Martha watched as the end of Madam's funeral played out on one of the computers in Mother Sain's office. The casket was closed, only stony ashes had remained. Her relatives wept, her son looked grim. Pictures flashed of Elizabeth, the dead patients, the tiny baby. None of the slaves, but the correct number flashed as an aside. Everyone was dead.
Martha ached to go home. Young John's family would look after him. Who would say the prayers and sing the hymns as Dad and Reba were lowered into a slave's grave? She put her head in her hands and wept. Mother Sain touched her shoulder.
"We'll have a service for your father and sister," she comforted. Her own eyes teared."They'll rise to Gaia on the prayers of the Bishop of Botany, herself. Humble sinner that I am."
"Thank you," said Martha.
On the floor by her mother's feet, Sophia finished her rocking practice, almost making it to a crawl among the papers. She reached up her arms. Martha picked her up and cuddled, thankful for the warmth and health of the small body. Only luck had kept her from the burial plot.
"Clare wishes to take you to buy a dress," smiled the Reverend Mother. "For the presentation and to wear when your prince comes."
"I don't think so," whispered Martha. "I don't feel like it."
"She's a romantic. Indulge her." Mother Sain clicked off the computer. "Getting out for a little will help. She's studying in the library."
"Yes, Mother."
Martha rose with a sigh and arranged Sophia on her hip. She plodded out to where the sun shone, white clouds puffed across the sky and green frothed trees shimmered in the sea breeze; all oblivious to the pain of humans. She crossed the yard to a long granite building beside the temple. Tinted windows ran along one side. Martha climbed the stairs to the low voiced, rustled silence of the library. Sister Clare sat alone in a cubicle, surrounded by ancient illuminated texts. She looked up with a grin when Martha came up to her, then her face snapped into solemness.
"The funeral's over?" she whispered.
"Yes," said Martha, her tears dried for the moment. "Reverend Mother wants me to go with you to find a dress."
Clare packed up her pen and small lap top.
"Adonis is playing in the nursery," she said as they walked out of the library. "Do you want to leave Sophia there? She'll enjoy it, they have lots of baby songs and games."
"No." Martha wouldn't let Sophia out of her sight. "Not that I don' think she'd like it."
"I understand," replied Clare. She lay a hand on Martha's arm. "I'll pick up Adonis and we can take one of the prams. Make it a mother and baby outing."
They arrived at the nursery. Martha gazed about while Sister Clare signed for a carriage. Happy babies splashed in water, toddlers banged and smeared their painted hands on paper. In the room beyond, little children played in happy confusion. Young voices raised in a hymn, wafted from behind the frosted glass door that led to the older children's classes.
Sister Clare gathered up her baby. A novice parked the pram on the walk outside the building. Martha placed Sophia in one end of the buggy, Clare plopped Adonis in the other. The nun strapped the babies so they could sit in comfort yet not topple out. A fringed umbrella shaded the children from the sun. They made their way out of the gate and started off down the quiet sidewalk. A taxi drew up beside them with a toot.
"Would Sister and Madam like a ride into town," asked a mischievous voice. The brown wiry driver from Martha's arrival grinned at them.
"Adonis!"cried Claire.
He jumped out and they embraced. "How's my son today?" he asked, leaning over the pram to chuck his namesake under the chin. The baby shot him a gummy grin. Adonis unstrapped his child and pulled him into his arms. He smirked at Martha, wrinkles crinkled at the edges of his eyes. " My first son after two daughters by the nuns. I try not to be partial. But I am." He kissed Clare. They hugged, their baby squeezed between. The taxi driver jogged up and down and started to sing. Clare laughed and joined in the jump. Baby Adonis crowed.
Sophia laughed up at the dancers."This won't do. Someone left out." shouted Adonis. He unstrapped her, placed the baby in her mother's arms and bounced them into the circle.
Martha burst into tears. The jog ground to a halt.
"I've been told I can't keep a tune, but my singing's not that bad," said Adonis.
"No, it's all right," sobbed Martha.
"Her family's the one massacred," whispered Sister Clare. "They say her lover did it."
