The Kadin - Bertrice Small [16]
Firousi smiled at Janet “How wonderful that you are to join us. We are now a beautiful trio.” She spoke in perfect but accented French.
“And,” continued Hadji Bey, “this is Zuleika.”
“I’ve never seen anyone like her before,” whispered Janet
“Of course you haven’t. I am from Cathay.” She, too, spoke in French, though she was harder to understand than Firousi.
“You are from Marco Polo’s Cathay?”
“Yes.”
“What is her name, Hadji Bey?” asked Firousi.
“She will be called Cyra.”
“My name is Janet Mary Leslie,” snapped Janet with a flash of her old spirit
“Hardly a suitable name for a Turkish sultan’s gediklis,” smiled Hadji Bey. “In my own ancient tongue, Cyra means ‘Flame.’ It is most suitable. Now, my children, I shall leave you to get acquainted. You will have tomorrow to rest and gather your strength. We leave on tomorrow night’s tide for Constantinople.” Bowing slightly, he turned and departed.
Janet stood gazing out over the silvery, moonlit harbor of Candia. It was packed with ships whose tiny lights twinkled at her in a friendly fashion. Among them was a ship from San Lorenzo—from Rudi.
“Go ahead,” said Firousi, reading her thoughts. Try it”
Janet stepped over the threshold into the garden. Two turbaned black slaves, each holding a curved scimitar, stepped to her side. Quickly she stepped back.
“There is no escape, Cyra,” said the blond girl. The sooner you accept that fact the happier you will be.”
Janet began to sob.
“Why do you cry?” asked Firousi.
“In that harbor lies a ship which waits to carry me back to my father, my little brother, and my betrothed—if I could but reach it.”
“Well, you can’t” said Firousi bluntly. “You’re lucky. At least you have a family living. My entire family, including my husband, are all dead, killed by Tartar slaves.”
“You were married?”
Firousi nodded and, clapping her hands, summoned a slave to bring food, for she sensed Janet might now be hungry.
“I will tell you my story, Cyra.” Her lovely eyes grew misty in remembrance as she began her tale.
On her wedding day, she had awakened just before dawn and slipped quietly out of bed. Pushing back the wooden shutters of the window, she saw the cobwebby mists rising above the newly green meadows. Her wedding day would be fair and warm.
My wedding day, she thought My wedding day! It has all come about because my brother saved the life of our enemy’s youngest child. Now I will marry his oldest son, and our villages will live in peace forever. I don’t even know what this Pyotr looks like or if he is a kind man, and when I ask papa, he just chuckles.
She turned as the curtain that separated her tiny bedchamber from the main room of the house was pulled back, and her family, laughing and singing, spilled inside. Her great bearlike father, her small, plump mother, her sisters—Katya, the eldest, with her husband, and Tanya, the youngest Here were her brothers Paul, Gregor, Boris, and Ivan, all her aunts, uncles, and cousins with their arms full of spring flowers.
“So,” boomed her father, “the bride cannot sleep.”
“And she’ll get no sleep tonight” laughed Gregor.
‘You,” said his mother sternly, but her eyes were laughing, “put down your flowers, and then out! All of you! Katya and Tanya, remain.”
They left her with her cheeks wet with their kisses and her arms full of flowers.
“Now, Marya,” said Sonya Rostov, “first you must eat” She placed the plate and cup she was carrying on a small table. “Poppy rolls, jam, and tea with sugar.”
Katya raised an eyebrow. Her wedding breakfast had been brown bread, honey, and goat’s milk. Mama would deny, of course, any favoritism toward her daughters, but Marya had always been her pet. Look at the wedding gown, for instance. When the old peddler had visited them last winter, he had had a length of creamy