1
We four sisters are sitting in the courtyard at dusk in what passes for peace in our house. Well-brought-up girls do not fidget nor fume nor ever betray the least impatience or boredom. But it is so hard to sit still when all I can think about is how I am going to sneak out of the house tomorrow to do the thing my father would never, ever give me permission to do.
I say to my elder sister, Maraya, “What are you reading, Merry?”
She hunches over an open book. Its pages are bathed in the golden light of an oil lamp set on an iron tripod. The words so absorb her that she does not even hear me.
I say to my younger sister, Amaya, “Who are you writing to, Amiable?”
She flashes a glare from her heavily kohl-lined but nevertheless lovely eyes. “I am writing poetry, which I am sure is a sophisticated and elegant skill you have no acquaintance with, Jes. Now hush, I pray you, for I just thought of the most pleasing way of describing my eyes.”
She pretends to brush a few letters, but instead she retrieves a folded note from its hiding place beneath the table. I happen to know it contains execrable love poetry smuggled in from a secret admirer. As her poem-worthy eyes scan the words she blushes prettily.
I glance at my twin sister, Bettany, thinking to share a joke at Amaya’s expense, but Bett sits in the shadows with her back to us. She is weaving string between her fingers, muttering words in a rough undertone. I do not wish to know what she is saying, and I hope she does not intend to share it.
Mother sits on the marriage couch, the plushly cushioned double-chair that she and Father share when he is home from the wars. A gauzy silk gown spills over the huge expanse of her pregnant belly. Her slightly unfocused stare might in another woman be described as vapid, but in her it simply means she is thinking of Father. All is harmonious and peaceful, just as she likes it.
I want to get up and race around. I want to climb the walls, which is the plan for tomorrow when Bettany has agreed to make a screaming diversion during which I will clamber up one of the sturdy trellises and escape unseen over the roof.
Instead we will sit here until the Junior House Steward comes in to announce supper. Girls like us have to be more decorous and well-mannered than the daughters of other officers because our father is a lowborn army captain fighting to make his fortune through valor and bold leadership. Which one of us would dare jeopardize his steady, hard-fought climb through the ranks by indulging in disreputable behavior?
“You are restless, Jessamy,” Mother says in her sweet, pleasant voice. “Is something troubling you?”
“Nothing,” I lie.
She examines me a moment longer with her soft gaze. Then she picks up her embroidery and begins to stitch with the easy patience of a woman who is accustomed to waiting for the reward she loves best.
The handsomely decorated courtyard gleams in lamplight. In his last campaign, Father won enough prize money from his victories that he had the courtyard repaved with marble. We now sit on carved ebony-wood couches with silk-covered pillows, just as highborn people do. What matters to Father is that the courtyard has become a respectably fashionable setting in which Mother can entertain without embarrassment those wives and mothers and sisters of army officers who will accept her invitations.
I turn my thoughts again to the forbidden thing I am going to do tomorrow. I have it all planned out: how to get out of the house, how to be gone from midmorning to midday without anyone except my sisters knowing, how to bribe Amaya to keep my secret while finding a way to repay Maraya and Bett for all the times they have helped me sneak out without Mother becoming suspicious. I’ve done it a hundred times.
Everything is set for tomorrow. It will all go exactly as planned, just as it always does.
I smile.
And that is when disaster strikes.
2
Mother looks up as an eruption of voices and clattering footsteps rises from the front of the house. Out of the clamor we all hear a man’s robust laugh.
Another woman might gasp or exclaim but Mother calmly sets her embroidery wheel onto the side table. The smile that paints her mouth is gentle, yet even that mellow touch of happiness makes her beauty shine more brightly than all the lamps and the moon and stars besides. I hasten over to help her rise. Amaya hides the note under the table.
Even Maraya looks up. “Has Father returned home early from the wars?” she asks, squinting in a way that makes her look bewildered.
Bettany shouts, “How I hate this false coin and the way we all lie to ourselves!”
She jumps up and rushes into the kitchen wing, pushing past a file of servants who spill out into the courtyard because they have heard the commotion. Just as Bett vanishes, Father appears. He is still wearing his armor, dust-covered from days of travel, and holds his captain’s whip in his hand. It is how he always arrives home, wanting to greet Mother before he does anything else.