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Chapter 3
Shrill laughter burst out behind them. Iris turned and saw a crowd encircling some spectacle.
“What is it? Can you see?” Tafne asked.
Iris didn’t have to answer. A bald, dark-skinned man leapt up into the air and flipped upside down. Then a second man, and a third.
“Acrobats!” Iris took her arm. “Let’s go watch!”
“I can’t,” Tafne said. “I feel dizzy enough right here. Go without me.”
“Tafne?” A man appeared, and Tafne bit back a gasp.
“Seker! Ah. Good evening to you.”
Seker’s eyes were on Iris, but she swiftly rose from her seat and bowed her head. “Riaz is waiting for me. Good evening, Seker.”
Before either of them could protest, she turned and strode for the crowd. The acrobats were juggling fire now, and the heat of their flaming batons warmed her face as she drew nearer. It took no time for Riaz to find her.
“I thought you would never leave her,” he muttered into her ear.
“She has other company for the moment. I’ll return to her soon.”
“She should not have come tonight. You are her apprentice, Iris, not her slave.”
“I am her friend.”
Riaz’s amber eyes wandered over her face and hair. “I won’t ask you to dance with me, because you won’t.”
She laughed. “There are plenty of others who would.”
“I don’t want them.” He took her elbow gently. “Come. Let’s sit.”
She followed him to a pair of large crimson cushions embroidered with golden lotuses. A servant appeared with a tray, bowing so low that his nose disappeared. Iris took two almonds and thanked him.
Riaz sat back and sighed. “Iris, you know that I love my sister. It pains me to warn you of this again.”
“So, don’t.”
“I won’t see you crushed by the loss of her. Even I have had to let her go.”
“She doesn’t need us to let her go. She’s still here.”
“Today, yes. But you know that even tomorrow, she may not wake up. Her days have already surpassed what any of us expected.” He offered a pitying gaze, which Iris dissolved with a glare. He changed the subject. “Well, you look beautiful. Even without a shred of jewelry.”
“Thank you, Riaz.”
“Tomorrow is a special day. It is the day we met, three years ago. Do you remember?”
She remembered vividly. She remembered the splitting blisters on her feet and the exhaustion in her bones and the fear pumping through her veins. Tafne’s plan—that she become Egyptian—seemed ridiculous, even impossible. To be caught meant sure execution. But Tafne insisted that it would work. She scrubbed Iris clean in the Nile, hurriedly dressed her in jewels and a white dress, then lined her eyes with black kohl and hid her mess of hair beneath a glossy beaded wig.
“You don’t look anything like her,” Tafne said, scrutinizing her and coming away pleased.
“Like who?”
“Hazel, of course.” She adjusted the wig. “You will need a new name, of course. And a new story.”
“You decide.”
Riaz was in the villa foyer speaking to a visitor when Tafne led Iris inside the house of Hakor for the first time. Their eyes met and Riaz stopped mid-sentence, his hands frozen over an open scroll.
“Brother, this is Iris,” Tafne said, pronouncing the new name with precision. She had chosen it because the iris was a flower in every Egyptian garden. “We met at the market this morning. She’s visiting from Memphis, but she is exactly what I’ve been waiting for in an apprentice and I want her to stay with us.”
The scroll he held slowly furled up as his gaze lingered on Iris. She wondered if he was mute, until at last he bowed and spoke. “I am Riaz. I hope you’ve found Zoan to be a beautiful city.”
She glanced at Tafne, who gave a subtle nod. “Very,” Iris said. Until she had rid her speech of its Hebrew accent, she would keep her words few.
“My sister swore she would never take on an apprentice,” he said, half-smirking. “How has a stranger managed to change her mind?”
“Iris is special, brother,” Tafne replied for her. “The gods have sent her.”
And he believed her.
“I remember,” Iris said, forcing a smile at the memory.
“Do you not miss Memphis? The Pyramids of Giza?”
“No, no. It’s too hot there,” said Iris.
“Well, soon I will take you to visit your uncle. I haven’t forgotten.”
She shrugged casually. “My letters to him are enough.”
“One day we will go.” He took a long drink from his cup. “Unless of course you just don’t want your family to meet me. But if that’s the case—”
A burst of shrieks from the crowd cut him off. The musicians halted their song, and a jarring silence stole the hall. Iris turned. Shoving through the stunned guests, a group of men marched straight up to the foot of Pharaoh’s throne upon the golden dais. Iris’s stomach flipped. She knew these stiff and ruthless men with their sashes and wooden rods.
