Harmindon's Finest

Chapter 7 - Hope After All

•●•●•●•

For the next few days the city was figuratively buzzing with excitement and gossip, about the Men of the West.

And the woman of the West, of course.

One woman came up to me one day - I became excited, thinking she was coming to buy, yet she paid no heed to my wares and asked me in a hushed whisper did I hear that the Ramyah's son had sneaked out of the Citadel grounds with the King's daughter early that morning. I could not have cared less and told her so. Affronted, the old lady tossed her shawl over one shoulder and stalked away.

I was probably a little interested in proceedings but right now I had other things to worry about. My supplies were running short, we had almost no spare money left and Grandmother was in bed with aching joints, so a slight desperation known too well by me was making itself known. That meant I was in a bad mood. I leaned my head onto the spindly timber frame of the stall, the only things holding up the bright drooping awnings, with their distinstive heavy fabric and embroidered hems, and wished I was relaxing in the gardens.

My usual customers - I say usual, I mean of course the occasional young woman seeking to buy something cheap - had all seemingly disappeared, and I was selling nothing instead of very rarely. I often wondered why this was so, as my materials were good, the embroidery fine and delicate, the prices not too expensive - I'd recently lowered them to entice any other potential customers.

The problem however was that Haradrim women had their own specific set of standards, and held family traditions in the highest order. So I put my hopes on newcomers to the city. This made me wonder idly if that Gondorian princess would be on that slim list of potentials - but I banished that thought, almost grinning at its absurdity. I had seen her clothing the day of their arrival and, with the eye of a seamstress, had surveyed the unusually cut gown and ruefully realised she would not care about my usual style of loose silk.

My musings were interrupted by a familiar figure jumping in front of the stall. The difference in Thekla was really remarkable - she was quite back to her usual cheerful self. Her optimise was so infectious that I almost forgot my worries for a moment. Smiling all across her friendly open face, she leaned across the stall to whisper.

"My sister knows a girl whose cousin's mother works in the Ramyah's house...."

"Is this about that princess?" I interrupted her, my black mood returning. Of course I was interested in her but the knowledge that even my best friend had fallen victim to the old gossips was incredibly frustrating. Thekla ignored my rudeness, well used to it as she was, and chattered on cheerfully.

"Well, she told her daughter who told her cousin who told her friend who told my sister who then told me that the princess is every bit as lovely on the inside as she is on the out. She is very friendly, and was openly interested in what Sawda and the other Ramyahs taught her." Thekla looked proud at her bit of news, and I shrugged.

"Who knows if that is true? Such stories get distorted," I said, returning to my thoughts of a peaceful sunrise in the gardens. Thekla took no notice to my pessimism.

"I like to think she is. And she is also fearless. My mother," she went on, voice dripping with envy, "was passing by when she was talking to Elyen some days ago and admiring her monkey. She heard every word, imagine! Take care, lady of the West, for even trained monkeys may bite, said old Elyen, that lucky old crone. That is just as well, for so do I, the princess replied. Have you ever heard of such confidence? I detest that creature of Elyen's, and here is a complete stranger with no qualms about it at all! Mother said her voice was light and cheerful, and her name, by the way, is Túrien. Does that not sound lovely and elvish?"