Her little boy crinkled up his nose. “We-ell, we was walking, me an’ Daff, and then Daff sort of skidded.”
She waited, but Indio was looking at her with an expression of suspicious innocence.
“Indio,” she started, but her son took that as a prompt to speak again.
“He was real quick, Caliban was. Fished Daff out of the water like a… a… well. A drownded rat. Sorry, Daff.”
Indio looked apologetically at the dog. Not that there was any need. Daffodil wasn’t paying her master any mind. She sat nearly under Caliban’s chair. Apparently her tiny little brain had decided that Caliban was the God of All Fallen Food.
“Hmm,” Lily murmured. “I trust that won’t happen again?”
“No, Mama,” Indio said, ducking his head.
“Indio.”
He raised his head, looking at her pleadingly from his beautiful eyes.
She hardened her heart. “I mean it. I don’t want you near that pond again—with or without Daffodil.” She inhaled and said more softly, “Think what might’ve happened had Caliban not been there to save Daff.”
He looked again at the little dog—who had one delicate paw on Caliban’s solid thigh—and swallowed. “Yes, Mama. I mean, I won’t go there again.”
“Good.” She blew out a breath. Hard to tell if he’d remember his promise the next time the water sang its siren song to him, but she had to hope. Deliberately she lightened her tone. “What else did you do today? I vow, I haven’t seen you since luncheon.”
“Me an’ Daff comed back for tea. Don’t you remember?” Indio had pulled his legs into the chair and was kneeling on it again—a habit that she really ought to stop someday. “You was writing on your—”
He abruptly stopped speaking and cast a guilty glance at the behemoth beside him. Fortunately, Caliban was taking a bite of Maude’s excellent dumplings and didn’t seem to be paying any attention to their discussion.
“Mmm,” Lily murmured, covering for him. “And then what did you do?”
“We went to the old musician’s gallery but,” he added hastily as her brows began to lower, “we didn’t go in. An’ then Daff found a toad.”
Lily glanced at the little dog in alarm. Daffodil now had both paws on Caliban’s thigh and was giving him a tragically pleading look. She really was terribly spoiled. “She didn’t catch it, did she?”
Daffodil routinely found the most disgusting things edible.
“No,” Indio said sadly, “It got away. But we did catch a cricket. I was going to keep it in a cage as a pet, but Daff swallowed it before I could. I don’t know why. She didn’t seem to think it tasted very good.”
Maude snorted. “That might explain the spewing.”
“Not spewing,” Lily murmured to her, sotto voce.
Maude rolled her eyes. “You prefer retch?”
“I prefer not discussing it at the dinner table, but nobody seems to be paying me much mind.” Lily turned to Indio. “Now then, I see you’ve finished your supper. I think it’s time for your bath.”
“Maa-ma,” he whined in the disappointed voice every boy used at the notion of cleanliness. “But Caliban isn’t done eating.”
She smiled tightly. “I’m sure he’ll be fine with Maude.”
“And you aren’t done eating, either,” he pointed out earnestly.
“I’ll finish the rest of my meal later.”
She rose and walked to the small fireplace, where a kettle had been set long before supper. It was gently steaming now. She caught up a rag and reached for the handle, but another, much bigger, hand got there first.
Lily gave a tiny jump, watching wide-eyed as Caliban picked up the hot kettle as easily as lifting a twig. At least he’d had enough sense to shield his palm from the heat with a rag.
He stood blank-faced until she pulled herself together.
“In here.” She stepped gingerly around his bulk and led him into the little bedroom. A tin hip bath was waiting, laid beside the bed on some old cloths. It was already half full of cold water. “You can pour it in there.”
He lifted the hem of his shirt to hold the bottom of the kettle and she caught an unsettling flash of his stomach.
Hastily she looked away, her cheeks heating.
“Mama?” Indio stood in the doorway.
“Come in,” she said briskly to her son, and then to the man: “Thank you for your help. You can go back to the table.”
Without a word he turned and left the tiny room, closing the door behind him.
Indio stuck a finger in the bathwater and swirled it around. “Why d’you talk to Caliban like that?”
Daffodil trotted over and placed her front paws on the rim of the tub to peer in.
“Like what?” Lily asked absently. She rolled up her sleeves and tested the water with an elbow, making sure it was neither too hot nor too cold. The bath was barely more than a shallow basin. She could use it herself by standing or crouching in it, but she missed the bigger copper half-bath they’d had to sell.
“Like he can’t understand,” Indio said.
“Start undressing,” she reminded him.
Indio sighed heavily. “He can.”
She placed her hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow.
“Caliban’s smart,” Indio insisted, his voice only slightly muffled by the shirt over his head. He pulled it all the way off, making his hair stand on end, and looked at her.
She bit her lip. “How do you know?”
Indio shrugged and sat on the floor to push off his stockings. “I just do.”
She frowned, thinking. Caliban had presented himself as dull-witted the first time she’d seen him. Was it a ruse? And if so, whyever would…?
“Mama,” her son said with all the exasperated patience of a seven-year-old. He’d somehow taken off everything but his smalls while she was woolgathering.
“Yes, dear.”
“I’m old enough to bathe myself.”
That was actually debatable, since though Indio could wash the more obvious parts of himself—such as his feet—he had the tendency to forget anything else, such as his neck, face, knees, and elbows.
But she sighed and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll check back in a bit, then, shall I?”
“Yes, please,” he said, scrambling out of his smalls.
Daffodil immediately attacked them as Indio got in the bath.