“You have no soul, harsha.”

“That, lord, is for God to decide.”

I heard his chair creak as if he leaned forward, or stood. I dared not look at him. “Go, handmaid,” he said.

I bowed low, and remembered to walk backwards out of his presence.

Those thirty days at the great house were extremely difficult for me, and I think I broke at least one law every time I moved or opened my mouth. I spent my days in the vast, cold kitchens on the bottom floor. Dark and busy, smelling of damp stone, rancid meat, grain, vegetables, live fowl, fowl freshly killed, drying pork, blood, ash and fire – the kitchens were my great learning place.

And I had much to learn: a whole new life. What was easy routine to the women was often bizarre and difficult to me. The women were always patient and courteous; but there was warmth between themselves, and coldness towards me. I longed to join in their laughter, to chatter with them around a big bowl of wheat cakes hot from the ovens, chase the chickens with them, or crowd in close to the blazing fire. Always I was left apart, standing separate and alone. I lived in fear of accidentally brushing against the women’s clothes, or touching their fingers when they gave me things. And always – always – I had to remember not to look at their faces. I felt alienated, and the house oppressed me.

There was only one place I loved, one place I was liberated and happy: out in the mountains behind the house. There, out in the wind and lofty heights, I went with the house-owner’s son and I learned something fine. I learned to fly a falcon.

I alone, of all the women in that great house, was permitted to go to the mews and choose a falcon for myself; and I alone was allowed to own such a bird, and train him to respond to my commands, and to have him hunt for me.

Kallai was my falcon’s name.

He had eyes blacker than firestone, though sometimes in the light they burned deep gold. Soft, creamy feathers marked with brown covered his breast and legs, and his head and wings were dark. He wore narrow leather straps attached to his legs, by which I held him when he was on my fist, and he had a long leather leash attached to the ends of the straps. He had two brass bells tied to his legs, by which I knew his landing place if he went down out of sight among rocks or tussock grass. He never tried to leave my fist unless I removed his leash and held my wrist high into the wind, so he could take flight.

And when he flew …

Oh, when he flew, he moved so fast and fine, he took my soul with him. So high he flew, spiralling upwards almost out of sight; and then he’d spy his prey – a raven maybe, or a rook – and he’d dive, and with his great talons strike it down. Then he’d come back to me. And we’d walk, a long way sometimes, to pick up the quarry and take it back to our kitchens for fresh meat that night.