"He never," shouted Martha.
"Another trumped up lie," growled Adonis. "Could this have anything to do with the baby deaths, I wonder?"He looked speculative. "Or Trevor Xian, the transported Freedom Path leader on the run?"
"I'm not allowed to say," said Sister Claire.
"I understand," Adonis sent Martha a slight smile of sympathy. "So you hide in plain sight from the hounds of Hell. Come on then. Coffee and pastry. Nothing like a cake to ease grief."
"Nothing like an excuse to fill your never ending pit," laughed Sister Clare. "The other sisters say he applied to be an Adonis because he'd heard about the large quantities of food."
"A skinny man like me? I'm wounded," pouted Adonis. "I dedicate myself to Gaia." He winked at Martha. "Three endless services at the pyramid and two at the temple," He leered at Clare, "Only twice a year, all the sweets I can eat." He placed a hand over his heart and raised his eyes to Heaven in mock pain. "And the aching loneliness between festivals."
Clare scrunched her face and tugged one of his black curly locks. "Such a cheeky man. I hear the lovely ladies at the tea houses go on holiday every spring and fall, it's so quiet without your business."
Adonis smirked with macho pride then fell to one knee, his son bobbing in his arm.
"Marry me, dear Sister Clare. Make me an honest man," he cried. "When I'm Mage, you'll be my Queen."
"I don't think so," she laughed. He hung his head, a slight smile playing about his lips.
"See how she mocks me," he said as he rose. "Your man is lucky. The steadfast love of a beautiful woman." More tears trickled down Martha's face. Adonis wiped them away with his hand and hugged her. "There, there. Don't worry. Mother Sain protects you. Soon you and your love'll be hidden away. The hand of the Undermage won't touch you. Believe me. I've done many a small unlawful job for the nuns."
He handed baby Adonis to his mother, flattened down the pram, attached it to a rack on the taxi's roof then bundled mothers and babies into the vehicle. They tootled away to a small cafe in the city center. Adonis ordered large gooey pieces of chocolate cake for the three of them. Claire paid. Adonis earned his nun's disapproving stare by laughing as his son shoved sticky chocolate icing all over his chubby face. Sophia watched in fascination. Martha picked at her own cake, not offering a taste. Snack done, they moved on to the dress shop. Clare left her sticky baby jogging on his father's knee.
"That child will either be dead asleep or totally revved up when we come out," clucked Clare as they pulled open the gold etched double doors. She sent the adult Adonis a furtive look of longing as they entered. Martha's throat clenched with sudden grief and homesickness. She beat it back as they wandered among the polished racks. Martha wondered if she would have to sell one of the gold shillings to afford the elegant dresses.
"What about this one?" asked Sister Clare. "It looks your size."
She held up a dark red fitted velvet with small white pearl buttons scattered about the puffed sleeves and front. The bodice cut an indecent "V" down the front.
"I don't know," murmured Martha in embarrassment. "It's for temple."
Clare held up a square of lace handkerchief pinned to the skirt. "This can be clipped in the top," she smiled, showing the tiny hooks. "Then when you greet your man ..."
"All right," sighed Martha.
She had picked out a plain grey. No shoulders existed in the dress, it formed a low skin revealing line from arm to arm. Prim high collars seemed out of fashion.
"I'll hold Sophia while you change," suggested Clare.
Martha exchanged the baby for the red dress, gathered both garments into her arms and took them into the flower patterned change room. She tried on the the grey dress. The top hung loose and crooked, the space between the arm and bodice yawned. The lack of Sophia struck her. Sister Clare had stolen her away. Martha peeked out the door. Clare perched on a white claw-foot chair with a serious Sophia balanced in her lap as she examined the nun's ankh. Martha closed the door, ashamed at her lack of faith.
She pulled off the sagging dress and hung it up, then smoothed the red velvet over her petticoats, hooking up the back of the stiff bodice. She must have lost weight or the top created an illusion. A slim waist tucked itself between the gathered skirt and an overflowing decolletage. She hid her slightly blue-veined milk breasts with the white lace and stepped out.
