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carefully over my arm. Mati hangs the sash around my shoulders. I start for my bedroom. When I pass the kitchen, I hear servants chatting as they prepare dinner.
    My thoughts turn to the wedding. Until yesterday I’dthought of little else. Belet is marrying my uncle Damki, Pado’s youngest brother, a widower fourteen years her senior. Everyone agrees it is an excellent match. Belet’s pado doles out spices to all the families in Hyte. Uncle Damki is handsome. He owns as much land as Pado, and he is almost as kindhearted.
    Still, if Belet survives bearing children, she will surely outlive Uncle Damki by many lonely years. Aunt Fedo had a much older husband, who died before I was born, and she is alone except for us. She doesn’t let us see her sadness, but I know she’s sad sometimes.
    I want a husband near my own age. My thoughts go to Elon. I’ve seen him many times in the palace processionals and outside the temple. He’s tall and I’m tall. His hair curls naturally, and he’s unlikely ever to need a wig.
    Of course, I don’t know him well. I don’t know any young men well, but I have asked a few questions of my friends. One knows someone who knows someone who is his relative, and I have collected a little information.
    Elon’s parents died when he was a boy. His uncle’s house, where Elon lives, is twelve streets away from ours. I’ve walked there to look. The house also has a red wooden door set into the street wall. A reception room probably lies behind the door, and beyond it a shaded interior courtyard and branching rooms, rugs scattered here and there.
    The uncle, who has no sons of his own, has a palace position, like Pado. He buys wooden furniture from the traders who come to Hyte, because few trees surround our city.
    Somehow Aunt Fedo knows about Elon. “My owl eyes,” she said once, “have seen you wriggle at him.”
    â€œI don’t!” I was furious. “Aunt Fedo, I never wriggled!”
    Pado has said nothing yet, but no girl with wealthy parents reaches sixteen unmarried. Before the end of this year I’ll be a wife.
    As Admat wishes, so it will be, I think. I enter my bedroom.

7

    OLUS
    I N HER BEDROOM Kezi spreads the new finery on her bed and smooths it flat. Smiling, she pulls one cloth shoulder higher on the bed, then drags it lower. She does the same with the other tunic shoulder. I’m puzzled.
    Her hands skip to the hem. She lifts the hem on one side and tugs that side over the other. The empty tunic is dancing! She releases that side of the hem and lifts the other.
    She is charming. I smile with her as the tunic’s hips switch from side to side. When the dance is over, she lies on the bed next to the tunic and gazes up at her ceiling, her smile fading, but her hand caressing the fabric.
    I wish I could see thoughts.
    After five minutes she jumps up and reaches down to remove her everyday tunic. I never look through clothing, and I will not watch her undress, but I’m eager to see her in the tunic. I withdraw my eyes.

8

    KEZI
    A T TWO INCHES above my ankles, the new tunic is the right length. The neck is scooped. The wool molds itself to me. The tunic is modest, but just barely. It is a dress a bawdy mati would make.
    I wind the sash twice around my waist and tie a bow to the side, as is the fashion. Slide to the left, bend my left knee. Slide to the right, bend my right knee. I wonder how the tunic looks when I dance. I wonder if Elon will be at the wedding and will see me dance.
    Admat, I pray, gazing to the side of the bedroom altar flame, give me a husband I can love. Give me a husband who will love a dancing wife.
    The flame wavers, which could be a good sign, a bad sign, or no sign at all.

9

    OLUS
    N IA HASN’T LEFT her post. No one has attempted to enter.
    Merem is in the counting room, telling Senat that Kezi is putting on the new tunic. He sets down his stylus and follows her to the