requested to bring, piling them into a basket by the stairs. I noticed she wore the same sort of collar the other woman in white had worn—a chain with a numbered padlock.
I wondered what her story was. Still, their interlude gave me fodder for thought during the empty time until it was full dark, and I found myself pressing my knuckles hard against my lips, rocking them against my clit until I could feel the wetness damping the inside of the leather.
Finally—finally!—it was dark. I crept towards the stairs and listened. Nothing but the rushing of the wind. Nanette had closed the cellar door when she left, and I had a moment of panic that it was locked, but it turned out not to be. I pushed it open, a millimeter at a time, until the wind caught it, and it slammed it open. I leapt into the darkness at the sound, running until I was hidden by a copse of trees. Just in time. My heart beat against my ribs as I watched a guard run over, weapon in hand, to inspect the cellar. Would they have shot me on sight?
I waited, leaning on a sticky evergreen trunk, for my heart to slow down while I forced my breath to steady. Did they see me? I wasn't sure, but I didn't want to take the chance. I slipped around, my steps light and silent, even here, even in the dark, even in the unknown woods. I smiled. Thank Mother for me, Fortuna. I really do need to write to her.
Once I was past the trees, I crouched, then crawled through the reeds. There had to be a boat somewhere. I saw the dock in the distance—too far, and there were people around it, too many lights. Surely there was a little boat somewhere? I was near despairing when I saw it. Fortuna, when I die and see your face, I'm going to kiss you.
It was a small rowboat, just big enough for one or two people, and there were oars in it. It hadn't been moved in months, I could tell, and there was a harpoon in the bottom of it. Clever. I looked around. Here, crocodile, crocodile, crocodile. Come to Marri and let her warm you by the fire. Snorting at my own fancy, I untied the boat and pushed off. The oars made slappy, lapping sounds, but the river was louder in going around the rocks at the head of the island, so I felt safe in remaining unheard. It was difficult rowing crosswise to the current, but I didn't feel like having to spend a day walking back to the camp, so I struggled with the oars. My arms burned and my hands began to hurt, the wood rough with disuse. I began to whisper my poem to myself, the one my mother used to sing to me, the one that had been the source of my comfort in every trying time in my life.
It wasn't personal.
O, Fortuna,
like the moon
you are changeable,
ever waxing
and waning;
hateful life
first oppresses
and then soothes
as fancy takes it…
I grunted in time with the beat of the words, imagining, as I did, that they spilled out of my mouth like ink, swirling around my arms from hand to hand, wrapping down my torso and spiraling around my legs from foot to foot, spinning back up to settle, calmly, around my throat.
Fate – monstrous
and empty,
you whirling wheel,
you are malevolent,
well-being is vain
and always fades to nothing,
shadowed
and veiled
you plague me, too;
now through the game
I bring my bare back
to your villainy.
I glanced at the sky, the full moon and the clouds moving over it, the choppy water around me as I forced the oars through the waves again and again and again, not daring to rest lest I be swept along.
Why am I bothering, Fortuna? Maybe it would be better if I just forgot this whole charade, if I just went on to another city, if I hired on in their guard and fucked all their rough soldiers.
Fate is against me
in health
and virtue,
driven on
and weighted down,
always enslaved.
So at this hour
without delay
pluck the vibrating strings;
since Fate
strikes down the strong man,
everyone weep with me!
Always enslaved? No, Fortuna, I am better than that. Even as a slave, I saved Aluet from a hostile
I wondered what her story was. Still, their interlude gave me fodder for thought during the empty time until it was full dark, and I found myself pressing my knuckles hard against my lips, rocking them against my clit until I could feel the wetness damping the inside of the leather.
Finally—finally!—it was dark. I crept towards the stairs and listened. Nothing but the rushing of the wind. Nanette had closed the cellar door when she left, and I had a moment of panic that it was locked, but it turned out not to be. I pushed it open, a millimeter at a time, until the wind caught it, and it slammed it open. I leapt into the darkness at the sound, running until I was hidden by a copse of trees. Just in time. My heart beat against my ribs as I watched a guard run over, weapon in hand, to inspect the cellar. Would they have shot me on sight?
I waited, leaning on a sticky evergreen trunk, for my heart to slow down while I forced my breath to steady. Did they see me? I wasn't sure, but I didn't want to take the chance. I slipped around, my steps light and silent, even here, even in the dark, even in the unknown woods. I smiled. Thank Mother for me, Fortuna. I really do need to write to her.
Once I was past the trees, I crouched, then crawled through the reeds. There had to be a boat somewhere. I saw the dock in the distance—too far, and there were people around it, too many lights. Surely there was a little boat somewhere? I was near despairing when I saw it. Fortuna, when I die and see your face, I'm going to kiss you.
It was a small rowboat, just big enough for one or two people, and there were oars in it. It hadn't been moved in months, I could tell, and there was a harpoon in the bottom of it. Clever. I looked around. Here, crocodile, crocodile, crocodile. Come to Marri and let her warm you by the fire. Snorting at my own fancy, I untied the boat and pushed off. The oars made slappy, lapping sounds, but the river was louder in going around the rocks at the head of the island, so I felt safe in remaining unheard. It was difficult rowing crosswise to the current, but I didn't feel like having to spend a day walking back to the camp, so I struggled with the oars. My arms burned and my hands began to hurt, the wood rough with disuse. I began to whisper my poem to myself, the one my mother used to sing to me, the one that had been the source of my comfort in every trying time in my life.
It wasn't personal.
O, Fortuna,
like the moon
you are changeable,
ever waxing
and waning;
hateful life
first oppresses
and then soothes
as fancy takes it…
I grunted in time with the beat of the words, imagining, as I did, that they spilled out of my mouth like ink, swirling around my arms from hand to hand, wrapping down my torso and spiraling around my legs from foot to foot, spinning back up to settle, calmly, around my throat.
Fate – monstrous
and empty,
you whirling wheel,
you are malevolent,
well-being is vain
and always fades to nothing,
shadowed
and veiled
you plague me, too;
now through the game
I bring my bare back
to your villainy.
I glanced at the sky, the full moon and the clouds moving over it, the choppy water around me as I forced the oars through the waves again and again and again, not daring to rest lest I be swept along.
Why am I bothering, Fortuna? Maybe it would be better if I just forgot this whole charade, if I just went on to another city, if I hired on in their guard and fucked all their rough soldiers.
Fate is against me
in health
and virtue,
driven on
and weighted down,
always enslaved.
So at this hour
without delay
pluck the vibrating strings;
since Fate
strikes down the strong man,
everyone weep with me!
Always enslaved? No, Fortuna, I am better than that. Even as a slave, I saved Aluet from a hostile
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