“You sang well!” exulted Awhero. “Why are you crying?”
“It reminds me of singing with my mother. And the words, tumao hohonu, I have read them in the stories of Stephanie.”
“Ah, you say Stephanie, we say Tewhani. That is how we say her name, daughter of Tenopia, mother of many daughters. You are one. Your voice is beautiful. It is unmistakable that you are of kindred.”
“What kindred?”
“The kindred of Galul.”
“What do you mean? Kindred of Galul?”
“Where long-nosed women are. The children of sea, sisters of deep-swimmers. Those who knew Tenopia before she went unto Mahahm, those who sent her daughter Stephanie—Tewhani—forth into Haven. Oh, we will teach you that song next time!”
“Now, tonight,” Genevieve cried heedlessly, wiping her eyes. “Stephanie was my ancestress. Oh, Awhero, I need to know tonight!”
Awhero shook her head. “No. Not now. We are weary, and so are you. Tomorrow will be soon enough.”
Sobered, Genevieve assented. “But I need to know, where . . . where my mother’s people came from. Ineed to know.” She caught herself, taking a deep, sobbing breath. “Oh, what am I doing! I sang out loud! If Prince Delganor heard me! If Father heard me!”
“They did not hear you.” Awhero smiled. “We have all doors shut between here and there. They do not listen, they do not hear, and tomorrow we will sing songs of your people who came from Tenopia’s womb.”
“I’m not supposed to sing!” Genevieve cried.
“We know,” said Awhero. “Haven women have been here before, women with their babies, and they have never sung, not even lullabies to their children. They have come, women and children, children have stayed, some, some have gone, all women have stayed, somewhere . . .” Her voice trailed away, then rallied.
“We are surprised that you sing so well!”
“My mother taught me,” said Genevieve. “Deep in the cellars of our house, like here.” She flushed, remembering other things she had been taught, as well. Things she could not do here.
“Well, time is coming when women must come up from cellars. Those at marae say it is time, and past time.”
“Tomorrow then,” said Genevieve.
“Soon,” said Awhero.
Genevieve was still sleeping when Ybon Saelan came to the residence, this time to invite the Prince, the Marshal, the Invigilator, and the Colonel to join the Shah’s representative on a tour through Mahahm-qum. A cleansing ceremony had been held. They were no longer unclean.
Aufors came to tell Genevieve about this breakthrough, then the four men went forth under sunshades carried by runners. When they returned bearing gifts from the Shah, the Marshal seemed to think the event marked a definite advance, though the Prince only smiled his cold, distant smile, without acknowledging any improvement in affairs. Still, there was a certain amount of jocularity at dinner as the gifts were passed around: curved knives with hilts of a substance no one among them had recognized.
“Seabone,” said Genevieve when it came to her hand, seeing superimposed visions of men chopping bone on the shore, of other men carving it.
The Prince actually looked her, or glared, rather. “How do you know that?”
She flushed, rumbled, “Something I read, Your Highness. The Ma-hahmbi make dagger hilts from the skeletons of great seabeasts washed up on the shores.” She was disturbed by this. Something about the picture was awry. Something about it didn’t feel right, even more so when the Marshal sought her out later to give her astonishing news. The Shah had sent word that any women in their party were invited to walk with the Shah’s wives in their garden. Special shoes had been provided which would mitigate the uncleanliness associated with non-Mahahmbi footsteps in so sacred a place.
“Did you tell them I was here?” asked Genevieve.
“Oh, yes,” said the Marshal, not meeting her eyes. “A harpta will come for you in the morning.”
Later, when she and Aufors were alone, she asked, “Who exactly told the Shah I was here?”
“The Prince,” he said with a grimace. “What he actually said was that I had brought my wife along. If he hadn’t, your father would have. I was more than a little surprised, and I wish they had kept quiet about that.”