stitches that began in the middle of her chest.
“Are you hungry?” Ada asked. “Amanda said you should eat as much as possible.”
Tamara was ravenous. “I have no hands,” she said.
“I can help you.” Ada fetched a loaf from a cupboard by the bed.
Swallowing was painful, but Tamara persisted. When she’d finished the loaf she felt her gut convulsing and the stitches tightening, but she forced herself to keep the food down.
“Is there any news I’ve missed?” she asked.
“I don’t think your daughter’s had much competition,” Ada replied.
“Do people know? It’s not a secret any more?”
“No, it’s not a secret,” Ada said dryly.
Tamara felt a sudden pang of fear. “And what? Are we under siege?”
“There’s a crowd outside the apartment, constantly,” Ada said. “Bringing gifts for the child and wishing you well.”
Tamara couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic. “Are you serious?”
“Absolutely,” Ada replied. “No Councilors yet, but that can only be a matter of time.”
Tamara started shivering. She should have been happy, but all she felt was pain and confusion.
Ada said, “You’re going to be fine.”
Tamara slept. When she opened her eyes she checked the bedside clock: three bells had passed.
Patrizia had taken Ada’s place. “Are you hungry?” she asked. Before Tamara could reply, Patrizia was holding out a loaf.
Tamara was starving, but this wasn’t right. “I already ate, not long ago.”
“The rules have changed,” Patrizia said. “There is no famine for you—least of all now.”
“No?” For all the sense it made, Tamara still balked at the idea of abandoning a lifetime’s habits. “And there I was thinking I could keep all that mass off.”
Patrizia moved the loaf toward her mouth; Tamara said, “No, let me…” She closed her eyes and pictured two arms stretching out from her shoulders, but nothing happened.
Meekly, she let Patrizia feed her. She’d lost a lot of flesh, she couldn’t expect to be perfectly healthy.
“Do you want to see the child now?”
Tamara thought about it. The idea no longer repelled her, but she wouldn’t even be able to hold her daughter. “I don’t know.”
“Did you choose a name for her?”
“Not yet.”
“What about Yalda?” Patrizia suggested.
Tamara buzzed, against her will; it made her stitches hurt. “Are you a glutton for riots?” No one since the launch had been presumptuous enough to use Yalda’s name for a child of their own. Appropriating it for this cause would be the greatest provocation they could have offered, short of the act itself.
“Maybe you need to see her first,” Patrizia decided. Before Tamara could reply she slipped through the curtains, out into the front room.
Tamara’s wound began to ache with a kind of anticipatory dread, as if the wayward flesh that had done her so much harm might tear her skin wide open again on its return.
Patrizia pushed the curtains aside with her head: one hand held the rope, the other the child. “It was hard to get her away from the others,” she complained. “You might be fighting off rivals for a while.”
Tamara stared at the infant. Her daughter stared back, mildly interested, unafraid.
“She doesn’t look much like an arborine,” Patrizia observed.
Tamara said, “You can’t have everything.”
Patrizia approached. She placed the child on Tamara’s chest but stayed close, prepared to grab her if she slipped off. The child put one hand on Tamara’s shoulder and poked at her face with the other.
Barely thinking, Tamara extruded two arms. The child appeared startled by the feat, though it was something she must have managed herself not long before. She buzzed and wrapped an arm around Tamara’s.
“What do you think?” Patrizia pressed her.
“Erminia,” Tamara decided.
“After your mother?” Patrizia thought it over, then offered her approval. “Why not? This might be the last time anyone can do that without causing confusion.”
“They always told me I was borrowing my mother’s flesh,” Tamara said. She curled a finger around Erminia’s wrist. “She’s beautiful.” What she felt was the ordinary tenderness she would have felt for any child, no more and no less. Could she learn to protect her as zealously as any father would—while letting Erminia’s flesh be Erminia’s, not an heirloom held in trust?
“I hope you’re not thinking of keeping her,” Patrizia said. “The aunties and uncles out there will riot.”
“I think I need to sleep again.”
Erminia had discovered Tamara’s stitches and was trying to unpick them; Patrizia reached over and gently pulled her away.
“Will she be safe?” Tamara asked anxiously. Erminia clung to her chest, blithely spitting half-chewed food onto her shoulder.
“How could anyone answer that?” Amanda replied bluntly. “Maybe all your well-wishers are faking their allegiance. Or maybe just a few of them are. But no one’s forcing you to go anywhere; you can stay here with your daughter as long as you wish. I’ll swap apartments with you, if you like.”
Patrizia said, “If you go out, there’ll be people you trust on every side of you. But if you prefer, we could have witnesses come in one at a time to see the baby, so they can tell their friends. Whatever happens, there’ll still be doubters and believers on voting day.”
“I don’t want to be a prisoner here,” Tamara said. She looked around the room at all her friends, at the cluster of bodyguards by the door. Erminia might be in danger for her entire life, but the greatest protection would come when she ceased to be unique, then ceased to be unusual. If she had to be treated as a kind of political mascot first—in order for there to be any prospect of such change—it was too late to plot any other course.
She turned to Amanda. “Thank you for your offer, and for all your hospitality. But I think it’s time I went home.”
Amando and Macario left the apartment first, to ask the people outside to give them some space. Tamara heard excited chatter as the implications spread through the crowd. After a while Amando returned. “We can’t clear the whole route in advance,” he said. “But this looks like a reasonable start.”
All the men made their way out into the corridor, followed by the four women who’d been with Tamara on the raiding party. Clutching her daughter, Tamara approached the doorway, then dragged herself through. Peering past her protectors, she could see the corridor lined with people far into the distance, until its curvature curtailed the view.
Someone nearby spotted Erminia. “That’s the child,” the woman told her friend quietly. Tamara met her gaze; the woman tipped her head slightly, a greeting that made no demands.
Ada touched Tamara’s elbow. “You take the central guide rope; I’ll go in front of you, Carla behind, with Patrizia and Macaria on the side ropes.”
“All right.”
The five women took their places, then Addo and Pio, Amando and Macario completed the ranks. Tamara wondered how long she’d need to travel this way. A couple more days? A couple more years?
The group began dragging themselves down the corridor. Tamara cradled Erminia in her upper right arm, using the other three to keep herself steady and secure on the rope. The child did not seem alarmed by all these
