He stares at his palms. An old white scar cuts across his left hand, memory of a desperate struggle. For as long as I remember he has had that scar. I don’t know how he got it.
He looks up. “Polodos, you will buy reeds. The women of the house will weave them into mourning mats. We will sleep and sit on these mats only. All other furniture is to be covered and not used until after the funeral. The women’s ribbons and masks and fripperies must be burned. The household will wear mourning shrouds.”
“Burned!” Amaya fights not to break down.
I’m already planning where I can hide my gear.
He goes on. “Once the mourning prayers are begun we will imbibe only water and bread until Lord Ottonor enters his new abode in the City of the Dead. The food we would have eaten will be given to the oracles. Is that understood?”
Cook is of Patron parentage but she was born and raised in Efea. She looks aghast as she protectively pushes the platters closer to Mother.
“My lord father, is that necessary?” asks Maraya in her calm way. “It is not commonly the custom here in Efea to follow the harsher laws of the old empire. I can show you the Archival records of funeral feasts observed even in the greater and lesser palaces.…”
“We must observe mourning with complete propriety, exactly as it was observed in the days of the empire.” Father is a blade of steel, sharp and unmerciful. “This house especially cannot be seen to take a single step wrong, as Bettany has seen fit to remind us. We are not a palace to bend custom to our convenience.”
Mother curves a hand over her belly. “My lord, of course the household will obey the holy customs of the old empire. Is there no exemption for small children and the aged and infirm, who may suffer if they cannot take a bit of broth or goat’s milk to strengthen their blood?”
My mouth drops open. Never in my life have I heard Mother question one of Father’s decrees, not in front of us girls.
“No.” His tone whips us. “The gods protect those who are fully obedient to their decrees. The oracles see all. Everything must be done with the most scrupulous observance.”
We stand as silent as if we have had our tongues cut out. It is hard to swallow.
Dried blood flakes off his hand. “I must wash off this blood. Make a pyre for all our clothing. The ashes of our vanity will be placed in Lord Ottonor’s tomb when he is interred after the funeral procession.”
His gaze holds each of us in turn. Even Bettany says nothing, for once cowed just like the rest of us. When he looks at me I shiver, for I am not sure I know this man with his angry brow. His right eye twitches as if a flash of light has made him want to blink.
A terrible idea rises up in my heart. This turn of events is not anything he thought would happen, not yet, not now. He fears what Lord Ottonor’s death will bring. But I am not so sure he fears on behalf of his daughters. I am afraid he is not thinking of us at all.
12
At dusk we begin burning clothes in a brick hearth hastily built at the open front gate. We drape ourselves in mourning shrouds, wrinkled linen sacks with holes cut for arms and head. We stand all evening at the gate so everyone can see our piety. Ribbons blacken and curl. Ash seeps everywhere.
Saroese priests sing the proper ritual songs, which drone on and on. An elderly Efean servant called Saffron faints and is taken inside. Half of the household is coughing from the smoke. My eyes stream but not from grief. I am sorry Lord Ottonor is dead but I am not bereft. Father stares straight ahead. Shadows haunt my mother’s gentle eyes. Bettany is silent. Maraya looks as if her carefully tended dreams have been demolished. Poor Amaya sobs as she places the three beautiful masks she just bought onto the flames.
I hid my Fives gear in a rice basket. Will the oracles punish all of us for my disobedience? Yet I do not go and fetch it out. If I lose the Fives, I will turn into ashes too.
Long after everyone has stumbled off to catch what sleep they can on mats on the floor, I sit alone in the family’s private courtyard. My heart is gray, burned to cinders. My thoughts chase like adversaries through a maze.
It is true that Lord Ottonor rode Father’s military victories to a higher place in court. But all lords gain benefit from the achievements of their sponsored men. He did not compel Father to marry a Patron woman of Ottonor’s choosing. He allowed Mother to come to private social gatherings and treated her with tolerant respect. He could have forced Father to get rid of us daughters but he did not. In his own way he accepted us. He allowed us to stay together.
I bury my face in my hands, trembling. I thought such mean and petty things about him and now I wish I could take them all back.
