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'Epiphany?'
She turned a tear-streaked face up toward him, then looked away, crying harder than before. 'Why did you come back?' she asked finally. 'Just to make me lose this job?'
'Hey, Piff,' Duffy said. 'Don't cry. Werner can't fire you; it's Aurelianus who owns the place, and I've still got influence with him. Hell, I'll tell him to give you a raise.
'Don't,' the old woman choked, 'mention the name ...of that little snake.'
'What little snake?' Duffy asked, bewildered. 'Aurelianus?'
'Yes. He's the one that put... some kind of filthy spell on you, to make you indifferent and cold toward me. Ohhh.' She went off into howls of grief again.
Duffy considered it unfair of her to switch the subject around like that. 'It's Werner we're talking about,' he said. 'And I'll see to it that he behaves himself in the future.'
'What do I care about the future?' Epiphany moaned. 'I have no future. I'm counting the hours until the Turks cut down the wails and knock my head off.' Duffy guessed she'd said that last sentence so often lately that she didn't
even bother to get the verbs in the right order anymore. 'I haven't even seen my father in two weeks,' she said brokenly. 'I simply intended to abandon him when you and I left.. .and now, remembering that, I just can't face him anymore!'
'Good Lord,' Duffy said. 'Who's bringing him food, then?'
'What? (sniff) Oh, I've got Shrub doing it.' She looked up at him blearily. 'Brian, if you do talk to that horrible Aurelianus, could you have him speak to Werner about my brandy? I've always been in the habit of having just a sip before I go to bed and when I get up in the morning, to help me work, you know, but now Werner insults me and says I can't have any, so I have to sneak it when no one's looking, which is so degrading. As if Werner ever does any work himself - he's always hidden away talking to that damned poet friend of his. Talk to him about it, Brian. You'll do at least that for me, won't you?'
The Irishman stared at her thoughtfully. Is this a gambit, he wondered, a story to make me feel properly guilty? Oh, Brian, look, you've driven me to drink, you heartless wretch. Is that what I'm supposed to understand?
My God, he thought suddenly, listen to yourself, Duffy. You are a heartless wretch. This old girl was quietly happy here until you showed up and made crazy promises to her that you couldn't keep. You have driven hereto drink.
He reached out a hesitant hand and lightly squeezed her shoulder. 'I'll talk to him,' he said softly, and left the room.
Anna was in the kitchen, and looked up when, simultaneously, Duffy appeared from the storeroom and Mothertongue stepped in from the yard.
'Where is - ' both men began at once.
'After you, sir,' said Mothertongue.
Thank you. Anna, where is Werner?'
'The same place he was before all the racket and weeping brought him out here a few minutes ago: his private wine cellar.' As the Irishman turned in the direction she'd pointed, she added, 'I wouldn't just barge in; that poet Kretchmer's in there with him - they're writing an epic or something, and won't have interruptions.'
'They'll have one,' Duffy predicted, walking on.
Behind him he heard Mothertongue ask, 'Where did Mrs Hallstadt go? She isn't out in the yard.'
'She's in the storeroom,' replied Anna tiredly.
Duffy paused and looked over his shoulder at Mother-tongue, who, facing the storeroom door, had paused to look back at him. The two men stared at each other for a second or two, then thoughtfully resumed moving in their separate directions.
The Irishman had never been in Werner's wine cellar, but he knew it was tucked under the main stairs, a step or two below floor level, and in a moment he stood before the low door, his hand raised to knock. Before he did, Though, it occurred to him that there was no reason to be polite - so he just grabbed the latch and yanked the door open.
The low-ceilinged room beyond was perhaps twelve feet long by eight wide, and bottles, casks and amphorae cluttered the shelves from floor to ceiling, softly lit by a lamp on the small table in the middle of the floor. Two men who had been sitting at the table had now sprung halfway up from their chairs, startled by Duffy's entrance, and he stared at both of them.
Werner was a bit heavier than Duffy remembered him, and his unusually fine clothes only served to set off the powdered pallor of his face and the gray in his oiled hair. Kretchmer was a tougher-looking man, his face tanned behind a startling red beard, but he was the one who seemed most upset.
'Ach! the poet exclaimed in a high, hoarse voice, staring nervously at the Irishman's feet. 'Common ruffians interrupt the sacred labors! A man of bloody hands intrudes into Aphrodite's very grove! I must avaunt!' He edged past Duffy, eyes still downcast, and hurried away down the hail.
Werner resumed his seat and threw up his hands. 'Can art not be wrought without all these mundane distractions?'
Duffy stared at him. 'What?'
Werner took a deep breath, then let it out. 'Never mind, Duffy. What do you want?'
