Iris

Chapter Eleven

“I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.”

~Nelson Mandela

***

I awoke to the novelty of a mud-colored cat licking my face. Squinting my eyes, I tried desperately to see past the feline face shoved in mine, but the cat was insistent; it was probably hungry. Sighing, I lay my head back and took deep breaths.

I was alive. I knew this because I still have Aphrodite’s mark, and because I knew even Heaven wasn’t cruel enough to have annoying cats. Looking down, I watched in vague interest as the feline nipped at the tip of my finger, claws extending.

“No.” I scolded, rolling him over, “Bad.”

The sound of shuffling and a voice made me tense, and, dammit, I cupped the cat to my chest as if to protect it. The cat wriggled from under my grip and stretched as it slunk down my stomach. I heard footsteps, and raised my head again, able to see without the annoying cat.

The room was filled with a golden, buttery light; it was the size of a walk-in shower. There was a window facing west and one north, and besides the iron-framed bed, the floor was occupied by a small wooden chest, a tiny table on which a pitcher was perched, and some spare cardboard boxes.

A large and particularly bodacious hip pushed the door to the closet open, and a plump, elderly woman inched inside, negotiating a tray of something through the narrow doorway. The tray was as flowered as her housedress. Her gray hair was pulled up and set with what looked like knitting needles, and her eyes widened when she saw me half-propped up in bed.

She spoke in rapid Italian that took me several moments to untangle, and not a few, “Rallentate, signora.” When she finally spoke slow enough for my Italian brain to kick in, I realized that she was asking how I was feeling.

“Bene.” I assured her, “Bene. Signora—dove sono io? Where am I?”

She frowned, explaining that I was in her home. By the sound of it, most of the injuries had healed, but I was still in such bad shape that he did the only reasonable thing and brought me to the nearest old woman who would probably have ways of helping me out.

And Signora Blanca was that woman.

“Qui.” Signora Blanca expertly balanced the tray on the tiny table beside the bed, taking the pitcher away, “Here. I made some coffee.”

She started to leave, but I stopped her, tugging on her sleeve, “Signora? You said he. Who brought me here?”

“Oh? Your friend. The nice handsome boy.” And with this she left.

Far off, I heard the door to the house slam, and someone call in tense Italian, “Signora! I have your eggs! Is my friend well enough now?”

“Yes.” She replied, “He just woke up.”

I reached over and picked up the butter knife from the tray, left there to spread jam on the bread beside the steaming coffee. Hiding the knife, I picked up the coffee and blew on it. It was scalding. Perfect.

I heard more footsteps, and someone took a deep breath outside the door before entering. I tensed, ready to fling the nearly smoldering liquid at them, when the visitor entered, brushing chicken feathers from his hair.

“Eros?” I exclaimed incredulously, setting the coffee aside, but keeping the knife.

“Oh, she wasn’t joking; you are awake.” He shifted uneasily, swallowing, “So, uh—long time no see.”