Page 230 - The Grotesque Children's Book

mystical sanctum of experimentation and dark arts. Francesco visited Zaccario often, fascinated
by everything he did, wanting to know more about that hydrargyre vapor especially.

The alchemical miracles continued. Joanna gave birth to a son, Philip. Francesco's world
was complete.

Chapte--

No. False alarm. Francesco's world was not complete. He missed Bianca.

Once he became Grand Duke in 1574, and his time was taken up with stately, official,
solemn oligarchic duties, he had no one to turn to for respite but Joanna, who was such dull
company, and his son Philip who was but a pink mewl, and a dim echo of Bianca's infectious
laughter, and the memory of her adventurousness in both daytime and nighttime activities, and
the infinitude of....You see where this was headed.

He went to visit her at the Casa di Bianca Cappello (Again, thought Francesco, I must
remember to contemplate changing its name!) and damn the consequences. Those who opposed
him could rage and invect all they want to, but everyone knew not to cross him too far, for now
that he was Grand Duke, their lives were in his hands.

Francesco found Bianca much changed. She had grown bloated with a puffy sadness in
the wells of her eyes; an inwardness which had not been there before. Nevertheless, when she
saw Francesco, she leapt up and, with that same skip she used to use on her way to fetch water
from the pump, she flitted over to him. “Oh, Cesco! You've come back! I've done nothing but
think of you. Nothing! Well, nothing but have your child.”

Francesco held out a stiff arm. “We did not have a child together. If that's clear, then,
then...” his eyes rimmed red, “then my sweet seashell Bianca, come to me!”

She hesitated only the briefest of moments. Do I stand firm and force him to
acknowledge his son? Now, while I still hold the bargaining chip of coming back to him? The
child is what drove him from me in the first place. No, I'll hold off for now, and look for an
opportunity later. She flung herself into his arms, saying, “There is no child, Cesco, there is only
me!”

“Only us, you mean.”

“Ha! Us!” she said with mock scorn, “You flatter yourself. You forget that before we
met, I spat on your head, and I'll do it again.” She ran to fetch a small stool and stood on it,
working some chewy spittle from the back of her throat.

“You did not spit on me then, and you'll not spit on me now,” said Francesco, trying to
look his most imperious.

“I will. I'll spit, I'll spit!”

“You won't. I'll see you don't.” He grabbed her from the stool, picking her up, and
clutching her deeply, spun her around.

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