Under the Willow Root

Chapter 10

We continue uphill until we approach what at first looks like a solid cliff face. Then we get closer and I see that there's actually a great gash in the side of the mountain framed by enormous stone statues—or I guess carvings would be the more accurate term. They're set into the side of the mountain itself and depict wild, flowering trees and vines. Like everything else I've seen here, they're beautiful. The craftsmanship and detail are unbelievable.

As we pass through the gorge, I see that the walls are carved with people and animals as well as flowers and trees. Most are of dancing girls and young lovers, but some show families or old couples sitting hand in hand. One in particular catches my eye. It's an old woman holding a baby. It looks nothing like Baba Nadia, and I was a toddler when my mother died, but the image still makes my throat close and my eyes sting.

There's a faint but strange sound echoing in the gorge, and it takes me a minute to identify it as rushing water. The gorge soon widens into a ravine, and I see that the sound comes from a tall, narrow waterfall at the other end. A palace—I can't think of any other term for it—is built on either side of the waterfall and connected by elegant bridges from which people can admire the cascade. It's beautiful, but I can't see any stream or river. Where does the water go?

The palace looks like it's built into the side of the mountain, just like the carvings. Smaller houses line the path running down the narrow valley, separated by little gardens or groves of dogwoods and birches but connected by covered walkways. Every house in the valley is connected, like the whole ravine is part of the palace.

My new mistress waves and calls out to people who are just as well dressed if not quite as beautiful as she is. They smile and either wave her on her way or stop to chat. Everywhere I look I can see slaves hovering in the background, always present but barely noticeable. This is where the rich people live, I realize. It's like a resort, complete with pool boys and gardeners and cooks and nannies and housekeepers and wait staff, except that the people who live here aren't on vacation.

I remember that all the people at Pouter's auction looked rich too, which means Pouter and the other girls might end up here as well. Despite my lingering jealousy and resentment over the treatment I received at the auction house, I hope they do. I wouldn't wish the oily man on any one of them--not even Pouter, gigantic bitch though she may be.

We continue almost to the waterfall, practically into the primary wings of the palace. The pathway to my new home is lined with lilac bushes. My mistress sweeps up to the door, which is opened from the inside by a slave whose sole purpose for all I know is to wait for someone to show up so he can open the door. The litter bearers disappear, presumably to put the creepy thing away, and the older lady leads me around the side of the house to a smaller door. I follow wearily, completely worn out by the day's events. I hesitate in the doorway, glancing around. For now, at least, this is my new home. I take a deep breath and cross the threshold.

* * *

"Sasha, calm down," Emily pleads, hands held up in a defensive posture. "It's okay. Everything is okay."

"Get out!" I scream, and wonder why.

I don't remember why I'm yelling or how I got here. I'm in my bedroom. There's a jewelry box in my hand and my arm is cocked back as if I'm about to throw it.

"I'm not going anywhere," Emily says firmly. "I'm here to help you."

"No! You're stealing! You're stealing all the studio's money."

"Sasha, I've shown you the accounts," Emily says, visibly trying to stay calm. "Nothing is missing."

"You're stealing," I repeat.

"I promise I'm not."

"You're lying," I snarl. "You-re--you're--"

My arm sags and my lips become heavy. I make an ugly gurgling noise as the jewelry box slips from my fingers. I drop to my knees. Emily is at my side in an instant, cell phone in hand.

"Hold on, babe," she says. "You'll be alright."

Will I? I still don't understand.

* * *

My mistress's slave shoos me into a spacious kitchen where she sits me down on a low stool and someone else, a cook, hands me a cup of warm broth. It tastes wonderful. I hold it out when I'm done, hoping for more, but both women shake their heads. The cook pats her stomach meaningfully. I nod back vigorously, wiggling my soup cup. Yes, I'm hungry, I want to tell her. Please, please, give me more food. The cook shakes her head and grimaces as if in pain. I lower my cup, finally understanding. I'm not sure I agree, but I don't want to push my luck.

Instead, I get up and cross to a large table covered in flour and write my name with my finger. I point at it, and then at myself. Of course I realize they won't be able to read it, and I'm not surprised by the cook's puzzled expression. I'm completely unprepared, however, for the vicious slap that makes my ears ring and opens the cuts on the side of my face. The well dressed slave glares at me, sweeping her hand across the letters. She makes a slashing gesture at me, scowling furiously. I gape at her with my hand to my face, cowering.

The cook, who didn't even blink when the slave woman attacked me, gestures to her and says a word that I suppose must be the slave's name. She helpfully draws a shape in the flour and makes an accompanying gesture with both hands, fluttering her fingers with her thumbs linked. I look between them blankly and the cook whistles like a bird and flutters her hands again.

I whistle back and point inquiringly at the well dressed slave. The cook makes an odd gesture with her hand, but she's smiling so I guess it means yes. Bird. She points at the flour, and the wall, and my dress, all white. White bird...dove? The slave's name is Dove, or her name means dove. Or stork, or seagull, but Dove is prettier and works as well as anything.

I point at the cook and she says her name, but doesn't make any attempt to pantomime its meaning as she did for Dove. Maybe her name isn't as easily translated. I point at myself, and they both make a kind of dismissive, flicking gesture. Unsure of what to make of this, I sit back down on the stool. I pick up my soup cup again and hold it up hopefully. This time the cook takes it and gives me a little more before Dove sweeps me out of the kitchen and leads me through a maze of corridors.

I scurry after her, panting, until she opens a door and gestures for me to enter. There are two beds and a vanity table with a mirror and little pots of perfume or cream. Dove unties my robe and takes it away, leaving me standing naked in the middle of the room. She steers me gently toward the bed and tucks me in, laying a hand on my forehead in a way that feels at once perfunctory and tender. With a sigh, I close my eyes and fall asleep.