“May I?” he asked, indicating to her pained movements. After all, there was no need to make her work alone, not with him lazing about.
Miriam made a huffing noise but finally nodded her assent. “It’s a shame.”
“What is?” Aaron bent over and took over the woman’s actions, kneading Miriam’s stiff muscles.
“You not seeing the festival, not getting to truly participate with everyone else instead of serving on the sidelines.” Miriam stretched her legs farther. “Even more unfortunate, there’s a theatrical performance tonight. You love theater.” She leaned back a little as Aaron worked. “And stories. You’re very good at sharing them, after all.”
“I’ll have enough of that in New York.” Aaron pushed down harder on a knot. “Besides, I threw away my invitation.”
“True.” She grunted. “Though there are extras lying around, if anyone cares to look.” Miriam reached around and pulled a black half mask followed by a white envelope from some hidden pocket in her voluminous garment. She could give Isabelle a run for her money when it came to useful clothing.
“That doesn’t take care of my garments. What I have is not appropriate, and I’m not actually invisible,” he mumbled.
“Thank you.” She tapped Aaron on the shoulder with her cane, indicating she’d had enough of the leg work, and Aaron stood again.
“Perhaps it’s time you were less invisible.” Miriam readjusted her skirts. “Besides, with the right attire, you’ll shine so brightly that no one will see the synagogue custodian or failed apprentice or orphan.”
“Bah.” Aaron sniffed. Most certainly stubborn. Or perhaps the woman had fallen and hit her head. She needed to let him be. It was over. He strolled over to his meager baggage to thumb through it, hoping Miriam would take the hint and leave.
“Haven’t you ever wanted to glitter with your own light? Make people see you? Feel like you’re not only tolerated, but welcomed? That you belong?” she called, lingering on the last word.
“The only person I want to see me already has. And I wasn’t enough.” He folded his arms. “To her I don’t shine and I’m certainly not special. I’m just a man who cleans messes and once in a while gets asked for a touch of information. Not worthy of time or attention and certainly not the type to dazzle. Not her nor anyone here. Perhaps in New York . . .”
“I don’t know—I’ve heard rumor that you gave quite a performance with almost no lines in the Lira garden the other night.”
“Stop.” He raised a palm, working to keep his voice as respectful as possible despite the fury ripping through his veins. “I don’t know what you heard, but—well—don’t repeat it. Not for my sake—for hers. She doesn’t deserve that sort of gossip ruining her chances for respect. Or the Berab brothers using it against her, thwarting her when she’s sacrificed so much to preserve her father’s legacy. What happened between the two of us is no one’s business but our own, and if anyone needs payment to ensure that it stays that way, well, they can have it.”
“Oh, stop, I don’t want money from you. However, the synagogue might care for a parting donation.” A sniff from Miriam. Though he’d never seen her full face, he could certainly picture the wry expression on it. “I will say nevertheless, that was quite the diatribe in defense of her honor, especially considering her overtures towards Mr. Weiss. She most certainly does not deserve you.” She poked him with her cane. “No one is mocking anyone, Mr. Ellenberg.”
Right. As if he could truly believe any of that, especially about Isabelle not deserving him. Aaron released something that was suspiciously like a growl, but Miriam shrugged.
“But back to my prior point.” She shook a long finger at him. “Or more yours. You don’t believe you glitter, you don’t believe you can walk into a ball as you truly are and woo the host so she has eyes for no one else.”
“I believe that is the plot to a Rossini opera.” The first he ever saw, when he’d sneaked backstage, hungry and half frozen to death. His favorite. Which the woman probably knew somehow. Which was both charming and irritating. Aaron leaned against the table, still scowling.
“The one that is being performed tonight, in fact.” Miriam was definitely mocking him behind the cloak. “Such an interesting variation on the story, different than both the Perrault and the Grimm brothers—disguises and no glass slippers.”
“Yes, but it’s the prince who hides his identity. Something that’s not occurring here, as everyone knows who Miss Lira is and she likes it that way.” Aaron toed a hole in the floorboards with his boot. “And in the story, Angelina flees but she asks the prince to follow, find out who she really is.” Which would never happen in real life. Isabelle would never chase him.
“So you can take liberties with the plot.” She leaned further on her cane. “Though I’d argue Angelina was always who she was, as was the prince, and the beauty in the story was them being able to see each other.”
The way Isabelle allowed him to see her when they were alone. And the way she seemed to see him in those moments, better than he was, as he wanted to be, as he could never—
“Don’t you want to show yourself once more to the woman you love, as you really, fully are, in front of everyone? Let not only you, but the truth shine?” Miriam added.
“I don’t love her,” he lied even as the scene she painted stirred every longing, every secret wish buried deep in his chest. Wishes that would never come true. “Or more, she doesn’t love me. At least not enough.”
“No?” Miriam readjusted her cloak, wrapping it around her body. “Interesting. I’ll have to tell some hired guards that they’ve lost a few bets.”
“Let them lose all they like. Gambling is always a waste.” He kicked at the hole this time, stubbing his toe through his boot, the pain somehow welcome.
“Is it now?” The bed creaked as the woman rose and edged toward him.
“What do you want, Miriam?” He shoved his hands in his pockets.
Miriam pointed that damned finger once more. “It isn’t what I want—it’s what you want.”
Despite the impossibility of anything and everything he wanted, a shiver ran down Aaron’s spine. “I can’t have what I want,” he whispered, almost to himself.
