Chapter 23 #2
“Careful, Mira, no clumsy fingers. Pay attention so you don’t strip off more than necessary.
No, no, no! You’ve ruined that piece. Don’t you know how precious that is?
How long it takes to collect just this small amount?
” Mira had lost count of the admonishments, corrections, hours of practice and study.
How many times had she come to Zaneta as a child of eight, ten, twelve, a piece of the flock in her small hands, offering it shyly for her scrutiny?
Her mother’s dark eyes would pierce like an eagle’s as she’d snatch the byssus from Mira’s hands and hold it up to the light.
“Do you know what I see?” she’d ask, and Mira’s heart would plummet at the question. Mira would shake her head, certain she’d cleaned and rinsed the byssus the full twenty-five days, leaving not a single speck of impurity.
“Carelessness,” Zaneta would reply, her mouth twisting in a frown.
“Hurry. Rush. Not good enough,” she’d say, handing back the flock with her head turned, Mira already dismissed without excuse.
Johann and Isaac, her younger brothers, would watch from where they played in the yard or where they sat near the hearth playing chess or checkers, free from the chores Mira was required to complete.
They had their own household tasks, to be sure—everyone did their part in those days—but none as fraught with criticism and reproval as tending the sea silk.
Only once had Mira dared to complain. It had been winter, the year she’d turned twelve.
She’d received good marks at school, studying hard and putting in extra time with math, her weakest area, and her teacher had praised her efforts.
On the way home from school, eager to present her grades to her parents, she’d been approached by a boy named Tomas who pulled her away from her friends.
He was tall and shy with warm brown eyes and a rakish smile.
There was a winter dance, he’d stammered. Would she like to go?
The rest of the way home, Mira’s best friend, Carmina, had laughed and teased her about it.
She’d been the first to be asked, and she’d walked with her shoulders back and a skip in her step, feeling like a sleek cat strutting in the sunshine.
When she’d arrived home, a smile playing on her lips, she’d seen the curtains drawn against the bright day, and she’d known Zaneta would be in one of her dark moods.
Lingering at the doorstep, she’d waffled about entering as she overheard snippets of her parents’ conversation as they sat at the kitchen table.
“It never ends,” her mother had snapped, her voice carrying a waver that betrayed her.
“Zeta, you already knew.” Her father, Luccio’s, low voice, gentle and sad.
“There are different kinds of knowing. This makes it final somehow. What a brilliance wasted.”
Mira had chosen that moment to enter the kitchen and greet her mother, her teacher’s signed paper in hand, just as Zaneta had hurled a teacup into the sink, shards of porcelain flying everywhere. Her mother had whirled around, startled.
“What is it?” she’d sniped, her hands waving in the air like shooing a housefly. “What could possibly be so important?” Her mother’s dark eyes were wet, her cheeks flushed.
Mira had weighed her two pieces of news and chosen her words carefully. She’d folded her grades and slid them behind her back. “There’s a dance,” she’d said, the words halting and cautious, the question implied. “I’ve been asked to go.”
Zaneta had laughed, a brittle sound in the small, airless kitchen. “Dancing? That’s what most concerns you?” She’d run her long fingers through her black curls and lifted her chin. “Impossible.” Her final pronouncement. “We have work to do. Everything rests on us now.”
Mira had looked to her father, her eyes silently pleading. “It’s just one evening,” she’d dared to argue. “Surely you can spare—”
Her mother’s temper had flashed. “So. You presume to know what I can spare?” She’d barked that bitter laugh again.
Mira’s father spread his hands, trying to soften the blow for his daughter.
“I have nothing to spare, Mira. Maybe if I had a spare daughter, you could waste time at a dance that means nothing, but I have only you.” The way she’d said that last word had pierced Mira’s heart like a saber.
Her mother had sighed, folding a paper of her own that Mira finally noticed on the table.
She’d fixed Mira with one of her stares, pinning her to the spot, a butterfly on display.
“You will have to do.” She’d shaken her head. “No time for a dance.”
Mira couldn’t help the quiver in her chin, the sting of tears that sprang to her eyes. “Come now, Mira,” her mother snapped, rolling her eyes. “It’s not a death sentence.” Mira had dropped her head, letting her long hair slide forward to cover her face.
Her father had coughed and tried to salvage the situation. “Did you bring something from school?” he’d asked, his voice bright with false cheer. He scratched his dark beard, and wrinkles deepened in the corners of his green eyes as he smiled.
She’d already forgotten about the grades and the warm hand her teacher had placed on her shoulder. She’d shrugged and passed the crumpled paper to her father on her way out to do her chores. “It’s nothing,” she’d said. “Nothing important.”