These were taskmasters from Avaris, and they did not belong here.
As they bowed before Pharaoh, Iris counted ten of them. Their dirt-spattered kilts and heaving chests told that they had traveled far, and fast.
“What is this, men?” Pharaoh said flatly. His chin twitched.
“Your Highness, our king,” one of the taskmasters said, “we regret our disturbance. Duty compels us to bid you warning. There is immediate threat in your neighboring region of Goshen—your city of Avaris, to be exact.” He lowered his head another inch. “A traitor to the throne has returned.”
Sharp gasps shot up from the crowd. Iris clasped her hands and hoped Riaz would not notice them shaking.
“He intends to revolt against our king,” the taskmaster continued. “He performed dark magic for the Hebrew slaves, and he rallies them together—even now.”
To Iris’s surprise, Pharaoh laughed. “Rallied them together, has he? The Hebrew slaves? Well, that’s more than you’ve ever done.” He smirked, and the crowd chuckled nervously. “Please, give me the name of this man so I can welcome him myself.”
The taskmaster dared not lift his head. “His name is Moses.”
Pharaoh’s jaw clenched. His amusement vanished. Murmurs rippled through the hall. “If I’m not mistaken,” he barked, “the Hebrews slaves are your duty. Have you truly interrupted my cousin’s feast to tell me that brick makers and shepherds have undermined your control?”
The taskmasters dipped their heads still lower.
“Will you not answer your king?”
“Dawn is fast approaching, Your Highness, and duty compels us to warn you—”
“Silence!” Pharaoh shouted. The queen jumped in her seat, and the prince sneered. “You have made fools of yourselves. I will not insult my cousin or my guests by rendering your punishment now.” He signaled the guards lining the hall with a raise of his finger, and a dozen of them came forward, swiftly seizing the taskmasters.
“Mighty king, you must be warned!” one of them implored. “This Moses comes with great power—he is surely a god!” A guard silenced the man with a swift jab to the gut, but this claim jerked Pharaoh to his feet.
“I am god!” the king roared, his arms outstretched and his gold-plated robe shimmering madly. His booming outburst shook even the smirk from his son’s face.
The taskmasters were taken away, down toward the dungeon where they would await their punishment.
Chapter 4
With a brisk wave and a roaring laugh, Pharaoh demanded the return to celebration. The music tripled in strength and the acrobats giggled and twirled, while slaves rushed forward with fresh goblets of wine.
Seker took a cup and chuckled darkly. “Well, if that wasn’t the most ridiculous—”
Ignoring him, Tafne stood to find Iris. Most of the guests were so full of wine that they were already absorbed in the party again, unbothered by what had transpired. She pushed through them, searching until she was so deep in a sea of bodies and perfume that her lungs, at last, gave up. Her throat clenched shut and her breath was stopped.
She fell to the ground, lungs aflame. Hot panic pumped through her veins as her body fought to draw air. People shrieked and leapt away as if she were a scorpion. She clutched her chest against searing pain and shame.
Then Iris was at her side. She tried to pull her up, but Tafne fell back against a pillar, sending a white jolt of pain through her body. Iris stooped down and lifted her like a child, then carried her out to the courtyard. They stopped at the edge of a fountain. A couple nearby heard Tafne’s wheezing and jumped away in fright. Iris proceeded through the usual ritual—whispering that it would be all right, telling her to breathe slowly, making sure she kept her chin up and back straight. She never said so, but Tafne knew that these episodes terrified her.
It was a long while before the deathly clutch on her lungs yielded. The pain in her chest eased to a dull ache, and Tafne breathed in the clear night air at last. When she could carry herself, Iris led them home. The noise from the palace followed them well beyond the gates, until at last they could hear only the soft patting of their sandals on the hard-packed dirt and the gentle rustling of palms above their heads.
“What did Seker say?” Iris asked.
“Nothing. He came to see you,” said Tafne glumly. She was a fool to think that the tall, dark Theban had any eye for her.
“Oh—Tafne, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. His breath reeked anyway.” Tafne chewed at her nail, thinking back to Pharaoh’s indignation. “Moses,” she said, remembering the name that had kindled his fury. “I thought he was a myth. How old must he be?”
