I sit back in astonishment. “Is he really the one who writes that leaden-footed poetry devoted to the mysterious pools of your star-ridden eyes?”
“It’s not leaden-footed. They’re the most beautiful words ever written!” She hasn’t opened her eyes. “Could you just let me have some peace?”
The grind of the wheels on the street, the clip-clap of the horses’ hooves, and the pad of the servants’ feet as they walk alongside out in the sun blends into a soothing rhythm. In a pleasant baritone Polodos sings a lover’s song about a sailor stealing off his ship at dawn to meet his beloved so she can “wash his clothes.” I shut my eyes and pretend I am climbing the victory tower, that I reach the top and pull off my mask.
It’s just a dream. It will never happen.
Amaya elbows me. “Jes! Wake up. We’re home. Thank all the gods! Father’s not here yet.”
We live in a district where lowborn Patron men who have gained a certain level of prestige and wealth have set up households behind high walls. The green gates of our house are marked with Ottonor’s three-horned bull. We get out in the carriage yard and hurry indoors past Father’s parlor and study, past the reception room and garden where he hosts what social gatherings he can afford, and into the family quarters.
“We did it!” Amaya takes hold of my hand. “Father will never know because everything went perfectly!”
The tension and the emotion of the day finally begin to drain and I start to relax.
Just as we enter the family’s gracious parlor we hear Bettany screech.
“I can’t anymore! I won’t! And you can’t stop me!”
That tone is trouble and this is not a day on which we want any further notice from Father. Amaya and I run down the passage and into the suite we four girls share. I bar the door behind us.
Bettany faces Maraya. The contrast between them could not be more stark. Maraya has the same short, stocky build as Father. Bettany towers over her. Her hair spreads like an aura around her head. Hers is the beauty that crushes rather than soothes.
“What is going on? Why are you bullying Maraya?” I demand. Bett and I aren’t much alike, but we did share a womb so there isn’t really anything I won’t say to her.
“I’m not bullying her. She’s the one who got in my way.” Bettany picks up a laden basket and slings it over her back. “I am leaving this house forever. And I’m not coming back.”
“If you ruin the family’s reputation by running away, I’ll never make a good marriage,” cries Amaya.
Bettany measures Amaya in the hard way that makes Amaya blush. She hates that Bettany is far more beautiful than she is and hates even more that Bettany cares nothing for her beauty. “I weep for you, Amiable. You can tell Father I died.”
“You might spare a thought for what will happen to the rest of us,” says Maraya calmly. “We will be punished for what you did.”
“Don’t you care about Mother?” Amaya demands.
“That fat cow! Grazing inside the fence she allowed to be built around her while she waits for the bull to come home and cover her.”
“There’s no reason for you to be deliberately coarse!” I’m astonished at how much her comment annoys me. “If not for her, you and I would have been handed over to the temple.”
Her anger makes the room hum. “Yes, we all like to praise her for that. But what if Father had insisted on giving us to the temple? Would she have stood up to him then?”
Maraya raises a hand. “Your argument is a sieve that doesn’t hold water. Maybe he didn’t insist. But maybe he did and Mother refused. All we know is that I am alive and you two are not servants in the temple.”
“Or worse,” murmurs Amaya. “You might have been dedicated to become attendants to a living oracle. Think of how awful that would be! Shut up in a tomb until you die.”
We all turn on her, even Bettany. “Shh!” “Hush!” “Amaya! How can you speak such an impiety!” Our words roll together into one.
But it is too late.
Maybe our bad fortune has nothing to do with Bettany’s rebellion and Amaya’s blasphemous words. Maybe it started when I so arrogantly presumed that my day would go exactly as planned. When both Amaya and I defied our father’s wishes. Maybe it has nothing to do with us girls at all. To lords who live in palaces, we are nothing more than sticks in the current to be rolled along in waters far more powerful than our fragile lives.
A commotion rises from the house. Shrieks and shouts split the air.
