“How does it look?” Illy asked Paula, high-spirited.
“It’s beautiful. Tiko, it’s stunning.”
Boltiko said, “Neither of you thinks I can do anything.” Kneeling, she sat back on her calves to look, her moon-face placid with a smile.
“Wait until he sees it,” Illy said.
The prima wife held out one hand, and Paula got out of her chair and helped her stand, her fat hanging in layers off her bones. “He won’t be seeing too much at home, unless I miss the signs.”
Illy’s hands paused, unfastening the clips down the front of the dress. “What?”
Paula curled up in the soft white chair again, her head on the arm. Boltiko said, “He won’t be sleeping with any of us for a while, that’s what. Here, let me have it.” She removed the dress from Illy.
Surprised, Paula watched the young wife’s face drop open with alarm. “He has another woman.”
Boltiko was folding the new dress. Smoothing the cloth under her hand, she laid her gaze a moment on Illy. “Put your clothes on.” She turned to Paula. “Am I right?”
Paula nodded. Illy turned away, one hand out for her yellow robe. Boltiko stood watching her back, her vast face soft with sympathy.
“Child, you will never learn.” Her hand stroked and stroked the dress hanging over her arm. “Well. I have work to do.” She went heavily out the front door.
Illy sat down in the other sling chair. There were tear slicks down her cheeks. “Who is she?”
“A girl in the Lake District.”
“How can he do this to me?”
Paula sat up and filled her little cup again from the jug of kakine. Illy said, “Is she young? Have you seen her? Is she younger than me?”
“Yes. She’s very young.”
The Styth woman’s eyes overflowed with tears. The bright robe hung open. Under it she wore white underclothes like harness. Her body was beautiful, like her face, even crying.
“How can he do this to me?”
“Come on,” Paula said. “I’ll rub your back.”
Illy took her into her sleeproom. The windows were screened off with long panels of silk embroidered with rose-flies, their wings edged in gold. The room was dim as a cave. Illy lay down on the broad bed; while Paula stroked her back, she opened most of the tight white underclothes. Illy wept as if she enjoyed it. Quieting, she lay still and Paula ran her fingers up and down the soft skin of her back.
“He’ll come back to me. He always does.”
Paula bent and kissed her neck. “I think you’re beautiful. Don’t cry.” Paula pressed her mouth to the soft black cheek. “You’re much more beautiful than she is.” Illy turned toward her. Paula put her arms around her and kissed her mouth. “Don’t cry.”
The Styth woman’s lips parted. Saba had taught her how to kiss. The two women lay side by side, their mouths touching, Illy’s skin warmed, her breath came fast. She had no scent. When Paula touched her breast, Illy rubbed against her hand.
“Let me go get the kakine,” Paula said.
She locked the front door, brought the jug of liquor back to the sleeproom, and took her clothes off. Illy watched her.
“I’ve never done this before.”
The room was freezing. Paula climbed onto the bed and pulled the thick cover over her. She touched Illy, who lay down again on her back.
“This is bad, isn’t it?”
“It’s the same as with him.” Paula gave her the jug. She dipped her finger into the thick sweet liquor and drew in green kakine on Illy’s breast and licked it off.
“I never did that with him.”
They painted each other with kakine and sucked and kissed and licked it off. Illy’s skin softened and warmed. Her voice fell, husky.
“I wish he was here now. Don’t you want him?”
“We don’t need him.”
Illy’s thighs stroked together. Her pubic hair was shaved. Her hips were smooth, full arches. Paula spread kakine over her slit and the tiny nub at the top. Illy opened her legs.
“Please—”
“Do it to me.” Paula ran her tongue over the soft folded flesh.
“It tastes bad.”
“It tastes fine.”
“Oh.” Illy moved, offering herself. Her hands slid down over Paula’s legs and rump and her claws worked. Paula drew back.
“Oh,” Illy said. “Don’t stop.”
“Do it to me.”
“I can’t—I—”
“Do it. Use the kakine, if you don’t like the taste.” Paula fingered Illy’s body, and the Styth woman reached for the jug. Paula put her head down between the other woman’s legs again.
Illy balked twice more. Paula thought she liked pretending to be forced. In the end she did so well that Paula sobbed and clung to her through a pulsing climax. Illy lay on her side, shaking the empty jug.
“That’s nothing like with him. He would never do that for me.”
“You can suck him. He might learn.”
Illy called her house slave in to give him the jug. Paula covered herself in the bedclothes, her head near Illy’s knees and her feet on the pillow. The eunuch avoided looking at them. He might tell Pedasen, but he would tell no Styths.
“Could we get drunk like that?” Illy laughed. The slave brought back the jug, full. “I think I’m drunk, a little. Did I do it right? Did you like it?”
Paula smiled at her. Illy moved over and cradled her head on Paula’s thigh. “I liked it.” Paula touched the long black hair. Against Illy’s black skin her skin looked warm: red brown. She put her head down, pleased to be in bed with such a beautiful woman.
In the high watch, Paula went to the rack in her bedroom and found her clothes hacked to pieces with scissors. Pedasen was with her. He picked up a bit of a sleeve. “That low nigger,” he said, under his breath.
“Who did it?” She wheeled on him. He stooped, gathering up the shards of her dresses, the back of his head to her, and mumbled something inaudible. She squatted beside him. “Who?” she said into his face.
“I don’t know, mem.”
He took the rags away. She followed him down to the kitchen. “Why, then? I don’t even know any of the other slaves.”
Pedasen fed the scraps of cloth into the shredder. “Because you keep with the blacks. Going to her like that.” His face was guileless. She realized he was destroying the evidence before Boltiko found it. She watched a long black ribbon disappear between the lips of the shredder.
“How can they hate me when I don’t even know them?”
“You stay with the blacks against your own people.”
Angry, she went away down the hall.
“You’re pulling my hair out by the roots.”
“Everything that makes you beautiful hurts a little.” Illy brushed hard at Paula’s hair. David was in his new crib, in the room across the hall from Paula’s bedroom, and he let out a wail. Pedasen came down the hall from the kitchen to the child’s room. In the mirror Illy’s hands fluffed the bush of Paula’s hair. Illy stooped and kissed her shoulder.
“There. Doesn’t that look better, darling?”
“It looks fine. Can I get dressed now?”
“You’re impossible,” Illy said, and kissed her again. “I guess all intelligent people are a little odd in some way.”
Pedasen was singing to David, in the room across the hall. Paula strained to make out the words in the low voice. While she was dressing, Saba shouted in the front room. Illy clutched her shoulder.
“What is he doing here? You told me he didn’t come here.”
“That isn’t what I said.” Paula poked her feet into her shoes and slid off her bed. She had told Illy that Saba never slept with her. Saba came in the doorway.
“Do you have any more questions? I’m leaving in three hours.”