"I will be sure to sketch out the options," the woman said in voice that
assured Ana that she would make room in her schedule to help Danat with
his father's arrangements.
Ana found her mother in the guests' apartments. Her return trip had been
postponed, the steam caravan itself waiting for her. The blue silk
curtains billowed in the soft breeze; the scent of lemon candles lit to
keep the insects away filled the air. Issandra sat before the fire
grate, her hands folded on her lap. She didn't rise.
Ana would never have said it, but her mother looked old. The sun of
Chaburi-Tan had darkened her skin, making her hair seem brilliantly white.
"Mother."
"Empress," Issandra Dasin said. Her voice was warm. "I'm afraid our
timing left something to be desired."
"No," Ana said. "It wouldn't have mattered. Tell father that I
appreciate the invitation, but I can't leave my family here."
"He won't hear it from me," Issandra said. "He's a good man, but time
hasn't made him less stubborn. He wants his little girl back."
Ana sighed. Her mother nodded.
"I know his little girl is gone," Issandra said. "I'll try to make him
understand that you're happy here. It may come to his visiting you himself."
"How are things at home?" Ana asked. She knew it was a telling question.
She started to take a pose that unasked it but lost her way. It wasn't
part of their conversation anyway.
"The word from Galt is good. The trade routes are busier than Farrer's
seafront can accommodate. He's filling his coffers with silver and gems
at a rate I've never seen," Issandra said. "It consoles him."
"I am happy here," Ana said.
"I know you are, love," her mother said. "This is where your children live."
They talked about small things for another hour, and then Ana took her
leave. There would be time enough later.
The Emperor's pyre was set to be lit in two days. Utani was wrapped in
mourning cloth. The palaces were swaddled in rags, the trees hung heavy
with gray and white cloth. Dry mourning drums filled the air where there
had once been music. The music would come again. She knew that. This was
only something that had to be endured.
She found Danat in his father's apartments, tears streaking his face.
Around him were spread sheets of paper as untidy as a bird's nest. All
of them were written upon in Otah Machi's hand. There had to be a
thousand pages. Danat looked up at her. For the length of a heartbeat,
she could see what her husband had looked like as a child.
"What is it?" Ana asked.
"It was a crate," Danat said. "Father left orders that it be put on his
pyre. They're letters. All of them are to my mother."
"From when they were courting?" Ana asked, sitting on the floor, her
legs crossed.
"After she died," Danat said. Ana plucked a page from the pile. The
paper was brittle, the ink pale. Otah Machi's words were perfectly legible.
Kiyan-kya-
You have been dead for a year tonight. I miss you. I want to