"Lovely," admired the sales woman. "A hint. Go back and loosen the hooks, then lean forward as you place your breasts in the cups. All right? Then come out and show us without the lace. Don't be shy. You'll love it."
Clare nodded in encouragement. Martha followed her orders. She glanced in the change room mirror, only the red velvet acknowledged, and slipped back out. Cool air brushed her newly exposed skin.
"I don't know if I like it," she said.
"Here, let me loosen your hair," said the clerk. She unwound Martha's tight bun, rearranged and added a bloodwood comb. "Now, over to the three way mirror. You're beautiful."
"That dress is wonderful," breathed Clare. "You must take it. Your husband'll fall in love with you all over again."
Martha stared in the mirrors. Reba stared back. She gaped at the resemblance. Her eyes filled. "I look like Reba," she whispered and rushed back into the change room, racked with sobs.
"She recently had a death in the family," murmured Clare to the clerk. "I guess this wasn't a good idea for cheering her up."
Martha removed a plain handkerchief from the crumpled heap of her own clothes, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Swollen eyes and a reddened nose stole her beauty. Martha took off the dress and returned to her comfortable brown. Clare and the saleswoman sent her looks of concern as she exited.
"I'm fine now," said Martha. "It's all right." She sent Clare a sodden smile. "I'll take the red dress." She bit her tongue as Dante's name attempted to slip out. "My husband'll love it."
"That's the spirit," perked the clerk.
She collected the dresses, placing the grey back on a rack. An elegant box padded with silver sprinkled tissue paper received the folded velvet and the bloodwood comb.
"A necklace to go with it?" asked the saleswoman holding up a string of garnets.
"I don't know if I have the money," said Martha. "Would you accept this?"
She went to show one of the gold shillings. Sister Clare snatched it away before the clerk could look.
"I should have mentioned. Territory sovereigns aren't accepted here," Clare snapped. "I'll put it on the temple account. We'll go to the exchange and you can pay us back."
"But it's not ..." protested Martha.
"No problem," interrupted Clare."And we'll buy the necklace as well."
She shoved her money card at the bewildered clerk. The woman rang up the sale. Sister Clare returned Sophia to her mother, grabbed the package and hurried them out. In the taxi, Clare examined the coin.
"What's that?" asked Adonis. His son snuggled against his chest, sound asleep.
"A bauble Martha's lover gave her," replied Clare. She turned to Martha sitting in the back seat and handed back the coin."You mustn't show this to anyone. There's too many prying eyes. Don't worry about the cost, Reverend Mother's caring for you."
"Where to now?" asked Adonis.
"Home," ordered Clare. "I think Martha and the babies have had enough of Botany for today."
Adonis tucked his hands under his son's arms and lifted the floppy baby over to Claire. The taxi roared off round a corner. Adonis jammed on the brakes. Traffic had ground to a stop.
A sea of roofs shone before them, waiting as a distant black parade of cars, a hearse and a van crossed the street.
"Damn. The execution," snarled Adonis. "Where's my mind?" He frowned down at the steering pole. Clare lay a hand on his arm.
"Lady Joan, Diviner of Springs and her transpo lover, Raphael, die today," she explained. "I forgot too. This isn't for you."
"What did they do?" asked Martha, guessing the answer, her blood running cold.
"They ran away to the jungles of New Alabama. Captured by bounty hunters," Clare bit her lip. "The Undermage wishes to make an example."
"How?" whispered Martha.
"The noble, death by burning." The nun paused, then sighed. "The transpo death by rod. It's in the public square. All the news services are ordered to carry it. As if they wouldn't, the ratings vultures. Owners are supposed to force their slaves to watch."
"Damn him," muttered Adonis, his face tense. "Damn that Yevgeny. Why doesn't he go home and leave us alone?"
"Let us out here with the pram," suggested Clare. "We're not far from the coffee shop. Meet us there when the jam clears after the execution."
"You going to get through the crush all right?" asked Adonis as he pulled the carriage off the hood and set it up for them.
"We'll use the buggy as a ram rod," grinned Clare.
