering himself vulnerable to the far less forgiving gentile streets.
But that was neither here nor there. She was.
And no matter how she flashed her rather charming dimple or how mesmerizing he found her thick, dark lashes, she was not going to force him to say all his failings out loud. He had some dignity.
“And here I believed witches were above menial labor. I’ll have to note that for future stories.” He kicked at the ground, and a new cloud of dust spotted his already filthy boots. A sharp contrast to her shimmery, polished ones. Foolish rain. He’d be sweeping for hours after the sun set. Aaron cracked his already sore knuckles. “Though I didn’t know witches took the form of aspiring toffs.”
“Aspiring?” She cocked her head. “I thought I managed the full effect. I’ll have to go back to my spell book.” She twirled from side to side, skirts lifting even higher to reveal not only her ankles but bits of stockinged legs.
Not that he was staring.
“All the magic in the world couldn’t make you a real toff in the goyim’s eyes.” Even he knew that, despite his lack of brains. The children probably did too.
With her free hand, she loosened her bonnet’s tie, sliding it back. “It’s getting hot.” Shiny sable hair, parted in the center, glistened in the sunlight, begging to be touched. Not that he could. For a hundred different reasons, not including the fact that they were practically in the middle of shul.
“Though you’ve made me curious,” she continued. “Why don’t you think it’s possible to be accepted by them? After all, the Duke of Sussex intends to introduce a new bill in the next session of Parliament, one which would allow us real rights.”
“If it passes, you truly believe they will make you one of them? That when they need you, they won’t secretly hate you? That when you become expendable or when there’s trouble—when their own power wanes, they won’t strip everything away again? Either by their own hand or by feeding you to the mob in their place? After all, nothing unites disparate goyim more than a quest to be ‘saved’ from us.” A familiar occurrence in their history. It was why his parents had fled Trier after Prussia took the city from the French, along with their people’s newly bestowed rights and access to trades.
Her lips twisted in a wry sort of smile. “What if I intend never to become expendable? What if I intend to amass enough power, insideandoutside the community, that no one will ever challenge me, out of fear and respect?” Her clear, high voice echoed against the arched ceiling of the empty vestibule. “Well, out of fear—I have no illusions regarding respect.”
He leaned against the wall as stories from his pilfered collection of books—ones for which he’d always been mocked, for their frivolousness, for their uselessness in both study and business—flitted through his mind. Never mind they were the only type he was ever able to understand—or enjoy.
“You solely addressed the easiest scenario, where only the rich goyim turn on you. But even then, you have no guarantees. You can’t always conform to their definition of a ‘good Jew,’ when it changes on a whim. Your power will slip and fade. And then won’t people rise up and slay you?” He grimaced. “So to speak. Obviously they would be more likely to—”
“Exclude and bankrupt me? I’m sure many of them aimed to do just that to my father and my grandfather before him.” She gave an imperious wave of her bejeweled hand, adjusting the stack of siddurim on her hip with her other. “Though with us, ‘expelling’ and killing is never off the table.” Raising a pristine gloved finger, she tapped her chin, drawing attention to her glossy red lips once more. “As it is with witches when they falter—a group of men always bands together and vanquishes them. I’ll have to take that under advisement,” she said, her tone serious but her eyes sparkling.
Was she putting him on? She had to be. Because this was the most ludicrous conversation he’d ever had. Aaron grunted as he lifted the books higher against his chest.
“Bah” was all he managed to say as he turned to the cellar, away from her and whatever trouble came with her type.
“Oh no, you’re not leaving.” A pattering of feet followed him through the dark, squat passages as he began shelving the siddurim. Why would someone like her traipse about where she’d not been asked, demanding his time and energy, if not for some nefarious purpose? Panting, she tore down the last few steps, clutching the siddurim to her chest. “I’m coming with you. I haven’t discovered what you’re hiding yet. Who are you?”
“Someone marriageable girls shouldn’t talk to,” he said, giving his best impression of gruff annoyance, but his tone, instead of frightening her off, only elicited a giggle. Why did she have to see him with the children? It was much easier to play the big bad wolf when one hadn’t been caught giving out candies. Not that he’d ever pulled such a performance off, but there was something about her that made him itch to appear more substantial than he was.
A foolish notion, no doubt. Probably brought on by a flying siddur to the head. He rubbed a tender spot on his brow, opening his mouth to continue, but she was already speaking again.
“It’s a little late for that. We’ve both done quite a bit of talking. A rarity, as my grandmother likes to tell me. I’m often too enamored with the sound of my own voice to let anyone else get a word in, so you should take my pursuit as a compliment.” Her eyes crinkled. “First, I’m three and twenty, hardly a girl. And second, my ‘marriageable’ days will come to a close in mere weeks.” She twisted a loose lock around her finger, almost nervously. “Provided I find the right match.”
A twinge of disappointment wormed through him. Witch, eh? Since when did they blush and stammer at the prospect of some undoubtedly pompous, rich husband? And wasn’t landing one a rather ordinary goal for a witch? Besides, she didn’t seem like the type who’d need much maneuvering for that. He swallowed, looking back down at the siddurim. After all, who wouldn’t want someone so arresting?
“How big is your dowry?” he asked, working to keep his tone aloof.
The question was fair. The money was what actually counted, wasn’t it? The wealthy and beautiful had every option open to them. Goodness or kindness mattered only in stories.
“Large.” She glanced downward, flicking the plethora of jewels on her wrist. One stone could feed a family of eight for a year.
