The Phoenix Bride by Natasha Siegel

Author:Natasha Siegel [Siegel, Natasha]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2024-03-12T00:00:00+00:00

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By the midafternoon, I am so exhausted that I can no longer stay awake. I nap on the couch, and in my fitful, half-woken sleep, I dream of Portugal. I dream of myself at nineteen, just graduated from the academy, when my father and I had already decided we were leaving Lisbon. We had friends who had gone to England—the petition to live there openly was in its final stages—and they told us there was a shortage of able physicians. We were both restless men, travelers; over the course of my youth, we had gone on numerous trips across the country, even to Spain, where my father’s fame as a doctor had brought him work in Andalusia. This seemed an extraordinary opportunity for adventure. London, a city larger than life itself, was opening its doors to us.

But I don’t dream of adventure. I dream of the moment my mother says, “I will not go with you.”

We are at the breakfast table. My father drops his apple. He is less in shock at the meaning of the words than at the timing of them. My mother loves Lisbon, and we both knew she would resist leaving. But to say it like this, before our sincerest plans have been made, before any discussion has even been had—it is not characteristic of soft-spoken, sweet, plaintive Ana. She usually asks advice even on the slicing of bread.

“Ana,” my father says. “Querida—”

“I will not,” she repeats.

The dream changes. I am no longer in the kitchen. I am younger, a child sitting on the bottom step of the staircase, staring at the crucifix my mother has hung above the front door. It is there to remind us, each time we leave the house, what face we ought to be wearing. Keep it secret, Davi. Keep us safe.

I am nineteen again. I stand in front of my mother as she presses a packet of lettuce seeds into my hand. The coach is behind us; we are leaving. But she is only being stubborn. She won’t stay here and live as a gentile without us. Father says she will come eventually. I know that she will come eventually.

“Tell Gaspar to plant them,” she says. “He will know the best place.”

But Father doesn’t plant them. I am planting them, in our garden in London. I am watching them grow, and the days are passing and the years are passing, and I wear a mask and grow a beak as the plague comes. I leave our house and watch Manuel driving a plague cart down the street, smiling and waving at me. The cart is empty of bodies, and he is healthy and whole. I have succeeded this time. All is well.

I take off my bird mask and my oiled coat. I go back into the house and return to my bedroom. Cecilia is in the bed; she is waiting for me to examine her. Her skirts are rucked up to her chest, a sheet draped over her hips.

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