A Ceiling Made of Eggshells

by Gail Carson Levine

  Papá said, “The duke is our host for dinner at the Singing Chicken.”

  Chickens could sing?

  “It’s an inn,” Papá added. “A good place for conversation.”

  When we got there, Belo stopped Papá’s hand on the door latch. “Do what we do, Loma, and call the duke ‘Your Grace.’”

  We entered a small vestibule: stairs facing us, closed door to the right, open door to the left. We crossed the threshold on the left into an empty room—empty of people, filled with a table that ran the length of the chamber and was covered by a stained white tablecloth. A pillow-covered bench flanked the table. An armchair stood at the end farthest from the vestibule door. A window, shutters open, let in light and cool air. Nailed to the wall above the fireplace was a wooden crucifix. I knew what it was, but I’d never seen one before. I touched the little bulge in my bodice where Bela’s pendant was hidden.

  A door on the wall to our right, which would lead to the back of the inn, squeaked open. A very short man entered, a servant, I supposed. He bore a tray that held a small bowl of almonds and one of dried apricots, three pewter mugs, a large ewer, and a small ewer. “Wine for the dons and small beer for the señorita. The duke sends his apologies. He’ll come as soon as he can.” The man left.

  Papá poured wine from the big ewer for Belo and himself and beer from the small one for me. He said the prayer and added, “Loma, a grandee makes people wait.”

  Belo sat on the bench with his back to the table. Papá sat, too, leaving room for me between them. I sipped my small beer, which tasted like small beer at home, not seeming to be particularly Christian beer. My stomach rumbled. At home, we would have eaten by now. Ledicia might have brought the littles. I’d have encouraged picky Beatriz to eat.

  Christ looked so skinny! I counted five ribs sticking out on each side of him. Perhaps he’d been waiting for his dinner, too. I stifled a giggle, put down my mug, and circled the table, counting the wide floorboards that ran the length of the room. Eighteen. I circled again and again. We could have covered four miles on our horses by now.

  The door flew open. Belo and Papá jumped up, but I was standing already. I made fists of my trembling hands.

  A tall man came in. Standing very erect, with his feet close together, he proclaimed in a voice that was too loud for the room, “Luis de la Cerda y de la Vega, the Duke of Medinaceli.”

  10

  Two other tall men followed him in. Belo and Papá bowed. I curtsied, wondering if I was doing it right for Christians. With a rustle of cloaks, the men bowed back. The one who’d announced the duke hurried to the back door and passed through it.

  “Apologies!” The tallest of the men turned out to be the duke. “I’m not the ruler of my time.”

  He looked younger than Belo but closer to his age than to Papá’s. He had pale blue eyes and was clean-shaven with a squarish face and a cleft chin. Below the wide brim of his hat, strands of light brown and gray hair fell to his shoulders. His green cloak was embroidered so lavishly with gold thread that I saw more gold than green.

  “Your Grace, we’re glad to see you now,” Belo said, “and whenever you like.”

  The duke sat in the armchair. “Please sit.”

  His companion sat on the bench near the vestibule door. Belo sat on the duke’s right and patted the cushion on his right for me.

  But the duke said, “No, my friend. She’ll sit with me.” To my astonishment, he lifted me onto his bony knees. He smelled of fried fish and mustard. “She’s healthy!”

  He meant stout. I was too old to sit on anyone’s lap, and I didn’t like it.

  “Her mother’s cooking, Your Grace,” Papá said, looking a warning at me and sitting on Belo’s right, where I wished I could be. He chuckled. “I’m healthy, too.”

  I didn’t know what he was warning me against.

  “Paloma is the favorite, Don Joseph?” the duke asked.

  “She reminds me of my wife of blessed memory. Paloma—Loma—is clever.”

  “As all my children are,” Papá hastened to say.

  The duke shifted me on his legs. “Tell me, Paloma, do you like being clever?”

  I touched Bela’s amulet chain and nodded, afraid to speak.

  “Is there anything you want more than cleverness?”

