She held my hand a little too hard, but I liked it. I curled my fingers around hers. And that was all right. A woman could hold a woman’s hand. Friends did that in the Ward all the time, and no one looked at them with reproach. Sid’s skin was soft, her hand warmer than mine. Looking at my fingers entwined with hers, I asked, “Why were you angry?”

“I was angry at myself.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s all the answer you’ll get.” She opened my hand and studied the well of my palm. She ran a thumb over it. I felt the echo of her touch travel up my back. She brought my hand to her mouth. She kissed my palm, then closed my hand around the ghost of her kiss, which sang into my closed fingers. Pleasure poured down my wrist.

She dropped my hand.

“That’s a custom,” she said breezily, “in my country. It’s a way of saying thank you for being forgiven.”

It sounded believable. What did I know, anyway, of her country, except what she had told me? But something made me say, “Is that a lie?”

“Maybe,” she said. “Will you help me pack?”

So I did. Together we settled her gorgeous clothes into the trunk as though putting them to bed, tucking them in gently. I was glad to busy my hands. I needed to ignore my singing skin, to ignore that kiss, which had no meaning, or only the meaning that Sid gave it.

But:

She was staying in the city.

She was taking me up quarter, even if it was only because of what she thought I could do for her.

31

“YOU WANT TO LEAVE ME?” Tears welled in Raven’s eyes.

“No,” I said, “of course not. It is only for a month. Then I will come home.”

“Don’t you love me? How can you leave me alone?”

I knelt beside her chair. Sid, who had insisted on being present when I told Raven, looked on, her expression closed. I took Raven’s hands, which were folded limply in her lap. I pressed them to my cheek. A thick sludge of guilt bubbled up. I remembered what Morah had told me about her baby, but maybe Morah didn’t understand Raven like I did, how much emotion the older woman had within her, how important it was to hold her three girls close, as she would any children. She made mistakes, but no one could doubt her affection, not when tears were slipping down her face and loneliness aged her face. “I love you so much,” I told her. “You won’t be alone. You have Morah and Annin.”

“They are not you.”