The overdress had silken cords in front, but I did not know how to lace them up. I asked one of the women to help, but she became confused, uncooperative, and angry with me. She tried to explain how the lacing went, but I ended up with the cords in knots. “Show me,” I said, exasperated. “I’ve not worn clothes like these before. Do it for me, please.”

She took a deep breath and came close, and unwillingly, as if it caused her distress or pain, she lifted her hands and untied all the knots I had made. She did it all correctly, so that the scarlet cords crossed in a design all up the front, a brilliant pattern against the white beneath. Then she backed away, her hands held out in front of her, her eyes downcast. The other women moved aside, and one of them poured some clean water into an unused copper bowl, and placed it beside a new piece of soap and a towel I had not touched. Then the woman who had touched me washed her hands, meticulously, with a painstaking care that was almost a ritual. I watched – at first curious and bewildered – and then I realised why she washed, and humiliation swept over me.

She had touched me. Me, the harsha: unclean, low-caste, of the race of slaves. None of the other women in the room that day had actually touched me; she alone had. And now she washed, thoroughly, as if to cleanse her whole being.

I turned away, sick to my soul. In the year to come, I would know all forms of rejection and scorn; but nothing hurt as much as that simple, ritualistic washing of a woman’s hands.

Those eyes again. I glanced at them, my heart leaping, then looked down. I remembered what I had been told, and bowed low, then lay full-length on the carpet in front of him. I smelled wool and rope, and the polished wood beneath. I waited.

“You may stand, handmaid,” he said.

I rose with as much dignity as I could, caught my heel in my long hem, and heard something rip. Cautiously I straightened, my eyes on the floor at his feet, my face burning.

“Have you eaten?” he asked gently.

“Yes, high lord. Thank you.”

“The women – they were considerate?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“You are not wearing my sign,” he observed. “The sign Amasai gave to you.”

“I … I think I left it in my room, high lord. I took it off when I had my bath.”

“Wear it always, even when you sleep.”

“Yes, high lord. I’m sorry.”

“Has Amasai told you what your tasks will be?”

“He said I was to be your handmaid, lord. I am to cook your meals and wash your clothes and accompany you on your journeys to divine for firestones. He taught me how to cook hezzin, and how to light fires your Chosen way. He told me I had to keep clean. He said things would be difficult for me.”