hurt again?â I ask.
She is weaving. âI feel well. Keep me company.â
I sit at my rug loom. âWhere is Pado?â
âWhere would he be? In his counting room.â Matiâs rhythm with her shuttle is as swift and sure as ever.
The rug Iâve been working on is a marriage rug. I meant it as a gift for Belet, my matiâs brotherâs daughter, whose wedding is this afternoon. In the rug a lion stands over a lioness, guarding her. Clusters of dates are strewn at the lionessâs side. The dates stand for children and wealth. The rugâs border is a river that has no end, for long life. All that remains to be knotted in is the top edge of the river. Iâve already knotted in my name.
Now there is no hurry, since we arenât going to the wedding. Weaving will keep me here in the courtyard, but I want to have a reason to visit Nia.
Next to my loom is my basket of yarn, a chipped plate, a reed stylus, and a mound of clay in a bowl of water covered by a damp cloth. The clay is there in case I want to plan a change in my rug or design a new one.
With the plate on my lap, I scoop out a handful of clay and flatten it.
âMy next rug will be of Admatâs altar in the reception room,â I tell Mati. I pick up the stylus and begin to draw. After a few minutes I stand. âI have to see the altar.â Mati knows that sometimes I must look at my subject so I can portray it accurately.
She nods.
When I get there, I open the street door. Nia is awake, watching Hyte pass by.
âI thought I heard . . .â I say. âI thought . . .â
âNo one has come.â
Once I am back at my loom, my eyes linger on the wool in my basket. Some shades blend into their neighbors. Others glow against them. I love bright blue next to violetâmorning dancing with twilight.
I take up my clay. Half an hour passes.
âMati . . . I have to look into the reception room again.â
âGo.â
Nia is annoyed with me. âI know my business, little Mistress. You neednât supervise me.â
I retreat. I draw for a quarter hour, then push back my chair. This time Iâll see that Pado is safe.
But Mati sees through me too. âStay. As Admat wishes, so it will be.â
âAs he wishes, so it will be.â I set aside my clay and work on the marriage rug, hoping that weaving will cast its usual spell over me.
Soon the peace of a craftswoman enters me, and I feel the pleasure of Matiâs company. I become absorbed in designing my pattern and moving my fingers. Mati doesnât knot, because she makes cloth. I knot, because I make rugs, but we are both weaving. Knotting is weaving too.
Knot. Cut with my weaverâs knife. Knot. Cut. Knot. Cut. Count as I go. Change colors. Finish my row. Pass my weft through and pack it down. Begin again.
Mati stretches. âKezi . . .â She lifts a layer off a pile of cloth at her side to reveal a blue woolen tunic, appliquéd along the bottom with bands of purple wool. The fringeson the purple sash are eight inches long, strung with amber beads. Iâm surprised I didnât see her sewing it.
âDo you like it?â She holds it up.
âItâs beautiful.â Iâve never seen such a pretty tunic. Mati will look wonderful in it. Iâd love to try it on. Iâm taller than she is, but it would fit me too.
âItâs for the wedding,â Mati says.
âWe canât go!â
âYour pado and I will stay at home, but you may go. A servant will accompany you. Here. Put it on.â
âItâs for me?â
âFor you.â
I take it and hold it on my knees. âOh!â Mati must have beaten the cloth a thousand times to make it this soft.
She pats my lap through the tunic. âIâm thankful to be alive today.â
I lean across my new tunic and hug her.
âGo. Try it on and show me how you look.â
I drape the tunic