Sooner than now would be better.
Nairobi shook her head and finished knotting the last woolen strip.
“Patience,” she murmured. “’Tis a virtue for a reason.”
The whispered words made her lips twitch. Such sentiment. So much old-fashioned faith. Kind of ridiculous when she thought about it, but for some reason, hope didn’t seem out of place tonight. She’d made it this far, hadn’t she? Was due for some good luck, wasn’t she? Nairobi nodded. Without a doubt. ’Twas her turn, but as chance rolled the dice and she tugged on the cloth, testing the rope, nerves got the best of her. Shoving the makeshift cord beneath a pile of yarn, she glanced toward the arched entryway into the room. With the double doors folded open, she had a clear view into the hallway.
Usually her favorite spot. Too bad it afforded little comfort tonight. Any moment now, the whisper of footsteps would fall and the quiet creak would come, heralding the guard’s approach and . . .
Her eviction from the weaving room.
Not that she didn’t belong. She did. More than most, anyway. But the owner of Saul’s Silk Emporium liked rules as much as she enjoyed breaking them. Which meant it wouldn’t be long now. Hardly any time at all before Adam, head guard and colossal pain in her backside, rounded the corner and saw her sitting where she wasn’t allowed to be at night. In front of her loom. Colorful yarn bobbing on multiple spools along the top crosspiece.
Inhaling a calming breath, Nairobi exhaled in a rush, then reached out and picked up the threads. Under. Over. Weave, knot, cut, brush it down—start all over again. The familiar rhythm settled her, untangling tight muscles as she fell into the tried and true. Fingers working as hard as her mind, furious in the fray, one weaving a Persian rug, the other searching for an adequate excuse. She needed one in order to remain in front of her loom. And by extension, next to the long run of windows that made a home along one side chamber.
A lie spiked with the truth would work best.
It always did. And she should know. She’d spent the last two years lying . . . about everything. Who she was. Where she’d come from. Why she was alone in the world. Lies, lies, and more lies. Untruth stacked upon untruth. Curious thing, though, no one ever called her on it. Or investigated her sudden appearance in the town of Ismal. Fortuitous or disastrous? Nairobi couldn’t tell. Being found out—called a fraud and made to pay—would be easier than maintaining the front. And as moonlight spilled into the chamber, casting shadows across piles of yarn and tables littered with embroidery tools, she almost wished someone would grow a brain and get a clue.
Almost, but not quite.
Danger, after all, lived inside her truth. The kind of knowledge others coveted. A secret so profound she would go to her grave to protect it. Knotting another thread, Nairobi bit down on her bottom lip. Death . . . a distinct possibility tonight. Especially if she escaped as planned. Not that anyone would agree she was a prisoner. She was paid, after all—given room and board along with a few coins each month for her efforts inside the silk house. Most would call that employment, not prison.
The truth was far more sinister.
She’d been trapped the moment she stepped inside the Emporium. Now she played the pawn in a ruthless game enjoyed by the rich and greedy.
Nairobi shook her head. Goddess be swift and merciful. Creativity could be a curse sometimes. Combine it, however, with supreme talent and the effect multiplied, setting her apart from the others. Her employer—or rather jailer—loved her for it. The other women she worked alongside each day? Not so much. Like venomous green thread, jealousy ran deep inside the silk house, individual weavers in constant competition to win the master’s favor. A pity, really, particularly since she didn’t want the distinction.
Or to be noticed by Saul.
Nairobi huffed. Good luck with that. ’Twas far too late to change course and go unnoticed. Her designs ensured his attention. Her skill at the loom cinched it. More fool her. She never should’ve shown her true colors . . . or revealed the extent of her talent. Now she couldn’t move without drawing notice.
Guarded by day. Watched at night. Followed everywhere.
A steep price to pay for the skills she possessed.
Brows drawn together, Nairobi shifted on the low stool. Wooden legs scraped over greying floorboards. The ragged sound echoed inside the empty chamber, knotting the muscles between her shoulder blades as she fingered the wool threads, testing her loom for tension. Taut. Strong. Evenly spaced. Sheer perfection to a master weaver with a love of design and an eye for detail. Half-done, the Persian rug took shape and form, individual knots, each color, the repetitive motion of her hands carrying the one-of-a-kind motif ever upward, toward the wooden rail anchoring the whole. Another month and she would finish. Would lay the enormous carpet flat and see it in its entirety for the first time. After weeks of planning. After months of toiling. After years spent dreaming.
Her creation would be called a masterpiece.
Those who called Ismal—the marketplace nestled at the foot of the Carpathian Mountain Range—home would gather, hoping for a chance to see it. Wealthy merchants and celebrated noblemen would bid for the privilege of taking it home. The other weavers would sneer behind her back while Saul boasted of her talent . . . then locked her away. Put her under heavy guard. Again. Like always. For fear another silk house would view her work and attempt to steal her.
Just like the last time.
Which meant the Persian would never see completion.
Regret invaded her heart. As it tugged at her artist’s soul, Nairobi sighed and paused mid-knot. Hands hovering above the weft, she debated a moment, then gave in, and traced the colorful pattern with her fingertip. Soft wool brushed against her calloused skin. An ache bloomed in the center of her chest. ’Twas a crying shame. A terrible tragedy to leave something so beautiful unfinished. But no matter how difficult, she would leave the rug behind and never look back.
The Goddess of All Things commanded it.
Aye, she’d heard the call. The cosmic thread held on hard, tugging at her heart, collecting in her soul, relaying the message . . . loud and clear. Now all she wanted to do was go home to White Temple. Tears stung the corners of her eyes. Goddess, she could hardly believe it. She’d prayed every day for so long—from the moment she’d been forced to flee the holy city. Two years spent struggling. Two years of uncertainty, of not knowing who to trust or where to turn. Two years adrift in the wilds of mankind, awaiting the day the goddess recalled the Blessed and reclaimed her own.
Two years.
And now—finally, after all this time—’twas safe to return home.
The mark between her shoulder blades tingled. Burned into her skin, the moon-star gave her strength. Enough to believe she could do it. Gods, she had done it. Or at least, started down the path to freedom.
Along with the rope, she’d spent an hour sneaking from room to room, gathering what she needed, preparing her getaway bag one item at a time. Her gaze cut to the wooden box beside her loom. Piled high with yarn, no one would ever guess her satchel lay hidden beneath the colorful wool. Tying another knot, she wove another line of thread and took inventory of her supplies. Two knives. A tin cup. Wire for setting rabbit snarls. A flint for starting a fire. Enough food for three days . . . if she rationed and was careful. A warm cloak, good boots, and fur-lined gloves. Nairobi frowned. It wasn’t enough. Five days’ worth of food would’ve been better. But with time ticking down, she couldn’t delay to gather more.