Read Online Angeline by Karleen Bradford - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Karleen Bradford
Ads: Link
beneath Zahra’s arms, Aza stared back.
When Samah returned later to fetch Aza she was still glowering. Angeline glowered back. Slave she might be to Zahra, but she was neither slave nor servant to Samah.
The next morning Zahra seemed to have recovered most of her good humour. She sent Angeline to the cooking place as usual, but with words that sounded much like a warning. Angeline took heed. She returned with Zahra’s breakfast, then stood silently by while Zahra ate. She was relieved that there did not seem to be any further consequences coming for her disobedience. At the same time, she still burned with resentment. Why should she be at the mercy of these people?
As soon as she entered the harem she saw Anka and the other three slave girls, Nabeela, Raful, and Heba. They were huddled together in the farthest corner. When they caught sight of her, Anka whispered a few words and they hid their mouths behind their hands and giggled. Anka looked straight at her and smiled a smug, triumphant grin.
One of the other concubines called to the girl. Too occupied with sneering at Angeline, Anka did not hear her. The woman strode over to her and slapped her. Anka gave a small cry of pain. Now it was Angeline’s turn to gloat, and gloat she did.
But that night Angeline lay on her couch listening to the soft night sounds outside their window long after Zahra slept. The wick in the dish of oil beside her bed was almost consumed. It sputtered and died, then flamed again to cast strange dancing shadows on the walls around her.
She had never thought that her mother would die. Their life had been poor and some would have said hard, but it had not seemed so to Angeline. They had their garden for vegetables. Marithe was an accomplished seamstress, and the townsfolk supplied them with meat and other necessities in return for the garments she sewed for them. As far as Angeline knew, her life was full and satisfying. She ran free through the woods and fields around their village. She had believed Marithe would always be there to protect her, to soothe her ills and rub her bumps and injuries away with the calming salves that she made.
Angeline had hated sewing and avoided it as much as possible. Marithe understood, andwhile Angeline was growing to maidenhood, she had let her daughter go her own way. She had delighted in the untidy bunches of wildflowers the child brought home to her, and she welcomed the roots and berries that Angeline discovered to eke out their meagre suppers. They had had a good life. But of course the villagers disapproved of Angeline’s wild ways.
“Just like her mother,” they said, but never to her face.
Her mother had known well what the talk was but Marithe just laughed and let the girl enjoy herself. People were glad to wear the garments Marithe sewed for them; that was enough for her. Only, Angeline had never known who her father was. She asked once, but her mother would not answer her.
“He left,” was all she had said. “He moved on and left me with the most precious gift God could have given me. You.”
Angeline could have asked around the town, but she would not give pleasure to the many sharp-tongued women who would have taken great delight in telling her all the details of her mother’s folly, for folly it surely was. Otherwise, Marithe would have been properly wed as were the rest of them.
As she lay in the shifting darkness, Angeline tried to recall her mother’s face. To her dismay, she realized that she could no longer see her clearly. She pulled a sheet of paper over to her and a quill. By the flickering light of the dying wick she began to sketch but, try as she might, the face she drew never seemed right.
It was too late—she had forgotten too much.
She crumpled up the paper and threw it on the floor. Zahra would be provoked at the waste, but she did not care. As the wick finally guttered out, she gave herself up to her sorrow and collapsed back onto the pillows. She wept then as
When Samah returned later to fetch Aza she was still glowering. Angeline glowered back. Slave she might be to Zahra, but she was neither slave nor servant to Samah.
The next morning Zahra seemed to have recovered most of her good humour. She sent Angeline to the cooking place as usual, but with words that sounded much like a warning. Angeline took heed. She returned with Zahra’s breakfast, then stood silently by while Zahra ate. She was relieved that there did not seem to be any further consequences coming for her disobedience. At the same time, she still burned with resentment. Why should she be at the mercy of these people?
As soon as she entered the harem she saw Anka and the other three slave girls, Nabeela, Raful, and Heba. They were huddled together in the farthest corner. When they caught sight of her, Anka whispered a few words and they hid their mouths behind their hands and giggled. Anka looked straight at her and smiled a smug, triumphant grin.
One of the other concubines called to the girl. Too occupied with sneering at Angeline, Anka did not hear her. The woman strode over to her and slapped her. Anka gave a small cry of pain. Now it was Angeline’s turn to gloat, and gloat she did.
But that night Angeline lay on her couch listening to the soft night sounds outside their window long after Zahra slept. The wick in the dish of oil beside her bed was almost consumed. It sputtered and died, then flamed again to cast strange dancing shadows on the walls around her.
She had never thought that her mother would die. Their life had been poor and some would have said hard, but it had not seemed so to Angeline. They had their garden for vegetables. Marithe was an accomplished seamstress, and the townsfolk supplied them with meat and other necessities in return for the garments she sewed for them. As far as Angeline knew, her life was full and satisfying. She ran free through the woods and fields around their village. She had believed Marithe would always be there to protect her, to soothe her ills and rub her bumps and injuries away with the calming salves that she made.
Angeline had hated sewing and avoided it as much as possible. Marithe understood, andwhile Angeline was growing to maidenhood, she had let her daughter go her own way. She had delighted in the untidy bunches of wildflowers the child brought home to her, and she welcomed the roots and berries that Angeline discovered to eke out their meagre suppers. They had had a good life. But of course the villagers disapproved of Angeline’s wild ways.
“Just like her mother,” they said, but never to her face.
Her mother had known well what the talk was but Marithe just laughed and let the girl enjoy herself. People were glad to wear the garments Marithe sewed for them; that was enough for her. Only, Angeline had never known who her father was. She asked once, but her mother would not answer her.
“He left,” was all she had said. “He moved on and left me with the most precious gift God could have given me. You.”
Angeline could have asked around the town, but she would not give pleasure to the many sharp-tongued women who would have taken great delight in telling her all the details of her mother’s folly, for folly it surely was. Otherwise, Marithe would have been properly wed as were the rest of them.
As she lay in the shifting darkness, Angeline tried to recall her mother’s face. To her dismay, she realized that she could no longer see her clearly. She pulled a sheet of paper over to her and a quill. By the flickering light of the dying wick she began to sketch but, try as she might, the face she drew never seemed right.
It was too late—she had forgotten too much.
She crumpled up the paper and threw it on the floor. Zahra would be provoked at the waste, but she did not care. As the wick finally guttered out, she gave herself up to her sorrow and collapsed back onto the pillows. She wept then as
Similar Books
