presented? What could have persuaded you to… do this?” Her mother looked devastated.
Malta knew a moment's uncertainty. “I wanted to go to the Harvest Ball. I told you that. Over and over, I begged to be allowed to go. But you would not listen, even after Papa said I could go, even after he promised me I could have a proper gown.” She paused, waiting for her mother to admit that promise. When she only stared at her aghast, Malta shouted, “Well, it's your own fault if you're surprised! I was only doing what Papa had promised me I could do.”
Something in her mother's face hardened. “If you had any idea of how badly I want to slap you just now, you'd keep a more civil tongue, girl.”
Never had her mother spoken to her like that before. Girl, she called her, as if she were a servant! “Why don't you, then?” Malta demanded furiously. “This evening has been ruined for me in every other way! Why don't you just beat me here, in front of everyone, and have done with it?” The tragedy of her ruined plans rose up and choked her.
Davad Restart looked aghast. “I really must be going,” he said hastily, and rose.
“Oh, Davad, sit down,” Grandmother said wearily. “There is tea coming. We owe you at least that for this rescue tonight. Don't be put off by my granddaughter's sense of drama. Although beating Malta might make us all feel better at this point, we've never resorted to that — yet.” She gave Trader Restart a wan smile and actually took his hand. She led the fat little man back to his chair and he sat down as she bade him. It made Malta queasy. Couldn't they see what a disgusting little man he was, with his face and balding pate shining with sweat and his ill- fitting out-of-style clothes? Why were they thanking him for humiliating her?
Nana entered the room with a tray of tea things. She also had a bottle of port tucked under one arm, and a towel draped over the same arm. She set the bottle and the tray down on the table and then turned to present Malta with a towel. It was damp. “Clean your face,” the old serving woman told her brusquely. The adults all glanced at her, then looked away. They would grant her the privacy in which to obey. For an instant she was grateful. Then it dawned on her what they were doing to her, telling her to wash her face like a dirty child.
“I will not!” she cried, and flung the wet towel to the floor.
A long moment of silence followed. Then her grandmother asked her conversationally, “Do you realize you look like a whore?”
“I do not!” Malta declared. She had another moment of doubt, but thrust it aside. “Cerwin Trell did not seem to find me unattractive this night. This dress and this way of painting my eyes are what is currently fashionable in Jamaillia.”
“For the whores, perhaps,” Grandmother continued implacably. “And I did not say you were ‘unattractive.’ You are simply not attractive in a way any proper woman would be comfortable with.”
“Actually,” Davad Restart began uncomfortably, but Grandmother continued, “We are not in Jamaillia, nor are you a whore. You are the daughter of a proud Trader family. And we do not so flaunt our bodies or our faces in public. I wonder that somehow this has escaped your notice before this.”
“Then I wish I were a whore in Jamaillia!” Malta declared hotly. “Because anything else would be better than being suffocated here. Forced to dress and act like a little child when I am near a woman grown, forced to always be quiet, be polite, be… unnoticed. I don't want to grow up like that, I don't want to be like you and Mother. I want to… to be beautiful, and noticed, and have fun, and have men want to be near me and send me flowers and presents. And I don't want to dress in last year's fashions and behave as if nothing ever excited me or angered me. I want…”
“Actually,” Davad broke in awkwardly, “there has been a, uh, similar fashion in Jamaillia. Since last year. One of the Satrap's, uh, Companions appeared thus. Uh, in the guise of a, uh, street woman. Not at a public function, but at a very large private gathering. To proclaim her, shall we say, complete devotion to the Satrap and his needs. That she was willing to, well, to be seen and treated as his, well…” Davad took a deep breath. “This is not something I usually would discuss with any of you,” he pointed out awkwardly. “But it did happen, and there were, uh, shall we say echoes of it seen in fashionable dress in the months that followed. The ear paint, the uh, accessible panels of the skirts…” He suddenly flushed very red and subsided.
Grandmother only shook her head angrily. “This is what our Satrap has come to. He breaks the promises of his grandfather and father, and reduces the Companions of his Heart to whores for his bodily pleasures. Time was when a family was proud to have one of their daughters named as a Companion, for it was a post that demanded wisdom and diplomacy. What are they now? His seraglio? It disgusts me. And I will not see my granddaughter dressed as such, no matter how popular the garb becomes.”
“You want me to be old and dowdy, like you and mother,” Malta declared. “You want me to go from being an infant to being an old woman. Well, I won't. Because that's not what I want.”
“Never in my life,” Keffria declared suddenly, “have I spoken so to my mother. And I won't tolerate you speaking so to your grandmother. If —”
“If you had, maybe you would have had a life!” Malta pointed out suddenly. “But no! I bet you've always been mousy and silent and obedient. Like a cow. Shown one year and wed the next, like a fine fat cow taken to auction! One season of dancing and fun, and then married off to have babies with whatever man offered the best bargain to your parents.” She had shocked the whole room. She looked around at them all. “That's not what I want, Mother. I want a life of my own. I want to wear pretty clothes, and go to wonderful places. I don't want to marry some nice Trader boy you pick out for me. I want to visit Jamaillia some day, I want to go to the Satrap's Court, and not as a married woman with a string of babies following me. I want to be free of all that. I want —“
“You want to ruin us,” grandmother said quietly, and poured tea. Cup after tidy cup, calmly and efficiently as she spoke her damning words. “You want, you say, and give no thought at all to what we all need.” She glanced up from her tea duties, to inquire, “Tea or port, Davad?”
“Tea,” he said gratefully. “Not that I can stay long. I must hasten back, to at least be in time for the Presentation of the Offerings. I have no one else to give my presentation in my place, you know. And Trader Vintagli seemed to wish to speak to me. They will not expect you this year, of course, because of your mourning” His voice trailed off awkwardly.
“Tea? Very well, then.” Her grandmother filled in smoothly. Her eyes moved from Davad to Nana. “Nana, dear. I hate to ask this of you, but would you see Malta off to bed? And see she washes well first. I am so sorry to put this on you.”
“Not at all, Mistress. I see it as my duty.”
And Nana did. Large and implacable as she had been when Malta was a child, she took her wrist and dragged her from the room. Malta went quietly, for the sake of her own dignity, not out of any acquiescence. She did not fight as Nana disrobed her, and she climbed herself into the steaming bath that Nana poured for her. She did not, in fact, speak a word to her large and imperious nanny, not even to interrupt Nana's boring monologue about how ashamed of herself she should be.
Because she was not ashamed, Malta told herself. Nor cowed at all. When her father came home, they would all have to answer for their mistreatment of her. For now, she would be satisfied with that.
That, and the shivery sensation that Cerwin Trell's glance had awakened in her. She thought of his eyes and felt it again. Cerwin, at least, knew that she was no longer a little girl.
Chapter Nineteen
Testimony
“Does it hurt much?”
“Can you feel pain?”
“Not as men do, no, but I understand the distress you must —”
“Then why do you ask? Any answer I give will have no real meaning to you.”
A long silence followed. Vivacia lifted her smooth arms and crossed them over her breasts. She stared straight ahead of herself. She fought the rising tide of grief and despair inside her. It was not getting any better between Wintrow and her. Since Cress, with every passing day his resentment of her increased. It made what might have been pleasant days into torture.
The wind was blowing from the north, pushing them southwards to warmer climes. The weather had been
