everyone else had served themselves, though she had the status of an Old Wife. She was so small and timid that Mesema wondered how she had survived so long in the palace. But then she remembered Beyon kissing Lana’s forehead, and how much straighter Lana had stood in the emperor’s presence. Beyon’s affection had protected her all these years.
Mesema did not feel that Beyon’s attentions would yield her the same benefit. Something had happened in the palace, signalled by the arrival of the High Mage. The women whispered nervously among themselves, but nobody quite knew what to make of things: Beyon had not returned, and Mesema feared that his marks had been discovered. If that were true, then all the women connected to him had instantly lost their status and protection, even if they did not know it yet. She longed to go to Sarmin again and ask him, but she had not found a time to slip away, and perhaps it would not be so easy to walk the palace unattended again. She wished she knew how to open the secret door in the hall.
Atia was gazing at her over a platter of fruit. In the lantern light her brown eyes looked orange, like fire. “So many important thoughts for a horsegirl.”
Mesema swallowed. “Blessings, I did not mean to be rude.” “Blessings,” echoed Chiassa with a smile.
“You would be rude,” said Atia, turning her attention to a plump fig, “if you welcomed Beyon into your room before he has been to each of ours. You are to be last in his attentions, do you understand?”
The Old Wives stopped their murmuring. Lana laid a hand on Mesema’s arm. No one reached for a plate or cup.
“Yes,” said Mesema, “I understand.”
“Atia would have you wait for ever, as we do,” said Marren with a wink.
Chiassa gave a high-pitched giggle. Atia’s cheeks turned red, but the silence was broken and the women resumed their meal. Mesema looked from one wife to another in confusion. If they wanted Beyon to visit them, if they cared about him, why did they use the resin? Why did they help his mother work against him?
Because they are afraid, as I am.
“I don’t wish to offend you. I would like to be friends.” Mesema set down her meat and rinsed her fingers in a bowl of rosewater.
“When she’s not riding horses with the emperor, anyway,” Hadassi muttered.
Mesema sighed to herself. She never should have mentioned Tumble.
“What?” said Atia, nearly choking on her fig. “Riding horses? I won’t allow it.”
Lana spoke, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Keleb has showered wisdom upon the emperor, heaven bless him. Don’t you think that Beyon should decide such things?”
Mesema smiled at that narrow, timid face. She already thought of Lana as an aunt or grandmother. “It’s all right, Little Mother,” she said, grasping Lana’s hand. “Walk with me.” She stood and curtsied at the women. “Blessings of the day.”
“Blessings,” Chiassa said again, though the others just stared. As they walked, the women’s whispers fading behind them, Mesema studied the women in the niche-pictures. They were all the same: pretty, docile. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but she was disappointed: pretty and docile weren’t going to help her survive. She needed allies.
“Lana, I’m curious. Does Beyon have no sisters?”
“He does, but their marriages were arranged long before his father’s death. They have been gone for many years. Nessaket made sure the contracts were honoured.”
Nessaket. The Empire Mother spent most of her time outside the women’s wing. Mesema wished that she could do the same. “Lana, have I met everyone in this wing? It’s just us, the Old Wives, the young wives, and Nessaket?”
“Yes.” Lana almost said more, but fell silent instead.
Picking her way through secrets, again. Before Mesema could ask another question, they turned into the ocean room and she saw her trunk waiting by the bed, its unstained wood and simple brass fittings too plain for its surroundings. She dropped Lana’s hand and rushed towards it.
“Your things?”
“Yes.” Mesema pushed the trunk open and pulled out the blanket on the top. It was heavy and thick, too warm for the desert, but she placed it on her bed anyway, still folded. Next was her wedding dress, which made a soft jingle as she lifted it. She felt a lump in her throat when she remembered the women stitching around the fire. The women here didn’t sew; they only prettied themselves and whispered.
She could see now that the dress wasn’t colorful