“He was no myth,” said Iris. “But he was believed to be dead long ago.”
“Perhaps he was, and now he’s returned as a god seeking vengeance.”
Iris raised an eyebrow. “You don’t believe that.”
“The taskmasters said he had great power. Magical power.”
“Pharaoh’s magicians have power. They certainly aren’t gods.”
“Well, this troubles me. I am troubled.” Tafne lowered her voice as they arrived home. She patted the head of the white sphinx at the gate and kissed its nose. A guard opened the gate, and at once they could smell the night-blooming jasmine opening their petals to the moon. Blinding white in the daytime, the walls of the villa ahead glowed serene silver now. The ivy-wound columns cast long, twisted shadows over the guards standing at the door.
As they climbed the steps of the marble portico, Iris took Tafne’s arm and whispered into her ear. “Tomorrow, all will be forgotten. You’ll see.”
~
Gazing out the window, Iris watched commoners and servants amble along the dusty road beyond the noble district. A man pulled a donkey by its hair. Beggars squatted in scraps of shade, shaking their coin cups at passersby. Children weaved in and out, making errands into play. The world was the same as always. Or so it appeared.
“Iris…”
Three years—how quickly the time had passed since her escape from Avaris! With Tafne’s constant help, she had become Iris of Memphis, leaving Hazel forever behind. But shedding her memories had not been as easy as her name. Still so fresh were the sounds of her mother’s call and her father’s laughter, or the warmth of their tender kisses on her brow. She could still feel her sister’s hand in hers and her brother’s teasing pull on her braids. A thousand times she told herself she could not have stayed; yet guilt had been sown in her that day, and now its roots were deep and its branches shadowed all her thoughts.
“Iris!” Tafne snapped.
“Mm?” Iris blinked. Glass beads and tangled copper wire lay scattered across the worktable. She had yet to master these basic elements, even after so long.
“You are not focused,” said Tafne, the soft clink-clink-clink of her tiny hammer in steady rhythm.
Iris reached for a bead, a blue one. Colored to mimic lapis lazuli, these glass imitations were easier to craft with and could be sold to commoners. Tafne promised she would excel to genuine jewels, as well as gold, by the second year of her apprenticeship. It was not Tafne’s fault, of course, that Iris was still a novice after so long. Tafne assumed it was her disinterest in jewels that made Iris such a sorry pupil—and indeed, they were useless and boring. But in truth, it was guilt that stunted her. How could she spend her days crafting jewelry while her people slaved to make bricks from mud and straw? How could she sit in this cool and lofty chamber while her people knelt in the dirt and burned in the sun? She wore clean, white linen while they wore filthy rags. She was waited upon by servants while they were beaten by taskmasters.
“I’m sorry,” Iris said, drawing herself back with a deep breath. “I’ve forgotten what I’m making here.”
“A simple collar. You are binding the wires together with the beads. Do you remember how?”
“Yes. Well—no.”
Tafne set down her tools, blowing on a turquoise stone she had been hammering into a golden band. Her fingers, thin and precise, were calloused from years of shaping metal and gem. “Iris, Mother has asked me twice now why you’re still my apprentice. I can only blame myself for so long.”
“I’m sorry. I am. I will try harder.” Iris looked out the window again.
“Is it what happened last night that bothers you?” Tafne whispered. “That man?—Moses.”
“Why would that bother me? I told you nothing is going to happen.”
“You don’t know that.”
The chamber door opened, and Iris’s handmaid Nem entered with a pitcher and tray.
“Good afternoon, my ladies,” said Nem. Petite and bald, she was younger than Iris. Her hand shook as she splashed red juice into their cups. Her thin brows bunched together painfully.
Iris stood to help her. “Nem, how are you? Has the medicine helped?”
“Oh, certainly, my lady. I will be fit to accompany you to the market this week.” But as she spoke, sweat slid down her paling brow and her shoulders strained from the small weight of the pitcher. When her health recently declined, Iris sold her own few jewels to purchase a physician’s visit for Nem, as well as medicine. The doctor cast his best spells, but Iris noticed no difference.
“Nem,” said Tafne, reaching for a cup of juice, “have you heard any rumors today? From the palace, perhaps?”
“Well, yes, my lady. I’ve heard some things.”
Tafne lifted her brows expectantly while a sick feeling wormed in Iris’s stomach. She took a sip of juice, slowly, to appear unconcerned.