  This was like asking me to choose between sleep and the moon. My voice came out tiny. “I want to be a good mamá someday, but—”

  “I can’t hear you.” The duke tilted his head.

  My heart hopped like a sparrow. I managed a little more volume. “I want most to be a good mamá someday. Being clever will make me good. Being clever helps me be good at”—I thought about it—“almost everything.” There had to be exceptions, even if I couldn’t think of them.

  The duke pursed his lips. “A clever answer.”

  The door to the back whined open again. The duke’s other companion returned with the small man who’d come in before and another not much larger man. The short men bore trays. The companion joined his fellow on the bench.

  The muscles stood out in the forearms of the two servants as they lowered their trays.

  A ladle protruded from a large covered bowl. Platters held fried chard and eggplant; black-eyed peas with mint; cod with cilantro and olives; glistening grilled sardines; smoked mackerel; white rolls; and a salad of watercress, lettuce, and pistachio.

  The servants returned to the kitchen, and one came back with a tray of cutlery, three two-handled bowls, a stack of stale bread, and a pastry shaped like a fish, probably a fish pie. The man lifted the lid off the big bowl, revealing white bean soup.

  My mouth watered.

  “Lent,” the duke said to Belo. “No meat.”

  Papá said, “We’re happy to share a meal with you, Your Grace, no matter the menu.”

  The servant passed out the cutlery and the bowls: one for the duke, which I had to assume he’d share with me if he kept me on his lap; one between Papá and Belo; one for the duke’s two companions; a bread slice in front of each of us—two slices before the duke. The man distributed spoons. We all had our own knives in our purses.

  But oh no! The bowls had probably held both milk and meat, and the spoons had likely touched both. Had the duke invited us to share a meal we couldn’t eat?

  Papá had said he was happy to break bread with the duke.

  Ah. This had to be a Jewish inn. The duke was a friend of the Jews, so he chose a Jewish inn.

  Then why the crucifix?

  The servant ladled soup into the bowls and began to place a portion of everything except the fish pie on each slice of bread. When he reached me, the duke held up a hand and asked me what I liked most and what I didn’t like.

  This was kind, but I had to speak again. I said I liked everything, especially the eggplant and the sardines. The servant gave me more of those, moved on to everyone else, and stood away from the table.

  The duke crossed himself as did his companions and the waiter. Belo and Papá lowered their heads, so I did, too.

  The duke thanked Jesus Christ for our meal.

  I went hot with embarrassment. Belo and Papá echoed the duke’s amen at the end, and I did, too, though a moment late.

  The duke lifted me off his lap and set me on the bench next to Belo, who said our prayer, thanking the Almighty for the food. The Christians echoed our amen.

  Everyone began to eat. I did, too.

  Between bites, the duke said, “What have you been writing about, Don Joseph?”

  Belo put down his knife. “The Book of Samuel, monarchy, and law.”

  “Whose law?” the duke asked.

  “Religious law or the law that assemblies have passed.” Belo sounded happy, as if we were in his study at home. “Laws are to be followed.”

  Was I breaking our law by eating? Were Belo and Papá? To comfort myself, I counted the times the duke put food in his mouth. He was a quick eater.

  Gradually, I calmed.

  “Don Joseph . . .” The duke
sounded happy, too. “I beg of you: a poem.”

  “Hmm . . .” I heard Belo’s feet move on the floorboards. He was extending his legs, as he did when he felt especially at ease. “If I may, Your Grace, I’ll put the words of the poem in your voice as our host—your voice, if you were a country bumpkin.”

  “I’m eager to hear myself that way.”

  “This poem was written more than two hundred years ago,” Belo said, and then recited:

  Hospitality tastes sweet, as milk wrung

  out of cattle-curds and as cake crumbs

  steeped and heaped, without number,

  plunged in cream. When guests come

  in the night, I cry to my sons

  to throw open the gates. I exult,

  as a wolf does, stalking a buck,

  like a plowman whose seeds flung

  in earth will yield barley for the hungry.

  To see guests makes me the wealthy one.

  You are here. You are welcome.

