borrowed house, a powdered, perfumed mannequin that said over and over How kind,
thank you, welcome, sir and smiled till her teeth ached. Hands which could have
crushed her lingers lifted them to lips smooth, bearded, mustached, olive
skinned and white-skinned and unmarked and scarred; and each time she recovered
her hand and stared a moment too long into the eyes of this or that man she
felt the blue satin dress too low and the perfume too much and her whole self
estimated for value right along with the vases and the house silver. And she
was the thief!
Man after man and not a woman in the lot until a tall woman with one long
pigtail came strolling in and crushed her hand in a grasp rougher than the
men’s. “Kama,” that one said. Her hand was callused as the men’s. Her eyes were
smouldering and dreadful. “Pleased,” Moria breathed, “thank you. Do come in.
Dining hall to your right under the stairs.” She worked her fingers and thrust
out her hand valiantly to the next arrivals, seeing more on the street. More and
more of them. There could not be enough wine. A stray lock of her coiffure
slipped and strayed down her neck, bouncing there. She borrowed both hands up to
stab it back into place with a hairpin, realized the tall soldier in front of
her was staring down her decolletage and desperately thrust out her hand. “Sir.
Welcome.”
“Dolon,” that one said, and headed in the wake of the woman with the pigtail
while others came up the steps.
0 Shalpa and Shipri, where’s the Mistress, what am I doing with these Rankans?