“There is word of that Hebrew traitor, Moses. He came to Pharaoh and demanded that he allow the Hebrew slaves to go on a journey.”
The juice nearly leapt from Iris’s tongue. “Nem, are you quite sure?”
“As sure as the rumors allow, my lady.”
“Rumors indeed,” said Iris. “Oh Nem, you are tired. Why don’t you rest a while?”
“But where would those slaves even go?” said Tafne.
“They speak of a mountain, my lady. A place to sacrifice to their own God.”
Iris quickly hid her shock. Since when did her people make sacrifices to Elohim, the God of their ancestors? He was the one her father worshiped—the one who abandoned them to slavery.
“And what do they call this God of theirs?” Tafne asked.
“I do not know,” said Nem.
“Thank you, Nem,” said Iris. “Please go and rest a while, now.”
Nem bowed and left the chamber. Iris watched her shaky stride and wished she could do more to help her.
~
Hakor was not a happy man, but at supper that evening, he beamed. Oil lampstands lined the dining hall, illuminating platters of bread and fruit across the silk-covered table. Steam swirled upward from a golden careen of stew, and Iris could smell cooked beef in the air. Their goblets were filled with wine as she and Tafne took their places.
Tafne noticed her father’s unusually good mood. “Are we celebrating something?” she asked, reaching for a honey cake. Her mother hissed, and she left the cake alone.
Hakor splayed his fingers, which glimmered with golden rings. “Let us worship.” He signaled to the two house-musicians seated in the corner, then lifted his nose to the ceiling as a familiar duet of harp and flute began. They sang a lengthy hymn to Ra, Isis, Hapi, and Geb for their gifts of sun, health, the Nile, and the earth. Tafne sang off tempo purposely, and though the others ignored her, Iris had to bite her cheeks to keep from laughing.
“And praise Osiris, holy ruler of the afterlife.” Hakor raised his goblet. “May we all spend eternity in his favor.”
As servants ladled stew into their bowls, Tafne spoke. “What is the news, Father?”
As always, Hakor ignored his daughter and turned to Riaz instead. “Son, you should have accompanied me to the palace this morning.”
“I could not fall behind on my studies. But I heard the rumors.”
Hakor leaned back in his chair, goblet in hand. “Ah, then you will have heard that the traitor everyone so fears is no more than a stammering old mug now. There’s no threat in him.”
Zahra, seated across the long table from her husband, raised an eyebrow in annoyance. “Why are you so amused?”
Hakor chuckled. He took a gulp of wine, and his beakish nose twitched happily. “I’ve never seen old men make such fools of themselves. It wasn’t just Moses; he came with his brother and several comrades. They—” Hakor wheezed with laughter. “They begged Pharaoh to let their people go!”
“Go?” said Zahra. “Where could a slave have to go?”
“Some sacred place,” Riaz answered. “A holy mountain.” He and his father laughed as Zahra’s eyebrow remained disapproving.
“All of them? That is absurd.”
“They claim they must worship their own God there,” said Riaz.
“What God?” said Tafne.
Hakor sneered. “There is no God. He is a faceless thing created by the Hebrew savages, and it is all nothing more than a scheme to escape their work.”
“Is it true about the punishment—bricks without straw?” asked Riaz.
“Indeed. And a just punishment it is.” Hakor smirked, and Iris swallowed back the venom rising from her gut.
Zahra, bored by talk that had nothing to do with her, turned her attention to the stew. “And what does that mean, bricks without straw?”
“Many of the Hebrew slaves work as brick-makers,” said Riaz. “Don’t you know that, Mother?”
“Oh son, I do not have the time to think about Hebrew slaves.”
“Well—they do,” said Hakor. “And now, to root out their laziness, Pharaoh commands that they make their bricks without straw being supplied for them. They must gather their own straw.”
“Won’t that just slow down their work?” Tafne asked.
“No, no.” Hakor waved impatiently. “They must keep the same quotas as before.”
“Well, perfect,” said Zahra. “Then they shall finally finish that stadium I’ve been hearing about. There are to be new chariot races next year. Of course, I can’t imagine how our businesses survive with all those Hebrews festering in Goshen. How is it that slaves control the most beautiful region in all of Egypt?”
“They do not control it,” Hakor snapped.
