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Comedy of the Heart
Comedy of the Heart
Comedy of the Heart
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Comedy of the Heart

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About Comedy of the Heart
The King’s Troupe has hit a bit of a losing streak. So bad that they no longer perform for the king –– in fact, the king has promised unequivocally to kill them if he ever sees them poking their silly heads around his court again. But they are actors, and actors have no problem taking to the road, so long as the road leads to a stage! Traveling around Italy, the group takes on new members, confronts hidden pasts, and, of course, makes numerous bawdy jokes. A servant girl proves herself a natural-born talent. Two fools inadvertently compete for the heart of a most noble lady. A woman who plays a servant hides from her viscount father. A jealous man contrives to “prove” his wife’s fidelity. And the troupe’s director finally gets his own chance at love, years after giving up on the prospect. With joyous tumbling, clever repartee, and true love, the King’s Troupe never has a dull moment. Live the life of a seventeenth-century comedian with this band of merry gentlemen and women!
About Bryant Street Shorts
Bryant Street Shorts is a new publisher specializing in exciting short-form fiction from talented and emerging writers. We’re passionate about creating immersive works that represent our readers and celebrate what matters to them, which is why our catalog of stories reflects a wide range of experiences and voices.
Many Bryant Street Shorts are collections of stories that follow ensembles of characters across multiple storylines. We suggest reading these stories in order to get the most out of your experience. Simply scroll down to “Titles In This Series,” located just below the description of every Bryant Street Short, to find the stories in their correct order.
To find more short stories and novellas on Scribd, simply search for “Bryant Street Shorts."

LanguageEnglish
Release dateMay 19, 2020
ISBN9781094410326
Author

Riley Smith

N/A

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    Book preview

    Comedy of the Heart - Riley Smith

    Part One: Isabella Makes Her Own Fortune

    There are few sensations more horrible to the senses than dunking your uncovered hands into a freezing-cold bucket of soapy water. Isabella Andrea Ardeni despised the sensation so much that, even though she was, in fact, a kitchen maid whose primary responsibility was to clean the floors, she tended to try and foist the job onto whomever was nearest and dumbest.

    Isabella was looking for just such a quarry on a dreary February morning in the northern Italian villa (hardly a villa anymore, in any pleasurable sense of the word, since it was covered in snow a good chunk of the year) where she had spent her entire life as a servant. Her parents had spent their entire lives here as servants, and were, rather morbidly, spending their deaths in the garden.

    There were few thoughts more horrible to Isabella Andrea Ardeni than the thought that she might join them there for all eternity, having never gone much farther than the village market in search of fresh fish and cheese.

    Isabella stood beside the pail of soapy water, sighing loudly and staring at it with all the longing of a rejected lover. It was not long before one of the other maids, Anna, approached with a quizzical expression.

    Anna looked at Isabella and looked at the pail. Isabella didn’t do anything but continue staring longingly at the pail.

    Anna took the bait and asked, Isabella, why do you stare so longingly at the water?

    Isabella said, Oh, Anna! I had not noticed your approach. You see, dear one, this water is holy water, blessed by the bishop himself.

    Anna gasped. Holy water? What need have we for Holy Water in the kitchen?

    Isabella explained, We need to scrub the floors and tabletops, for there has been word of vampires in these parts.

    Anna was a silly girl, and gasped again. Vampires?

    Isabella said, Perhaps it is superstition. It is, after all, 1613, and one would hope the vampires would be eradicated by now. But there is always some sinful evildoer to guard against, dear, sweet Anna, and this holy water was meant to be our salvation. I was supposed to scrub the whole kitchen with it, until everything shone with the joy of the Lord.

    Anna was riveted. She asked with trepidation and excitement, Why have you not begun cleaning this kitchen of sin?

    Isabella lamented, Alas! I was not confessed of my sins this past Sunday, and therefore, when I place my hands in the water, it burns me. For holy water burns unconfessed sinners as it burns vampires, although not quite so deadly, since we have a hope of redemption. I cannot clean the kitchen, for my sins.

    Anna lamented in kind, Oh, poor Isabella! Burning already for your sins. I should not want you to suffer simply for having missed confession. Let me put my hands in the water and clean the kitchen! It would be an honor!

    Isabella refused, but Anna insisted, which Isabella of course refused –– with slightly less vehemence, however –– until Anna plunged her hands into the water to grab the soapy cloth. She winced at the freezing feeling of it.

    Isabella asked, Dearest, most pure Anna, you wouldn’t happen to have any unconfessed sins, would you?

    Anna shook her head, smiling to hide the pain from the cold, and said, No, Isabella! The water feels like the warmest, most blessed sunshine!

    Isabella said, Fantastic, and left the kitchen to conduct the chore she found much more interesting: making sure the fires throughout the house were brightly lit and burning at a comfortable warmth. She liked this chore because it took her all around the vast manor, and because it was a great excuse to eavesdrop.

    Section Break

    The Count de Esco was being made ridiculous by his pursuit of the lovely Señorita (a Spanish transplant) Maria Teresa Rafaela Victoria Aguilera, formerly of Barcelona, and presently the count’s next-door neighbor, as much as you could call someone on the other side of your two hundred acres next door.

    Señorita Maria Teresa Rafaela Victoria Aguilera was hugely rich, greatly nostalgic for the pleasures of the Spanish coast, and notoriously hard to please. At the moment Isabella made her quiet way into the parlor, the señorita and her ancient nurse were all but ignoring the count’s desperate pleas for respect.

    The count spoke in broken Spanish, confusing all of his words without any self-awareness or humility, telling the señorita at three in the afternoon, Good night, small chicken. I wish you were here more.

    The señorita did not respond.

    The count responded to himself, I do not like being alone.

    The señorita responded, Men seldom do. I find many women prefer it, once they discover their options for company.

    Isabella snorted, then had to cough and pretend like it was the fire that had gotten up her nose.

    Unlike Isabella (who had to buy from Spanish vendors in the market and had become fluent to avoid being cheated), the count did not understand Spanish very well, and he had even less of a chance with the señorita’s upper-class Barcelona accent.

    The count said, in Italian, My, she is an intoxicating creature. So learned. So mysterious.

    The señorita, being entirely fluent in Italian, said, Who is an intoxicating creature, sir?

    The count sputtered and said, The Virgin Mary,

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