Sandry's Book
Page 26He bit his lip. If he refused, she might get rid of him—and she knew about plants. Then he thought of something and grinned. Unlike Sotat, here the sexes bathed separately. He’d wait until the women entered their side of the bathhouse and return to the cottage. Making a note to wet his hair to convince them, he gathered his things and followed the others outside.
A slender, long-haired figure in an undyed robe awaited them at the bathhouse. “I hoped to find you here,” said Niko with a charming smile. “I thought I’d be company for Briar.” He draped a thin arm around the boy’s shoulders, steering him toward the door to the mens’ baths. “I know all these new experiences must be unsettling for you.”
Briar scowled at Lark and Rosethorn, who ducked their heads to hide grins.
“Have a nice wash,” Sandry teased as she walked by him.
“Make sure to get behind your ears—kid,” Daja added.
“Where did she learn that bit of street argot?” inquired Niko. “No, don’t tell me—I know. Come, Briar. The sooner we begin, the sooner you can dry off.”
As the girls entered the main chamber of the women’s baths, Tris backed up a step, shaking her head. “Now what?” demanded Rosethorn. The handful of bathers already in the pool turned to stare.
“I’m not bathing in front of people,” Tris said, crimson-faced. “I thought you had private baths, like in the girls’ dormitory. It’s not decent.” And they’ll torment me because I’m fat, she added silently.
The two women looked at Sandry, who shrugged. She was used to all kinds of bathing customs. In Hatar, the sexes washed together in large pools like these.
Rosethorn tapped a foot. She seemed about to speak, and not happily. Lark stopped her with a hand on her arm. “I’ll show them where the private tubs are,” she said gently. “Come on, girls.”
Daja scrubbed in quiet misery. If her family had seen her at Frostpine’s, they would not have stopped at the whippings they’d given her in the past, when she was caught watching metalsmiths. They might have declared her trangshi themselves. “Traders trade—they don’t do,” her mother had told her time after time. “We don’t handle, we don’t work. We pay lugsha the lowest price we can get for their pieces, then we sell at the highest profit. It’s all right to smile, listen to their tales, compliment them on their craft, if it means closing the trade. It is not all right to show an interest on our own account.”
I’m so confused, Daja thought, drying off. I don’t know what’s proper anymore. I don’t even have anyone to tell me what’s proper. Maybe I must work it out for myself. And how am I supposed to do that?
6
When the porridge came to him the next morning, Briar took a ladleful, placed it in his bowl, looked at the result, then added another. No one scolded him or took the pot away. He considered adding more and decided not to push his luck. He was still trying to see what was allowed and what wasn’t.
Once Lark and Rosethorn asked the blessing, he began to eat greedily.
“Leave me be. I eat how I want to eat,” he grumbled.
Shaking her head, Sandry picked up the honey pot and added a large spoonful to his bowl. “You need the sweetening,” she informed him.
“Give him the whole pot, then,” murmured Daja.
Lifting the pitcher, its sides beaded with damp from the coldbox, Sandry poured milk onto Briar’s food. “And that helps, too. You look like you need all the honey and milk you can stand.”
Briar glared at her, offended. “Did I ask you to stick your neb in my life?”
She gave him an extra-sweet smile that Daja recognized instantly as being Sandry at her contrariest. “You didn’t, but that’s all right. I’ll do it anyway. I’m like that.”
He was about to swear at her, but the look in her bright eyes made him think twice. She was like no one he’d met in his life, this girl-Bag. If he yelled at her, he had the sneaking suspicion that she might give as good as she got.
Briar inspected the white and gold on top of his cereal, stirred everything gingerly, and tasted the result. Temple porridge had been good before—not like the thin slop he’d scrounged at home—but now it was rich and sweet. He told himself that nicked food tasted better, but he knew it was a lie.
Rosethorn came back with a twist of heavy paper. Carefully she sprinkled brown dust into everyone’s bowls and added more to the pot before she sat. “This is cinnamon—it comes from the eastern caravans. Dedicate Crane tries to grow the trees in his greenhouse, but he isn’t succeeding.” She grinned as she stirred the powder into her breakfast.
When the boy tasted the addition, he began to shovel food into his mouth as fast as he could swallow. Sandry opened her mouth to protest, then gave up.
“I don’t see why you and Crane can’t declare a truce, Rosie,” complained Lark. “You liked each other once.”
“Before he decided to play tricks on plants,” retorted the other woman. “He treats their need for the change of seasons like—like a parent who thinks his child’s love of a favorite blanket is babyish, so he takes the blanket away. Crane acts as if plants are wasting their time during fall and winter.”