“Well. We should have a stadium. Why must all the adventure be in Thebes? If Pharaoh insists on keeping his capital here in the north, then…”
Zahra rambled on and Iris took a slow drink of wine, hiding her dread. Tafne and her family knew nothing of the long, arduous process of making bricks in the sun, but she certainly did. Without straw, the bricks would shrink and crumble to pieces. And to gather one’s own straw was simply unthinkable. There would be no time left to make the bricks!
Iris was ready for the conversation to end, but Tafne turned to her father. “That man—Moses. Why are some calling him a god? Did he really perform great magic for the Hebrews?”
Hakor made a gruff sound. “Of course not.”
“But the taskmasters at the palace swore that he did. Surely they would not have come unless—”
“No,” Hakor blurted through a mouthful of beef, “no more about the traitor.” He waved at the musicians to change their song.
Chapter 5
The market swelled with clamoring trade. Merchants had risen early to claim the best spaces for their kiosks and carts laden with goods, and now the square was bursting with customers. Men and women of all classes pushed around each other with baskets and bags intent to be filled.
They were late. Nem always accompanied Iris to the market to help her sell the peasant jewelry she spent the week making, but today Nem had fallen so ill that she could not rise from her bed. Iris spent the morning outside her quarters waiting for better news, until Zahra eventually shooed her off to the market, sending along her oldest and most trusted servant, a woman named Iseret.
“This will have to do, Iseret,” Iris said, stopping between a cart full of fish and a kiosk selling grain. Both were manned by large, bored men. “You may set up here.”
“A pity we set out so late, my lady,” said Iseret. She had clear brown eyes, unusually bright for someone of her age, and dark freckles on her long nose. She always showed Iris kindness, but she seemed to know everything about everyone, and it was this perceptiveness that unnerved Iris. She usually avoided the old woman.
“I will find us something to eat,” said Iris.
The day’s heat taunted her as she ventured through the busy square, passing displays of the latest hairpins and sashes from Thebes, breathing in the aromatic spices from the Eastern merchants as the squawking of parrots and monkeys and eager salesmen flooded her head. The market foods filled the air with their promising scents—warm butter on thyme biscuits, fresh goat curds and skewered cow tongue, heaps of polished pomegranates and grapes and peppered olives.
A cart of raisin cakes caught her attention. She paid for two of them and immediately sank her teeth into one. It was chewy and sweet, and the first thing she’d eaten all day.
“Right here, beautiful,” said a heavy woman atop a stool. Her head was wrapped in red cloth, and her earlobes sagged down to her shoulders. Blue smoke puffed out from her puckered mouth. “For a small fee I tell your future, good and bad.”
Iris shuddered and walked on. Winding a bend, she found at last who she was hoping to see.
“Pradesh!” she called, pushing through a welter of customers.
Pradesh leapt out from behind his cart and flung his arms around her. She wished he wouldn’t do this, but it was his way.
“Beautiful Iris. How long since I have seen you?” His Egyptian was heavily accented, for he was from a faraway eastern land called India.
“Not since the New Year,” she said. “Have you been back to your home country? Are your children well?”
“A little visit to my family, yes, two months ago. My children are still growing, it turns out.” He giggled through yellowed teeth. “But mostly, I travel. Travel is my life. You know this.”
It gladdened her to see Pradesh again. They met her first day at the market, more than two years ago, when a thief ran off with several of her jewelry pieces. Pradesh caught the man and restored the goods to her, and they became friends. He was a travelling merchant, wealthy because of the exotic wares he brought from foreign lands, and it was only every few months that he came to Zoan.
“And you still won’t shave your hair like all those fashionable girls!” He reached out and shook a strand of her hair. “Your husband must love you much to allow such rebellion.”
“Still no husband, Pradesh.”
“Still! Hm! Is Nem with you today?”
Iris bit her lip. “She has fallen ill. And I fear she will not recover.”
The news drew his entire face into a deep frown. A customer approached, her fist outstretched with coin as she pointed to a bolt of blue silk, but Pradesh waved her away. Then he leaned down and spoke to Iris eye-to-eye. “She will recover, beautiful one. The gods favor you. She will recover.”
His confidence gave her hope. She took a deep breath and smiled. “Tell me, what news do you bring from the world?”
“Ah—Moses. Have you heard?”
She withheld a groan. “A little. But what of news from distant lands? From your country of India—or Nubia? Or the far east?”
