Followed by Fros(39)
I mocked offense. “It surprises you that I am smart?”
He nodded. “For one so young.”
“Unless years pass differently in Zareed, I am not,” I protested. “I turned twenty-one not long ago.”
“Hmm. Perhaps not so young, then. It is hard to tell with white women.”
I gaped dramatically. “Aamina happens to think me an old woman, I’ll have you know.”
Lo stood. “Perhaps I ought to sign something with my left hand to show I am joking?” He wrapped his mashadah around his head. “Thank you, Smeesa, for enlightening me. I’m sure I will have more questions for you.”
“And thank you for the books, very much. And for your company,” I said, rising to my feet. “I appreciate it.”
“Read ‘Milkmaid’ first,” he said as he walked to the door. Snow flurries flew into the room when he opened it and stepped out. “You may find it amusing.”
Despite last night’s weariness drawing on me, I opened the larger of the two books Lo had given me and sifted through the pages until I found “Milkmaid”—a short story, not a play. It told of a spice merchant who traveled to the High-Top lands—I assumed he meant those farthest north—to sell his wares. I soon discovered the tale to be a comedy, for Dideh Bab wrote so openly of the strangeness of white folk—women especially—it was laughable. Some of the practices he described, like wearing rouge, were true. The rest, such as singing with the nose and drinking straight from a she-cow’s teats, were entirely false.
I laughed through the story before carefully wrapping the book in a blanket and tucking it away. I turned off my light, and as my dying fire’s rosy glow filled the cavern, I fell asleep and rested better than I had in weeks.
CHAPTER 17
Rhono and Havid soon got into the habit of dropping off their parcels, if they had any, at my front door, often early in the morning. Sometimes I heard them, and sometimes I did not, but I never opened the door when I suspected they were there. They hadn’t asked to serve me, and I understood their fear. Had my life gone differently, I certainly would have feared the Svara Idyah, and I doubt I would have been so kind as to make the trip to her cave to deliver food, even if my sheikh had requested it of me.
But every third day Aamina came to see me, and she always stayed for several hours. She was not a superstitious woman, or perhaps she craved a listening ear. I did not mind in the slightest. Her chatter helped me to solidify my handle on Hraric, and she always explained more complex words and terms to me without malice, even though I often had to interrupt her babble for clarity.
Aamina brought me a small loom with which to occupy my time, since my fingers could not manage threading a needle, and every third day she fetched me new yarn and showed me tricks for creating different patterns and designs. I often undid my own weavings and started over, since I had the time to strive for perfection. My best pieces of work hung on the walls, and I soon began my own mosaic to cover the dog drapery near the head of my bed.
I had thought Lo’s generous visit a special occasion, but he returned almost two weeks later on one of Havid’s days. Night had already fallen over Mac’Hliah.
“It must be terribly boring, being the prince’s guard,” I commented as I let him into the cavern, “if you come all the way out here for recreation.”
He smirked and set his mashadah by the fire to dry. “Most of my men are learning your handtalk; now the palace halls are eerily silent, even midday,” he said, breath clouding in the air. “Have you read them?”
It took me a moment to realize he meant the books. “Oh, yes,” I said, hurrying over to the fire to stoke it. I only built up the fire on Aamina’s days, as it did not matter to me how chilly the cavern became. I spilled some oil on my glove, but fortunately pulled it back before it could catch on fire. I jogged to the other end of the room, removed my gloves, and grabbed a clean pair. Frost traced uneven lines over the fabric as I pulled them on. “I’ve read the plays twice, but I’m still working through the other. I’ll admit, I didn’t believe you when you called the language heavy.”
Lo’s eyes lingered on my gloves. I quickly brushed the frost away.
Clearing my throat, I unwrapped the two volumes from their blanket at the foot of my bed and opened the cloth-wrapped book of ancient Hraric. I had woven a thick bookmark for it, a simple striped pattern of black and sienna. I set the book carefully on the table and turned it toward Lo, who still lingered near the door. Worried my frost had frightened him, I said, “Would you mind . . . helping me? I marked a few places I couldn’t understand.”
Lo unbuttoned the top of his high-collared coat and joined me at the table and took a seat. He picked up my bookmark and, turning it over in his hands, said, “A new hobby of yours?”
“A very new one,” I said, oddly embarrassed to see him handling such a mediocre show of my work. I reached for it, but he pulled it from my grasp, inspecting the woven yarn with his dark brown eyes—dark like wet mountain soil, though I noticed a lighter brown around his pupils, a color like the predawn desert, before the sun could turn it gold.
“You’re making a blanket?” he asked.
“Blanket?”
He gestured with a tilt of his head to the unfinished drapery folded behind my bed. When had he noticed that?