  Everyone was silent. I worried that the duke didn’t like being compared to a wolf. Had Belo caused discord with this powerful Christian?

  But after a moment, he clapped and laughed. Instantly, his companions and Papá joined in. I didn’t find anything funny, but I clapped, too.

  “Ah, Don Joseph,” the duke said, “we’re relics, you even more than I, of an earlier age. I do exult in your company.”

  I hadn’t been sure if I liked the duke, but now I decided I did.

  The servant cut the fish pie in six pieces, not as evenly as I would have.

  I was full, but I ate and discovered that the pie had no fish. It was a fish-shaped apple pie with cinnamon and saffron, a surprise of a dessert. My appetite came back.

  The duke pushed away what was left of his bread. “Your audience will take place on Monday. Her Majesty requested of me that I inform you. I suggest you arrive early.”

  “Thank you for telling us,” Belo said.

  The duke brushed a crumb off his doublet. “The monarchs’ ambition for victory is my ambition, too. Alas, their poverty is my poverty as well, but they expect a gift or a loan from me, as well as my sword in battle.”

  I learned later that loans to the king and queen were rarely repaid.

  “And,” he went on, “I am planning my palace, which is a heavy expense. I must squeeze a little more from my suffering people.”

  “That is regrettable,” Papá said.

  The duke nodded. “They feel pinched already. I don’t want riots.” He turned to me. “Paloma, if you really are a clever little Jewess, what should I do?”

  Papá coughed. “She’s just a child.”

  “Yet you’re introducing her to our sovereigns.”

  “Answer His Grace’s question, Loma,” Belo said.

  How many ducats did the duke need? How poor could he be? He was a duke!

  The silence stretched.

  What if I were one of the duke’s people? I thought of myself at home, and Yuda came to mind. An idea formed.

  “Your Grace . . .” Speaking came easier now that I liked him. “When my brother Yuda is expected for dinner, I know I’ll have to share.” I blushed and realized where my thoughts would take me. “But when he surprises us, I’m angry that I have to share.”

  Papá made a strangled noise.

  The duke waved a hand in the air. “No one is surprised to have to part with money. Not much of a pronouncement for a prodigy.”

  If people weren’t surprised, I thought, why would they be angry?

  “But,” I said in a smaller voice, “your people don’t know when. Yuda has surprised us in the past and probably will do it again, but I don’t know when.”

  The duke bit down on his lower lip, which I hoped meant he was thinking.

  My blush deepened. “If I know Aljohar cooked eggplant for dinner, I decide ahead of time how much I can have without”—I paused, then went ahead—“Mamá calling me a glutton. I look forward to that amount.”

  Belo helped me. “Suppose one of your farmers decides he can afford to buy another ram. Then—without warning—he finds out there will be a new levy and he’ll have to sell a ram instead. You know he’s angry, Your Grace.”

  The duke nodded.

  I spoke again. “But if he knows about the tax, he doesn’t picture a new ram.”

  Belo went further than I would have thought to go. “This farmer is a good fellow. He wants, as we all do, victory in the kingdom’s wars. He also wants you to have your palace, which will reflect glory on you and all your people, including him.”

  The duke stood and bowed to me—not deeply, an inclination more than a bow. He tipped his head to one of his companions. The man reached into a slit in his cloak and produced a purse, which he presented to Belo.

  “For the dowry of Paloma,” the duke said. “Don Joseph, until the next time we meet. May your audience go well.”

  My dowry!

  The audience!

  11

  We sat on high-backed chairs in the courtyard of the Episcopal Palace. My fear had changed to boredom and hunger. Papá had said I mustn’t walk around. To make sitting more active, I swung my legs, counting each swing, until, after just fifteen, Belo told me I was wasting my energy in foolishness.

  I counted the potted plants that circled the fountain in the middle of the courtyard: 16. I counted the big ivory tiles that I could see: 57. And the small ivory tiles: 128—maybe. I kept losing my place, which was maddening.

