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paying no more attention than his mother did.
    “Still, Dimitros has to spend many a night in Italian taverns.” Froshenie still seemed mesmerized by the closed book. “And his travels are taking him ever further. How long has he been gone this time already?”
    Grunting with the not inconsiderable effort of it, Chryssie rose from the floor and took the book from Froshenie’s hands. Glancing at it, she harrumphed mightily. “That old Italian fellow again, is it? And let me guess — that distasteful story of two young men lodging at an inn?”
    Slightly shame-faced, Froshenie took back the book. “He is quite famous, Chryssie. And no honest woman would deny she has heard of husbands and wives losing their hearts elsewhere.”
    Chryssie harrumphed again. “It is not their
hearts
that lead them to the wrong bed, my sweet, if you will pardon me for hinting at matters that a married wife should know nothing about. This
signore
Boccaccio makes no secret of that. But what else would one expect from an Italian?”
    “They are fine tales, Chryssie. So full of … life. Not at all like the books my uncle allowed me to read.”
    The Vaya shook her head. “Not only do you read far too many books for a woman, assuming she should read any at all. You also read all the wrong ones, my pet. I think I shall suggest to master Dimitros that he leaves his library locked when he is abroad.”
    “Chryssie!” Froshenie looked up, laughing. “What would I do with myself, then?”
    The Vaya paused for a long, proud look at her mistress. Grown into a beauty that made younger men blush and older men stammer, Froshenie Vassiliou’s face was nevertheless still as much imp as angel, and she never seemed to outgrow that mischievous smile that always lurked in her dark eyes. And, except when dressed up to be a lady at her husband’s side, she seemed to have the manners of a cat! Curling up in that foreign chair instead of reclining on a divan like a lady should, moving about the house like a shadow, and never, ever doing what a proper Vaya thought a proper wife and lady should do. “What you would do with yourself, my sweet? Why, you would receive visits, go on visits yourself, and all the other things a respectable and modern rich man’s wife does. I am sure master Dimitros’ reputation is suffering because you rarely leave this house. They might think he is all but imprisoning you here, you know?”
    “Anyone who knows him also knows he cannot even bring himself to keep a bird in a cage, much less a wife.” A touch of tantrum crept into Froshenie’s voice. “It is
they
who insist a wife should be like a caged bird! The next time I meet them in the bazaar, I shall raise my nose even higher to the heavens than any of those hypocrite matriarchs and dare them to — “
    “A caged bird is healthy and well fed, my sweet, and does not have to fear becoming dinner for a hawk or a cat at any moment. Besides, a bird of your delicate health — “
    “My father did not raise me to be a bird!”
    Chryssie was getting exasperated. “So you always say. And no, your father, may he rest in peace, tried to raise you to be a poet like himself. And forgot you were a daughter, not a son. You should be happy that your uncle took you in. It is curious, is it not, that the Patriarch knew better how to raise a child, as he never had any of his own?”
    Froshenie’s annoyance succumbed to a smile. “He let
you
raise me, Chryssie.”
    “And a fine job I did, too!” Chryssie swelled to even more matronly stature. “My little girl has become the pride of Yannina, the envy of all the men that are
not
married to you.” She leaned towards Froshenie, with mock sternness in her countenance. “If only for that reason, you should go out more, to bring glory to your poor, hard-working husband. How can a man take pride in the beauty of his wife, when she is only ever seen by a two children and a nurse?”
    “Have you forgotten he had no less than twoscore