Our arrival in the carriage yard of the mage House brought first a startled groom and then a steward who took one look at us and hurried back inside. A bevy of young women emerged from the depths of the House, giggling behind painted fans in a fashion fifty years out of date. A coterie of young men strutted into view as they sized up Vai and then me. Last, children were marched out as if we were glorious visitors come for a festival who had to be greeted by the entire community. They had the mixed look typical of mage Houses, with complexions ranging from pale to dark, and hair all shades but none as straight as mine. By their expressions of delighted interest, it was obvious White Bow House did not get many visitors.

An old woman appeared carrying a bowl of water, which she offered to us in the traditional greeting. A pair of modest youths held basins so we could wash our hands and faces.

“Be welcome to White Bow House, home to the Cissé clan,” the old woman said. “Be sheltered and fed here, as our guests.”

“I am Andevai Diarisso, of Four Moons House,” he said. I was surprised he erased his village origins. “This is my wife, Catherine Bell Barahal. Your hospitality honors us.”

A man not much older than Vai stepped forward with an assertive smile. “Let me greet you, Magister Andevai.” His accent softened Ahn-de-vai to Ah-theh-nay. “I am Viridor Cissé, grandson of Magister Dyabe Cissé, who founded White Bow House. I am mansa. I welcome you, my slave.”

As surprised as I was to find so young a man as mansa, I was more shocked when Andevai laughed at this blatant slur with the greatest good humor.

“Ah, you thieves! What do you mean to steal from me?”

“We will steal you away to the men’s courtyard, for you are come just in time for the Feast of Matronalia. A good feast for young married men to celebrate, with its hope of fertility and fruitful childbirth,” Viridor added with a sidelong look at me.

Vai grasped my hand, leaning close to whisper, “We’re safe, love. We’re safe here.”

With a parting smile he abandoned me, tramping off with the menfolk to the tune of a great deal of manly joking and laughter.

Whether out of politeness or because she sensed my consternation, the old woman took my right hand in hers, not to shake but to hold. “I am Magister Vinda. We have a modest suite of rooms for visitors, nothing like what you must be accustomed to at Four Moons House, but I will see you made comfortable.” Her speech was cultured, burred by old-fashioned pronunciations.

The “modest” rooms luxuriated in richer furnishings than anything I had grown up with. Blue fabric embroidered with sprays of silver stars upholstered the couches. The bedchamber was decorated in lovely shades of yellow.