“Mistress, you saved me already from what was worse than death. The passage from this world into the next is no hard journey. Do not harm yourself by helping me.”
“You are too weak to drink only water and eat only a crust of dry bread. I insist.”
I remain crouched beside them until Mother sees the bottle emptied. The creamy smell of the milk makes my stomach growl. When Saffron is settled peacefully, I help Mother up.
“I will sleep with you girls tonight,” she says. “A blessing on you for staying with me, Jessamy.”
I am ashamed I did not help her sooner, that I stood by while Father hit her.
As if she can see into my heart, Mother says, “It is the only time he has ever laid an angry hand on me. I would never stay with a man who abused me. Do not think this is how he is.”
When I speak my voice sounds like a little child’s. “He was never so rigid about the old country Saroese ways before.”
“This will pass, I promise you. Be patient.”
He does not seek her out that night. We girls stack our mats so Mother can have a softer resting place and ourselves lie right on the hard floor.
For the next three days Father is gone all day to stand attendance at Ottonor’s household as the lords of the city pay their respects to the dead man. Our household sits shrouded in the ashes of our finery. Each morning at dawn Cook places a round of fresh bread on the altar while saying a prayer:
“You who command the wind and the rain and the sun and our destiny, accept this offering of the first food of the day. If this meal be pleasing to you, let the household find favor in your eyes and prosperity in the days to come. Let the Doma be well. Let her merciful heart and her affectionate temper be blessed and sheltered by the mantle of your protection, holy ones.”
I moisten dry bread in a cup of well water whose metallic taste coats my tongue, but the scraps do not dull the restless uneasiness that dogs me. Bettany and I cling to Mother, wipe down her sweaty face and arms with a cool cloth even though mourning people are not allowed to bathe. Amaya sits listlessly in the shade, grieving for her burned treasures. Maraya reads as if words are food. Old Saffron’s spark fades in the quiet of night and she dies before dawn. Her body is carried out of the house while Mother whispers a prayer in Efean that I have never heard before. But when I ask what it is, she shakes her head and refuses to answer.
Late at night on the third day Father returns home at last and shuts himself in his study. We four girls walk with Mother to the closed door. He does not answer her query but I hear him pacing. The scuff of his feet on tile is broken by the creak of a chair as he sits down and then stands up again. Haredas speaks to him but he does not reply.
Polodos guards the door. It is he who, after glancing at us, murmurs to Mother: “Lord Ottonor left massive debts, Doma. His heirs are ruined and his household in disorder.”
Amaya begins to cry. “How will we eat? Where will we live?”
“Imagine having to endure Amaya’s bawling over being forced to eat stale bread!” Bettany mutters.
Maraya pokes her. “Or your gloating over her bawling.”
Bettany snorts, amused by Maraya’s wit, and Polodos looks our way, shaking his head. They quiet at once. No one wants Father to come out and scold us.
“Dry your tears, little Amaya,” says Mother, brushing her fingers along Amaya’s cheek. “No doubt your father has some scheme in mind. It will be better in the morning, you’ll see. Let’s go to bed now.”
When I wake at dawn, all the others are still asleep.
Mother looks peaceful, her breathing as soothing as the becalmed sea. I love her so much.
Maraya sleeps with a smile on her face. She’s probably dreaming of dusty old Archives.
Amaya is curled up as tightly as a bug, her head tucked against her knees. She looks so young, like a girl instead of a budding young woman.
Bettany sprawls with arms flung out like wings. In sleep all the anger has melted out of her face. I feel I am glimpsing another Bettany, one I’ve not yet been introduced to in the waking world. Among Patrons Bettany would be criticized as too tall, too broad-shouldered, too kinky-haired, too dark. But no one would ever dare call her anything except beautiful, for she is like finest silk tossed in among serviceable linen.
Every body has five animating souls:
The vital spark, the breath, which separates the living from the dead.
The shadow, which hugs us during the day and wanders out on its own at night.
The self, which is the distinct personality each creature has, that makes one person different from any other.
