thought not. Lust was not something Rebecca was really familiar with, except the flowery version of it which she had found in some of her father’s books. The romances which she tucked into great tomes of theology, reading in the library of their house in Amsterdam, so that her father might not notice her unseemly interest.
She felt a flash of pain, remembering that library. She had loved that room. Loved its quiet, its repose. Loved the books lining every wall. Her father’s mind lived in the past, and tended to be disdainful of the present. But for one modern device her father had nothing but praise—the printing press. “For that alone,” he was wont to say, “God will forgive the Germans their many crimes.”
And now here they were, in the land of the Germans. Adrift in time of war, seeking shelter in the eye of the storm. Or so, at least, they had hoped. She would never see that library again, and for a moment Rebecca Abrabanel grieved the loss. Her childhood was gone with it, and her girlhood too. She was twenty-three years old. Whether she wanted them or not, the duties of a grown woman had fallen upon her shoulders.
She straightened those shoulders, then, summoning determination and courage. The motion drew the hidalgo’s eyes. The admiration lurking within those blue orbs brightened. Rebecca didn’t know whether to cringe or smile.
As it happened, she smiled. And did not, somehow, find that unthinking reaction strange.
The hidalgo spoke. His words came clipped, full of peculiar contractions and idioms. Automatically, Rebecca translated into her own formal English.
“With your permission, ma’am, we need to use your carriage. We have injured people we must get to proper medical treatment.”
“And quickly,” muttered the Moor, still crouched
She felt a flash of pain, remembering that library. She had loved that room. Loved its quiet, its repose. Loved the books lining every wall. Her father’s mind lived in the past, and tended to be disdainful of the present. But for one modern device her father had nothing but praise—the printing press. “For that alone,” he was wont to say, “God will forgive the Germans their many crimes.”
And now here they were, in the land of the Germans. Adrift in time of war, seeking shelter in the eye of the storm. Or so, at least, they had hoped. She would never see that library again, and for a moment Rebecca Abrabanel grieved the loss. Her childhood was gone with it, and her girlhood too. She was twenty-three years old. Whether she wanted them or not, the duties of a grown woman had fallen upon her shoulders.
She straightened those shoulders, then, summoning determination and courage. The motion drew the hidalgo’s eyes. The admiration lurking within those blue orbs brightened. Rebecca didn’t know whether to cringe or smile.
As it happened, she smiled. And did not, somehow, find that unthinking reaction strange.
The hidalgo spoke. His words came clipped, full of peculiar contractions and idioms. Automatically, Rebecca translated into her own formal English.
“With your permission, ma’am, we need to use your carriage. We have injured people we must get to proper medical treatment.”
“And quickly,” muttered the Moor, still crouched