The Chocolatier's Wife (7 page)

Her
headache
did
not
go
away, and
so
she
eventually
threw
her
notes into
her
satchel
and
trudged
home
in
the
late
afternoon
light,
thinking
only of
soup
and a
good
night’s
sleep.
As
she
walked
she
hummed
a
summons, letting the wind sprites know
she was heading home.

At
the
house
she
walked
up
steps
held
together
with
twisted
vine.
In
the spring
the
leaves
would
come
back, and
the
vines that
held
the
treads
and the
handrail would
blossom. The
door
was
quite
plain
next
to
that,
but
as she opened it she felt a
small lift. Coming home always felt so good.

“This is
wonderful
news!
I
could
not
possibly
be
more pleased.
Alica, please
break out the marzipan; we must celebrate.” Tasmin heard her mother’s
voice,
upraised
in
happiness.
She
put
her
things
down
and
peeked into
the
parlor,
curious. Later,
she
would
wish
she’d
slipped
on
up
to
her room.

“Tasmin
,
sweetheart!
”
He
r
mothe
r
wave
d
a
lette
r
a
t
her
.
“Com
e
in
!
W
e
hav
e
news!
”
Tasmi
n
smile
d
a
t
th
e
gatherin
g
an
d
walke
d
int
o
th
e
parlor
.
Her uncl
e
an
d
he
r
fathe
r
ha
d
bee
n
drinkin
g
port
,
thei
r
face
s
glowin
g
fo
r
jo
y
an
d
drink
.
He
r
mothe
r
neede
d
n
o
drink
,
he
r
excitemen
t
fa
r
outstrippe
d
theirs
.

“What is
it?
Don’t
keep
me
in
suspense.”
Pity
that
it
could
not
be
the letter
she’d
been
hoping
for
since
she’d
turned
eighteen,
of
William
sending for
her
at
last, for
doubtless
everyone
would
be
decked
out
in
funeral
garb and
singing dirges.

He
r
mothe
r
hande
d
he
r
th
e
letter
.
Tasmi
n
skimmed—i
t
looke
d
t
o
b
e
writte
n
b
y
th
e
Azi
n
Shor
e
Wis
e
Woman—unti
l
sh
e
go
t
t
o
th
e
importan
t
part.

We
now
come
to
the
reason for
this
letter.
It
brings
me
great sorrow
to
inform
you that
William
of
the
House
of
Almsley, intended
to
your
daughter, has
been
arrested
and
charged
with the
murder
of
Bishop
Kingsley.
They suspect
that
he
sent
the
man po
i
soned
chocolates,
and
my
understanding
is
that
the
evidence is
quite
indisputable.
As
a
woman
of
honor,
your
daughter is permitted
to
be
spared
the
infamy
of
further
a
c
quaintance
with William
Almsley,
and
is
freed
of
her
obligation. If
indeed
he
is proved
innocent
of
the
accusation,
he
and
his
family
may
speak to
you
about
renewing
the
agreement,
but
as
the
aggrieved
party you
no
longer
need
allow Tasmin to wed him.

“Arrested
for
murder!”
her
uncle
burst
out.
“I
told
you
they
were
all barbarians.”

Tasmin
waved the letter at them. “And how is this good news?”

“Why,
my
dear,”
her
father
broke
in,
“You
can
stay
on
as
a
teacher
until such
a
time
as
Mistress
Alcide
decides
to
step
down
from
the
inner circle. Your future is s
e
cured.”

“You
are
exempt
from
marriage!
You
cannot
possibly
marry
a
murderer!” Her mother was positively bursting to leap up and
dance.

Tasmin
licked
her
lips,
feeling
a
bit
overwhelmed.
“Well.”
She
swallowed, her
hands
knotting together
as
she
tried
to
gather
her
thoughts.
“I
need
to go upstairs for
a
m
o
ment.
Pray,
excuse me.”

Her
room
was
mostly
decorated
by
William’s
travels.
She
had
a
quilt on
her
bed
that
was
made
from
the
cloth
he
had
used
to
wrap
her
presents. The
first
present,
a
doll,
her
face
cracked
from
an
accident
involving
falling books,
sat
on
top
of
pillows
that
had
come
from
the
lavender
fields
of
Elia. There
were
tomb
rubbings, tapestries,
little
decorated
boxes
and
bottles, preserved
samples
of
flora,
carved
bits
of
stone
and
wood
and
ivory.
She
let out a
pent-up sigh.

Oh,
William.

She
stumbled
over
to
the
rocking chair
by
the
window,
barely remembering to let the wind sprites in.

They
tumbled
through
the
open
window,
spinning
around
her,
but
she did not note their capering,
even when they slammed the window shut.

They
sensed
her
feelings
and retreated,
reacting
to
her
moods
as
they always did,
this time by settling into silence.

She sat quite still and
thought.

The
sun
went
down,
people
knocked
quietly
at
her
door
and
went
away una
n
swered; the street lights and house lights went out one by one. Still, she sat,
unseeing, unmoving.

Murder.
Funny,
how
the
idea
of
one’s
future
husband
killing someone made
hea
d
aches
go
away. It
was
not
that
she
could
not
conceive
that
he was a killer; anyone who read the shipping information at the back of the newspaper,
listing,
among other
things, the
manifests
of
pirate
ships
that had
been
taken
and
destroyed,
would
know
William was
quite
capable
of killing.
But, she
reasoned,
that
was
hot
blooded
killing,
it
was
not
murder. Poisoning
someone with chocolate required coldness and
cunning.