No Greater Love - Eris Field Page 0,16

pensively, “They were old and most were chipped but we loved them.”

“I had a box of oxblood marbles,” he offered. “They were worn and a little uneven. I think they had been my grandfather’s.”

“Do you still have the marbles?” She opened her hand under his so that they were palm to palm.

He laced his fingers through hers. “Yes. In the right-hand corner of my bottom dresser drawer, in a wooden box with a top that slides open.”

She let out a sigh of relief. “Marbles should be treasured by one generation for the next.” After a moment of silence, she said with a slight frown, “Of course when I turned eight and a half, I could only play with girls.”

“So young?” He tried to conceal his astonishment.

“The customs of Eastern Turkey are different from Western Turkey, the European part of Turkey.” She hesitated and then murmured, “Much more conservative.”

A girl is considered to be a woman when she is eight years and eight months old. There are century-old customs, rules, that control every aspect of a girl’s life.” Her words held a note of bitter resignation.

He lifted their clasped hand to his chest. “Tell me about the rules.”

“A well-brought up girl is expected to be quiet, demure, and always obedient. She must obey her father and, if there is no father, her brother, even a younger brother.” She stopped and then in response to a tightening of his hand continued. “A well-brought-up girl never climbs into her brother’s tree house,” she said with an impish smile that was quickly replaced by a frown. “A well-brought-up girl does not wear bright colors, and,” she added wistfully, “never red.”

“Red’s not your color,” he said definitively. “You should wear regal colors—green the color of emeralds, gold the color of orange-blossom honey, and the most royal color of all, purple—aubergine so intense that it is almost black, violet, and amethyst.”

He moved his hand to her shoulder. “A violet dress of heavy silk with tight sleeves.” His hand slid down her arm. “The sleeves should end about two inches above your wrist.” He circled her wrist with his hand. “You have very delicate wrists and long slender fingers.” He studied them for a moment. “No heavy cuffs, just a narrow band of braid with a single button and loop closing.” He moved his hand back to her shoulder. “The neckline,” he began as his fingers traced the image that he had in his mind, “should be low, but not too low.” His fingers stopped at the third button of her cotton shirt. “There should be a cloud of mauve silk chiffon around your shoulders, and”—his fingers had drifted down to rest lightly on her waist—“a fitted waist.” His hand slid lightly over the black wool pants covering her hip. “A full skirt with tiny pleats that will float when you walk.” His hand moved firmly down her thigh to rest a few inches below her knee. “A skirt, no pants.” He nodded, pleased with his choices, and took her hand in his again. “Go on. What other customs?

Janan struggled to regain control of her breathing. No man had ever touched her like that. She had felt an unfamiliar throbbing everywhere his hand had travelled. Her voice was unsteady as she answered, “Girls have to learn how to make oya, lace edgings, to decorate the things that would be part of their trousseaus.” She groaned. “I was so clumsy. My poor mother tried and tried to teach me.”

“Lace must be difficult to make. I think I’ve read that it takes a long time to master the art,” he said in a soft voice.

“In Anatolia, the lace edgings are a secret language of the women. A girl in love would wear a lace edging with purple hyacinths on her head scarf. A happy wife might wear a hot chili lace edging but an unhappy wife would wear a black pepper lace edging.” She looked down at his hand clasping hers and her voice became more serious. “Of course we could never be in a room when men not part of the family were there, and we would never touch any man except for those in the family.” She hurried on, “Mostly, we worked with our mothers and sometimes we visited other girls and played games.”

“What did you play?” He wanted the soft voice with the captivating accent to go on forever.

Her voice was low and musical. “You probably don’t know the game but we played Bes Tas. It’s