They bundled in the babies. Sophia examined the cars and the people, not a tired bone in her body. Baby Adonis woke up and joined her. Each child snuck glances at the other.
The women pushed the pram through a thickening crowd. Movement became impossible. The large open entrance to an indoor market appeared on their right.
"Let's cut through there rather than going round," suggested Clare. "It's not quite as busy."
They stepped into a giant steel-beamed shed. Down the center, endless stalls sold everything from sausage to sewing. Down the sides ran animal pens. Straw, cooking, people, incense and manure mingled to create the distinctive market scent. The center aisle presented an impossible crush. Clare and Martha dragged the pram to an outer aisle. They passed pens of clucking chickens and squawking lizards.
Just ahead, in a more open area, knelt a bedraggled row of slaves, each for sale by their owner. Martha gasped and grabbed Clare's arm to stop her. A woman in a smeared grey nurse's dress knelt with head bowed as a soldier haggled over her with a stout, powdered and perfumed, madam accompanied by a huge bald eunuch. The slave's long black hair hung tangled over her face.
"Pull her dress down so I can see what she looks like," ordered the woman.
The soldier unbuttoned the back of the girl's dress and jammed it down to her waist, the cloth bunched around her manacled wrists . He tweaked an exposed nipple. The slave huddled into herself.
"Have her stand. I want to see all of her," remarked the buyer. "Don't do this often do you?"
The soldier glowered, dragged the girl to her feet and tried to yank her clothing the rest of the way down. The material caught on her wrists prevented it. He cursed and undid a shackle then wrenched, ripping her clothing to the floor. The slave stood, head bowed, swaying on painful corrected feet, shivering and clutching herself in her nakedness. The buyer examined her on all sides.
"Lovely," she murmured. "And still bashful. You're trained as a healer's assistant and receptionist as well as singing and playing. Do you do massage?"
"Yes, Madam."
"What kind?"
"Shinso points. Regular."
"Well, well. Do you know the tea ceremony by any chance?"
"Yes, Madam."
The woman cracked a momentary smile then settled back into her bargaining position. "Are you rebellious? That why you're here?"
"No, Madam," whispered the slave.
"Sold to me after her owner died," said the soldier.
"And now you tire of her." The buyer reached out a finger and tipped up the girl's chin so her hair fell back from her face.
"Reba!" cried out Martha unable to control herself any longer.
The slave turned her head. Reba's eyes widened. She glanced back at the soldier in terror then forced her face to relax and returned a blank gaze to the ground. The buyer noticed the hiding of emotions and gave a slight nod of approval.
Martha struggled forward in the crowd. Clare held her back.
"That's my sister, that's Reba. Let me go," sobbed Martha. "Let me buy her."
"No. One of Prince Yevgeny's personal guards is selling her. Oh, the plot thickens. Shush. Shush."
"I'll take her," said the woman. "But I'm taking money off because you've abused her. Makes her education more difficult. Remember that if you intend to do this again."
She snapped open her purse and pulled out a check book, writing down the sum. The soldier took it and glanced at the name. He gave a low whistle.
"Blue Moon Tea House. And this lower price is still good," he grinned. He snatched Reba's hair and drew her face close to him with a leer. "Hey, babe. Lots of men gonna get what I got." His face darkened. "I might even visit. Remember, no one likes a yakky whore."
"I doubt you'll cross the threshold," remarked the madam in a prim voice. "Come girl, put on your clothes."
Reba struggled into her torn dress. Martha started to cry. Her sister sent a glance her way. Her own tears fell as the eunuch pinned the sagging rips in her dress with fasteners he'd produced from somewhere. He took off her manacles and snapped on a delicate brass pair then produced a short correction rod from under his robes. Reba flinched as he pressed the tip against her chip, changing the code. She shook with sobs.
"There, there, chuck," murmured the madam. She placed a meaty arm around her new purchase. "We'll take care of you. Work hard, learn, and obey; in time you'll sing for the great and famous of Botany, have your very own wealthy Patrons mad for you, giving you jewels and silk and chocolates. There's lots of parties and fun. You've dreamed of being rich and famous, haven't you?" Reba sniffed and nodded. "There you are then."
