The Wager Read Free Page A

same distance ahead. Maddening. Hewas exhausted as it was—no sleep all night and then all that work, all the suffering he’d witnessed. Plus he’d missed his midday meal—and that was the most hearty meal of the day. He was in no mood for her shenanigans. He shouted to her to wait.
    â€œDon’t shout, you ass.”
    Don Giovanni stopped. An old crone stood in the doorway arch to a home that had crumbled behind her.
    â€œHas the devil got you? That girl’s busy. Every decent person’s busy. But even if she wasn’t, she wouldn’t stop for the likes of you.” She held her kerchief tight under her chin with one hand, and with the other she pointed a mud-caked finger at him. “Where’d you steal those clothes? Are there more, thief?”
    â€œI’m Don Giovanni, old fool.”
    â€œOh, Don Giovanni,” she said in mock humility. “A visit from Don Giovanni. I’m not worthy of this honor.”
    â€œYour sarcasm is outrageous.” Despite his indignant words, he realized the woman’s impression made sense. If the girl had seen him, which he wasn’t even sure of, she must have taken him for a ruffian in gentleman’s clothes. He should go home and wash himself, rest his weary body. Every drop of energy drained away just like that. His spirit wept from exhaustion.
    Don Giovanni walked back to his castle, eyes on the ground so he wouldn’t see the faces of those who called for help. He was too tired to be of use.
    It was evening when he got home. The servants werenowhere around. Well, that was all right. They should have asked permission, it was true. But he would have given it. They were caring for their kinsfolk, no doubt.
    He walked through the large hall where the party had taken place. No one had cleaned up.
    When he was a child, his maidservant taught him strict rules about touching food. He always used the very tips of his fingers. And he dipped them afterward in a bowl of water that she would hold. Scented water: lemon in summer, clove in winter. He never licked his fingers. But in this moment he didn’t even know where a clean bowl could be found. He stood by the table and ate, then licked his fingers clean. It felt oddly daring.
    He stripped off his dirty clothes and kicked them into a pile. They were beyond help. He’d tell Betta to burn them. There was no one to bring him water for a scrubbing. But there were pitchers of wine on the table. He bathed in marsala, and slept in the haze of intoxication.
    In the morning, he rang the bell for his personal manservant, Lino. No one came. He’d been abandoned. Who was going to take care of him?
    That’s exactly what he had wondered when he’d been told his parents were dead. But now the question was laughable. He had turned nineteen in December. He took care of himself when it came to everything important. As for the details of daily living, well, he could do without Lino for a day.
    He dressed, ran a brush through his thick, curly hair, and went out to the table in the grand hall. He ate standing. Some foods had already turned rancid.
    He started down the path toward the city, and came across a boy. “You’re Lino’s nephew, aren’t you?”
    The boy stared up at him blankly.
    â€œTell him to come back to work. And tell him to tell Betta to get all the servants to come back, too.” His words sounded ridiculous, even to himself. He hadn’t really thought them through. What if the servants’ quarters had been ruined? “All that aren’t needed elsewhere, that is.” But even that addition rang shrill with absurdity. Every able hand was needed everywhere.
    The boy stood there.
    Was he trying to shame Don Giovanni? The insolent little snot-nose. “Well, go on,” he said gruffly.
    The boy ran off.
    Don Giovanni continued along the path, through the city gate. He was sickened by the destruction. How on earth had he been so lucky