“Oh, no. This traitor man is far more interesting. He is a murderer, you know. An exile, too—but he has returned to Egypt! To take the throne. Or Pharaoh’s head. Or both!”
“Some even say he is a god,” Iris said. “It’s ridiculous, of course.”
Pradesh tapped his nose and hummed. “Perhaps, or not. He was seen performing strange miracles in Goshen, where those Hebrews live. I did not witness this myself, but the rumors are many.”
“Well, he has angered Pharaoh,” Iris said. “And now the Hebrew slaves must find their own straw for the bricks they make. This is what I’ve heard.”
He puckered his lips at the new information. “A harsh decree! And yet, it is justice. You have a strong king, Iris.” He glanced in the direction of the palace. “And what of Moses? Surely Pharaoh will not let him go free. When will his execution be? I should like to see it before I leave.”
Iris shook her head. “I don’t know.” She could endure the topic no more. “I wish I had more time to speak, Pradesh, but I must get back to my goods. Will you be in the city for long?”
“For the week. Perhaps longer. I hope you’ll see me again.” He pinched her chin and grinned. “Ah! But wait. I have a gift.” He ducked behind his cart and rummaged through a basket. He found a small wooden box and held it out.
“This is beautiful!”
“And it is sandalwood.” He swiped his fingers over the smooth lid, as if to clear it of some invisible dust. “Very precious, from my country. It is good for holding small things. Like that ebony comb I gave you, hm? Or the saffron.”
“Yes, indeed. Thank you, Pradesh.”
By the time Iris made it back to the sweaty, cramped corner, Iseret had laid out all the jewelry atop a silk spread. She stood ready with a palm shade for Iris’s head.
“I apologize for taking so long,” said Iris. “I came across a friend I have not seen in some time.”
“You are at no fault, my lady.”
“This one.” A woman’s finger hovered over a brooch. Meant to be a holy scarab, its lapis-colored wings were only stained glass, and its head was misshapen and bulbous. “You made this?” The woman squinted at Iris. A wiry-haired girl stood at her side, hugging a large basket.
“Yes,” Iris confessed.
“This quality is low.”
She sighed inwardly. “It has protective powers.”
The woman puckered her lips, then pulled a small pot from the girl’s basket and held it out. Iris took the tiny pot, surveyed its density in her palm, and unscrewed the lid. The lard-colored ointment inside released an alluring, sweet musk into the air, its strength surprising for such a small amount.
“It is very smooth. I use cat fat,” she said.
The transaction was interrupted by an eruption of shouts from the main road. Customers turned their heads in confusion, and Iris glanced at Iseret, who was craning her neck to see the uproar. She turned back to her customer and saw that she had disappeared, along with the scarab brooch.
“Stay here,” Iris told Iseret, stowing the woman’s precious ointment beneath the table. She turned and pushed through the crowd toward the noise, lifting the hem of her dress to keep from tripping.
The main road swelled with angry men. She saw the red sashes and long wooden rods of the taskmasters of Avaris, and her mouth immediately went dry. The taskmasters encircled a group of Hebrew men, striking them on the backs, spitting and yelling curses, and beckoning the crowd to throw things. To her horror, Iris recognized them as the foremen, leaders chosen by Pharaoh to act as management over her people. They bore the responsibility of all within their charge, and their punishment as well.
Iris knew this well, for her father was one of them.
Her eyes leapt wildly in search of him. But the crowd was passing quickly and there were dozens of them. She grabbed the arm of a woman next to her. “What is this? What has happened?” Iris shouted into her ear.
The woman only sneered and shoved a sweaty turnip into her palm. “Aim for their heads!” A rainbow of food and objects soared over the mob, smashing the already bloodied and bruised foremen as they were pushed further down the road, surrounded by the taskmasters. The foremen shouted back curses as the crowd jeered and spat, gathering more followers as they headed toward the city gate.
Iris shoved back through the crowd to the marketplace, her head spinning. When she arrived at the table, Iseret was in earnest conversation with the fish merchant. Seeing Iris panting and stunned, she lifted the palm shade and beckoned her to sit.
“What was it, my lady?” Iseret asked. “Is there trouble?”
The woman’s turnip was still in her hand, and Iris dropped it, shuddering.
“I wish I knew,” she said.
Ellenore Meadows 