A Matter of Souls by Denise Lewis Patrick

nose.
    â€œBeen busy, I hear?”
    Beesi ignored him. “Time to get up, time to move.” She bent to slip her arm behind his back. As he raised himself up, Covington was aware of a numbness in his left leg. He threw the covers back. Was it—no, his leg was there, laced to a thick splint. He tried to move it, and the numbness turned to throbbing, but he couldn’t lift it.
    â€œDoctor don’t know, Cov. Said you gotta try. Maybe you walk like old times. Maybe not. Now, get up.”
    Beesi heaved, and Covington gave it his all, and he was standing, his arm around her neck. He was dizzy for a bit, but Beesi was perfectly still, as if she knew.
    â€œI’m up,” he said. She produced a cane from somewhere and thrust it into his hand, then slowly unwound herself from him.
    â€œTry,” she said.
    Covington started with his right foot, then pulled his left leg along, feeling tingles from his thigh to his calf. His ribs hurt, his head hurt. Beesi walked backward in front of him. He sighed. She was going to make him go all the way into the sitting room.
    Covington snorted. If she was going to be stubborn, he was going to be determined.
    He wasn’t sure how long it took. Sweat moistened the back of his neck; he was beginning to feel a little lightheaded. At the doorframe, he leaned to rest.
    Beesi stepped to one side.
    Under the front window was his workbench. Next to it was his stool.
    â€œCome, come.” Beesi took his hand and nestled close, almost like she was becoming Covington’s left side. He sat down hard on the stool and swallowed as he looked down. There were his tools, placed just as he liked them. Lasting pincers, small hammer, awls … and tucked underneath one of the smoothing sticks was a scrap of brown paper.
    Covington slowly slipped it out and held it up close to his face.
    It was his sketch of the dove-colored wedding shoe.
    â€œBeesi, I—” The emotion stopped him. Beesi got down on her knees and looked up into his eyes.
    â€œShe gonna wait. They all gonna wait, for Covington’s Fine Shoes.” Beesi squeezed Covington’s right hand and drew the muslin window curtain back.
    Covington saw his shingle hanging there, all of a piece, letters perfect and paint fresh. He grabbed Beesi’s chin and kissed her, once, twice, three times.
    â€œWe’ve got a powerful love, Adebesi,” he whispered.
    â€œPowerful, Covington,” she murmured back, brushing her lips against his eyes and forehead.
    â€œWe got somethin’ powerful.”

G irl! Put some more coal on that fire. I told you not to let it burn down so low. There’s a chill in here! I don’t want to look like a snow queen in my portrait. Hurry up, why don’t you?” The plain young woman rustled only slightly in the direction of the little brown child in the corner of the room. The shining pleats of red silk that pooled around the young woman hardly moved.
    The child blinked away sleep. She was so tired, she’d been dozing. It took her a minute to gain her senses, but she knew that her mistress wouldn’t dare reach out to strike her. This time. She would never risk putting a hair out of place, not after the hours she’d spent carefully arranging her curls and painting her face for the picture-taking man.
    And besides, he had said the mistress must be still as stone while he was preparing to make his exposure. But she could move her lips.
    â€œWell? And can’t you see that our guest needs some warm drink? You tell Annie Cook to send in a plate of sweets, too!”
    The tall, red-haired man winked at the child as she jumped from the low, round stool where she was sitting. She took a chance and offered him a quick grin in return.
    â€œHow dare you get familiar with my company!” Mistress screeched, and a dainty pump flew past the child’s head, almost landing on the hearth. The child darted her eyes to the fireplace, and the man laughed