ground into your skin, like a nomad.”
Mesema almost asked why the emperor should care, but she held her tongue. Her fingers worked the lacings of her blouse as she looked around the tent once more. Two other women, both young, had come in behind her. When she looked at them, they giggled and huddled together. One had blue eyes, but she didn’t look Felting. The other looked Cerani.
Mesema’s heart gave a twinge when she thought they might have been her friends, had things been different. If Arigu hadn’t been such a liar and Banreh such a fool.
When she took off her blouse, the women exclaimed in laughter again. Mesema burned with humiliation and began to undo her skirt.
Sahree must have seen the expression on her face, for she tapped Mesema’s shoulder and smiled. “This is good,” she said, pointing to her chest. She motioned to the blue-eyed woman, who stepped forwards and put her hand right over one of Mesema’s breasts. “Good skin. Tight,” she said. An odd compliment, Mesema thought; Cerani might not be the girl’s native language, but the message came across in any case. She nodded encouragingly at Mesema.
Mesema tried to smile back, but her body had begun to shake. Would the emperor be looking at her chest? She wondered where Banreh was, and if he were still alive.
“Don’t be frightened,” said Sahree. “It’s just some soap and a brush.” Her eyes betrayed a hint of impatience. “Willa, help her.” With that, the blueeyed girl took Mesema’s arm and eased her towards the tub.
Mesema climbed in while the young women exclaimed over her thighs and buttocks. The water felt cool against her skin as Sahree cleaned her with gentle hands and rubbed soap into her hair. She hadn’t been washed like that, by another person, since she was a baby. It made her think of her mother. When she climbed out, the younger women dressed her hair. As their soft fingers unwound her tangles, tears ran down Mesema’s cheeks. She missed Dirini and Eldra.
“No, no,” said the Cerani girl, the one Sahree had called Tarub, “don’t ruin your eyes.”
Willa fetched a wet cloth and pressed it over Mesema’s face.
“Better,” said the other.
“Now for the difficult part,” said Tarub.
Mesema panicked: what did they mean, the difficult part? She calmed her breathing. She was a princess. She would not scream, or be frightened, but she did push the cloth away. She wanted to see.
They laid her back onto a cushion and held her legs apart as Sahree gave her a gentle smile. “We need to be sure you are a maiden. Please forgive.”
“It will just take a moment,” said Tarub, grasping her hand. A few seconds later, when Sahree’s fingers found their way inside her, Mesema squeezed Tarub’s hand so tightly that she feared she’d injured her.
Sahree laughed and let her go. “Maiden, for certain.”
“This is good,” said Tarub, extricating her fingers from Mesema’s grasp.
“Now we dress you,” said Sahree cheerfully, splashing her fingers in a bowl of water.
Mesema pressed her legs together, but she still hurt. A Windreader could not be humiliated this way. “Who are you?” she asked at last. “Why are you here?”
The women looked at her as if she were mad. “We are the body-slaves to the Old Wives, the emperor’s mothers and grandmothers,” said Sahree.
“Are the Old Wives here, then?”
Sahree shook her head, amused. “Of course not.”
This didn’t answer anything at all, but Mesema chose not to pursue it as the women started holding up filmy pieces of cloth, more like scarves than dresses. “See this one?” Tarub shook out some fabric and held it against Mesema’s face. “It looks well on you.”
Mesema wrung her hands together. The bath, the maiden check, the clothes—none of it made any sense. Why wasn’t she dead already? Was it a game? If so, all she could do was go along with it. “I choose that one, if I am allowed to choose.”
The women exchanged glances. “Of course you may choose,” said Sahree. They gathered the fabric over her shoulder and pinned it with a jewelled brooch. It felt softer than the softest wool, softer than skin, as it fell cool against her body. Another piece went around her waist and they tied it all together with a patterned sash. They placed jewelled sandals on her feet and stood back to admire their work.
Mesema lifted her arms. It felt strange to have no fabric between her arms and her ribs. She felt naked. “How do you name this