The eunuch fastened a golden lead to Reba's manacles. Her new owners surrounded her. They vanished into the crowd. The soldier smirked, stuffed the check in his pocket and sauntered off into the crush.
"We have to follow them and get her," begged Martha.
"No. I'm sorry. There's nothing we can do," said Clare. "Both your lives, and Sophia too, would be in serious danger if you reveal yourself. Yevgeny hunts The Beloved. Your sister's poor tortured feet. He must know you're alive. Even that you're at the Temple. We've got to get back and ask guidance of Reverend Mother."
Sister Clare attempted to turn the pram but the crush washed them along, down the aisle and out into the execution square. The sun beat down.
At the far end of the quadrangle, almost floating above the sea of heads, rose a large concrete platform. In the center, a soldier finished binding a young woman in a loose white robe to a wooden pole sticking up from the middle of an enormous tee pee of wood. Her feet rested on a small lip jutting out just above the top of the pyre. Her bald head bent forward as if in prayer. The wind tightened her garment and Martha drew in her breath. The condemned woman swelled with pregnancy.
On the left of the platform, a transpo, naked to the waist, head also shaved, knelt chained and guarded, forced to watch the death of his beloved and unborn child before they tortured him to death. Black welts and bruises swelled over his torso. Behind him rose the rough stained stone and hanging restraints of the flogging wall.
Stepped padded seats to the right of the platform held Prince Yevgeny, his bishops, the trial judges, and assorted nobles. The kin of the condemned Lady Joan stood below and in front of the stage, their slaves lined up ahead of them. Transpos and their owners from throughout Botany stood packed in behind the family, several trainers standing guard. The crowd then dissolved into a mixture of slaves, owners, lesser nobles and regular citizens, all pushing and straining in the jammed square. The air stank of sweat and excitement. The people round Martha and Clare jostled the pram. Martha untied Sophia and brought her into her arms with a stiff hug.
"No funny business," she whispered in the baby's ear. "We could end up there." Sophia seemed to understand.
"He was her music tutor," explained a woman squished in front of them to her companion.
"Why do women fall for the badduns?" asked her friend.
"You're asking me? With my husband?" laughed the first. They both cackled.
Yevgeny stood. A priestess of Gaia holding a long pole topped by a large ankh paced to the stage. She mounted the stairs to the platform and leaned the holy symbol forward to Lady Joan who raised her head and kissed it. The nun took it away. Yevgeny motioned with his hand. The crowd silenced. Even the honks of the traffic jam stopped. A vulture flapped its bat wings and cawed from the eaves of the market. Two soldiers with flaming torches ran up the stairs and lit the bottom of the pyre. Lady Joan looked down at her beloved.
"Raphael, the baby's frightened. Sing to me," she cried out.
He struggled to his feet, staring up at her. His guards watched without emotion. The wood caught around the bottom, smoke rose. Raphael started to sing, his voice quavering. He choked, bent for a moment in pain, then straightened. Joan sang the beginning of the song then coughed in the smoke. A flute, hidden in the masses, caught the song; a harmonica joined in, then several penny whistles. A fiddler at the side of the crowd bent his bow. The doomed lovers locked eyes and started again, their voices strong. A handful of transpos, defiant and anonymous in the crowd, sang with them. One by one, then all at once, the others raised their voices. They reached the last verse and started again. Yevgeny's face reddened, he waved his arms and shouted something; it was lost as the watching citizens joined in. Martha found herself singing, along with Clare and everyone around her. Tears coursed down their cheeks. Strong men wiped their eyes and carried on. The smoke thickened, the flames crackled. The voices thundered.
Lady Joan succumbed to the smoke. Her head flopped forward in death. The flames roared up, engulfing her. Raphael collapsed back down on his knees, doubled over with pain or sorrow, Martha couldn't tell. Someone tapped her on the shoulder and she screamed.
"Come away from this," shouted Adonis over the crowd. "How'd you two end up here?" He grabbed the pram. "Come on. I'm in the coffee shop lot. The temple called me. Reverend Mother is dead."