Kissa
Shelamzion did not need to tell me what had happened at dinner—I had heard everything from the hallway where I eavesdropped with several other slaves. I heard the uncertainty in her voice when she said she would be content to wait until the high priest found another man for her to marry. I heard her uncle reprimand Sipporah, and I had heard love and comfort in Alena’s words to my young mistress.
I helped Shelamzion prepare for bed, removing the pins from her hair and then combing through the wavy strands that had been braided and sewn into the elaborate style noblewomen favored. When her long locks hung freely down her back, I helped her into the linen tunic she wore to bed, then waited until she was snug beneath her blanket.
Ordinarily I would have blown out the lamp and lain down to sleep on my pallet, but not tonight. Instead, I sat on the edge of the bed and regarded my mistress, who had been unusually quiet since returning from dinner.
Now, unwinding in the anticipation of sleep, she regarded me with heavy-lidded eyes. “You know what my uncle told me tonight?”
I pressed my hands together. “Yes, I heard everything.”
“Part of me is glad to know we will not be going to Antioch, while another part—”
“You should not feel hurt,” I hastened to assure her. “From what I have seen and heard, royal families marry for political reasons, not for love. Perhaps this is your God’s way of preserving your life, or perhaps he will bring you a better man—one you might actually favor.”
Shelamzion’s mouth twisted in wry amusement. “All my life I have heard stories about how deeply Jacob loved Rachel even before they married. Yet I was betrothed to a man I don’t think I could ever love—not like that, in any case. How could I love a man who did not love HaShem?”
“You see?” I smiled. “Surely this is for the best.”
“You will not miss living in a king’s palace?”
I laughed. “I will not. Nor will I miss having to weave a crown into your hair every day.”
Her smile faded. “Mother was disappointed by the news. Finally her daughter was about to become a queen, but then . . .” Tears glistened in her eyes as she shrugged the words away.
As I sat there, watching my mistress deal with an undeserved pain, I realized that Shelamzion’s God had shown her great mercy by giving her an aunt and uncle who provided the things she should have received from her parents. She had always hardened her heart against her mother’s indifference, but perhaps it was time she knew the truth.
“Mistress,” I said, choosing my words with great care, “for years I have watched you with your mother. Many times I have heard her say cruel things, but mostly I have suffered with you when she remained silent. So many times she should have complimented you, encouraged you, or congratulated you for earning praise from your tutor and the high priest—”
“You need say no more.” She turned away, rolling onto her side to face the wall.
“I have learned something that might help you understand your mother better . . . and I will tell you if you wish to hear it.”
A Sabbath stillness filled the room, with only the quickened beating of my heart to disturb it. After a seemingly endless interval, my mistress turned from the wall and sat up, her wide eyes meeting mine. “I would know . . . what you know.”
I glanced down at my hands, searching for a way to ease into the conversation. “One day I found your mother in her room—she said she was making a gown for Ketura. Something came over me, and words flew off my tongue. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I wanted to know why she favored your sister and ignored you.”
Shelamzion stared at me, her face a blank mask.
I hesitated, afraid she would tell me to be quiet, but she remained upright, her arms wrapped around her knees, her eyes intent on my face.
“Your mother told me she was working in the field one day,” I went on, “because when they were first married, she and your father were poor, so she had to glean the corners of the fields. A man came from out of nowhere and attacked her. She tried to run, but she could not get away. She screamed, but there was no one to hear.”
I averted my eyes, unable to look directly at my innocent mistress as I told the rest of the story. “Your mother already had one daughter, and a few weeks later she knew she would have another child. Finally, months later, you were born. And every time she looked at you, she was reminded of the man in the field.”
“Why?” Though Shelamzion’s face remained blank, the word came out ragged. “Did I—do I look like him?”
“I do not know the answer to that. But your mother said the greatest tragedy was that your father loved you even more than your sister. He made much of you, parading you around the village on his shoulders, despite . . . despite everything.”
Shelamzion frowned and looked away. “She told him?”
“I asked your mother the same question. She said she did not, for what good would it have done? But every time she looked at you, she remembered that afternoon, and she would never forget.”
Shelamzion nodded, her expression grim. I remained silent, allowing her time to consider the implications of this unfortunate truth.
Finally she turned to me. “She can’t be certain that the other man is my father,” she said, her eyes hardening. “Two sisters can look completely different in any family.”
“They can,” I agreed. “Your mother cannot know for certain whether or not you are the child of the man who attacked her.”
“But she believes I am,” Shelamzion said, her voice breaking. “She will always believe I am.”