In the end she purchased the prints and the accounts books, with the entire basket of dusty scrolls thrown in as a courtesy. The books and scribal tools and prints would be delivered, but Priya herself carried away the basket, clutched as tightly as a precious child. Mai could not have been more pleased.

“MISTRESS, HERE IS juice, just as you like it with lime and mint.”

“Ah! That’s very nice, Sheyshi.”

“While you were gone, I washed the cloth just as you said. I folded the bedding. I cooked rice. The young mistress helped me.”

“Very good, Sheyshi. Where is Miravia?”

“She went back through the gate, Mistress. Do you want your hair brushed, Mistress?”

“Yes, Sheyshi.” Mai sank down onto pillows and sighed with pleasure as Sheyshi took out the combs and sticks that held her hair. Released, her hair fell past her hips. As Sheyshi brushed with steady strokes, Mai watched Priya examine the scrolls. The slave said nothing, but tears shone on her weathered skin.

“What have we found?” Mai asked finally.

“A treasure! Six of the scrolls are written in script unknown to me. They might be anything. But the other six are discourses and threads. I have not touched holy books since the day our temple was burned and we were taken away by the raiders.” She wiped tears from her cheek. “I thank you, Mistress. This treasure brings me great joy.”

Mai sniffled, wiping away her own tears. “We’ll make an altar. You can teach me all the holy prayers.”

“We will not build an altar in the house of the Ri Amarah.”

“No,” said Mai with a frowning laugh. “I suppose we will not.”

The brush paused halfway down her length of hair.

“Mistress, what altar will you build?” Sheyshi asked. “Can I pray there? I know the words ‘the Merciful One is my lamp and my refuge.’ But that’s all I know.”

Priya touched each of the scrolls in turn, as if she could absorb their holy essence through her skin. “Of course you will pray, Sheyshi. The Merciful One hears the prayers of all people.”

“Even women?” Sheyshi whispered. “Even slaves?”

“Especially women. Especially slaves.” Priya sat back. She had grown thin. In Kartu she had been more robust, favored with extra food in her capacity as nursemaid to the house’s favored daughter, Mai. But the long journey had whittled at her flesh to expose the ridges and hollows of bone.

“You must eat more, Priya,” said Mai, scooting forward to touch one of Priya’s hands with her own. “And rest. I could not bear to lose you.”

“I will recover, little flower. Do not fear for me. You are the one who must be careful to eat plenty, now that you are with child. Look. Here comes Miravia.”

The guesthouse attached to the Ri Amarah compound was separated from the street by gates, and further separated from the main compound of the family by another set of gates.

Miravia entered, ran over, and kicked off her sandals before she dropped down beside Mai on a neighboring pillow. “Sheyshi, what a lovely brushing you’ve done!” The young slave dipped her head shyly, smiling at this praise. “Priya, you look tired. I will take Mai into the house for supper and afterward I will bring a tray of food for you and Sheyshi myself. That way you can rest.”