Chapter 10 #3
"Thank you," he said. "I'm sorry you got hurt."
"It's nothing," Nkiru repeated and smiled so he would believe her.
When they left, Azul didn't move from the doorway for a long moment. Then she turned and walked towards her room.
Nkiru followed, her burned hand still hidden in her sleeve. She'd wrap it later, when the Akwaugo didn't need her. For now, she would serve tea and pretend nothing had happened.
"Come here."
Nkiru stopped.
Azul sat by her small table, where a mortar and pestle sat beside fresh herbs.
Azul held out her hand.
Nkiru hesitated; she hadn't washed her hands yet, she wasn't clean enough to touch a member of the royal family.
But seeing Azul waiting, she had no choice but to pull out her injured hand from her sleeve.
The burn was uglier than she'd thought—red and blistering across her arm, the skin already tightening.
It was ugly to look at, so she looked away, lest her heart be overwhelmed by the pain and she cry in front of the Akwaugo again like a child.
Azul looked at it. Her expression didn't change. She dipped into the mortar, scooping out a pale green paste that smelled of aloe and neem. She began to spread it across Nkiru's arm. Her touch was gentle; her hands were soft.
Should this be what a mother's touch is?
It stung. Nkiru bit her lip and didn't move; she didn't want to move.
"Don't let Chinedu in the kitchen anymore," Azul said.
Nkiru's eyes widened. "Akwaugo, it wasn't his fault—"
"I know." Azul's voice was flat. "That's not why I'm saying it. He's a child. Children are curious. Remove the temptation, and the danger follows."
Nkiru nodded, chastened.
Azul finished applying the paste and reached for a strip of clean cloth, beginning to wrap the wound. Akwaugo is skilled in the apothecary arts, Nkiru marvelled, thinking she must've been taught by a local apothecary as a child, as there was no place for a woman to formally learn such a thing.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then Nkiru felt something hot slide down her cheek.
She touched her face, surprised. Tears. She hadn't realised she was crying.
Azul paused, looking up.
"Why are you crying?"
Nkiru shook her head, trying to stop the tears. They kept coming.
"I'm sorry, Akwaugo. I don't—I don't know why—"
"You do." Azul resumed wrapping. "Tell me."
The words came out before Nkiru could stop them.
"Before you came, I served the Fourth Wife."
Azul's hands stilled for just a moment. Then they continued their work.
"She was kind to me. She used to sing songs from her homeland, and I would braid her hair, and she would tell me about the mountains where she grew up, the snow that fell in winter, and the way the stars looked different there.
" Nkiru's voice cracked. "She said I reminded her of her little sister. The one she left behind."
The bandage was finished. Azul sat back, waiting.
"But now—" Nkiru swallowed. "She's gone. A few months ago. Before you came."
The words hung in the air.
"How?"
"She went into early labour at the Third Wife's courtyard. The baby—" Nkiru's voice broke. "The baby didn't survive either. They buried them together, she and the child. I never got to say goodbye."
Azul didn't offer comfort; it seemed adverse to her nature. But she also didn't look away, and somehow that was enough for the girl.
After a moment, Nkiru wiped her face with her good hand.
"Thank you, Akwaugo. For the medicine."
Azul inclined her head. "Try not to do too much until the wound dries; it shouldn’t bleed after tonight."
Nkiru sniffled and nodded, but as she reached the door, Azul called out to her.
"Nkiru."
The girl turned to look.
"Throw away the honey cakes."
Nkiru’s heart thumped. She tensed, her body shuddering as an abrupt feeling of fear settled on her, as though she were wading through mud. She bowed her head.
"Yes, Akwaugo."
After the girl left, Azul sat alone in the fading light.
The snake stirred in her sleeve, finally coming out now they were alone. Azul did not like it being seen by others and so trained it accordingly. It buried its head in the leftover herb paste, finding it rather relaxing. Azul paid it no heed; pushing herself off her table, she walked to the window.
The garden was quiet, shadows lengthening across the path as the sun set.
Somewhere out there, at her pavilion, a game board sat untouched. It was real, felt and experienced by more people than just herself. A game she'd barely understood, played by a woman she'd met twice.
Once when they were both children.
Once when they were both dead.
Azul didn't know what to make of this, but in a world where gods interfered with the dealings of mortals, she supposed spirits were not too far-fetched a concept to experience.
She recalled her walk back from that clearing; the weight of the game board had been greater than her recovering strength could stand. So she stopped at the well, too weak to carry it further, sitting on the stone edge to rest.
For a moment, the memory lingered, and a sad smile graced her lips. Indeed, the harem was full of wilting flowers.