  Since our arrival just after dawn, we had been assured repeatedly by men in silk doublets and velvet capes that the monarchs would see us “very soon.” Belo called these people noble riffraff. Papá said they were low-level lords who worked as secretaries to the monarchs, handling their appointments. I wondered how many appointments the monarchs had in a day.

  I wore my best gown—mauve silk with flowery embroidery in green thread. Around my neck hung a necklace of glass beads and a gold pendant set with a yellow stone. Bela’s pendant hid under my gown.

  Papá whispered prayers. Belo stared straight ahead.

  Finally, a young man rushed to us and bowed stiffly, as if his upper half were the lid of a box, folding down. “Their Majesties will receive you in the throne room.”

  My hunger vanished.

  We followed the secretary to a stone staircase. I wondered why the staircase divided, even though both sides led to the same balcony. The secretary led us up the left side, perhaps the side reserved for Jews.

  Was the queen always angry, like Mamá?

  Beyond the balcony, the secretary turned smartly to the right. I watched the hem of his crimson cape, his legs in green and gold bicolor hose, and the backs of his shoes, which were tan with low heels.

  Close behind him, we crossed a threshold flanked by open double doors. Seven steps in, the secretary halted abruptly. We stopped, too. My nose was an inch from his cloak, which smelled musty.

  The secretary barked, his words as clipped as his movements, “The Cantala family attends Your Majesties.”

  Belo took my right hand, and Papá took my left. Belo’s grip was so tight it hurt. Papá’s hand was slick and slippery. He was sweating! And my hands were freezing. We marched forward. I closed my eyes, relying on the hands to keep me from falling.

  I managed to count, though I could hardly feel my feet. Twenty steps.

  Belo hissed furiously, “Loma, open your eyes!”

  I did, though I turned my head, afraid to look forward. The walls were made of carved wood. There were no windows on this side, but candles burned in candelabra atop posts that lined the wall. How many posts? How many candles?

  “Don Joseph!” The voice, deep and velvety, came from a man.

  Still holding my hands, Belo and Papá bowed deeply. I curtsied despite my weak knees. When I rose, I dared to look at the monarchs—

  —who were smiling at us, showing ordinary teeth rather than fangs. They sat perhaps four feet above us on a wooden dais, on matching high-backed thrones covered w
ith tapestry and topped by scalloped canopies.

  Orange-red hair rippled to the queen’s shoulders. Her gown was burgundy velvet studded along the neckline with pearls set in gold. The king was more soberly dressed in a brown cloak that fell open to reveal a black doublet and ivory hose. He wasn’t stout, but his face was fleshy and his lips plump. Though he had no beard, his cheeks were stippled with black dots.

  The monarchs’ smiles seemed happy. They were either pretending or were truly glad to see three Jews standing before them.

  “Who is this?” Queen Isabella cried.

  This was me.

  Belo said, “My granddaughter Paloma, the pride of my old age.”

  “Surely,” the king said in his velvety voice, “all your children and grandchildren are your pride.”

  “Certainly, sire, and, most of all, Paloma.”

  “Come to me, Paloma.” The queen’s voice, now that she wasn’t shouting, was soft and insistent.

  Belo and Papá nudged me forward. I stumbled, caught myself, and climbed the dais.

  Queen Isabella held out her hands. I went to her and clasped her hands despite my terror and, really, horror, as I catapulted back to the moment when Señor Mateo grabbed me.

  “How old are you, child?”

  I whispered, “Seven.” Her hands were paler and pinker than mine, which were tan and yellowish.

  “Three years older than my Juana and six years younger than Isabella. If matters were otherwise, you could be lady-in-waiting to one of them. Would you like that?”

  I nodded, afraid to say no.

  “What kind of husband do you hope for someday, Paloma? Handsome? Kind? Rich?”

  I nodded again and, since this was a topic I’d considered, I found the courage to add, “And wise.”

  “Not an impossible combination.” The queen smiled at the king. “Such a man chose me.”

  King Ferdinand smiled, too. “You would marry a great lord. Your abuelo would become a lord or a bishop, and who knows how high your papá could rise?”