A Bed of Spices by Barbara Samuel Page B

to tragedy if she did not keep her wits about her. But what of Etta?
    Her sister looked as virtuous and still as a marble carving of the Virgin Mother. As if she sensed Rica’s gaze, she looked up and lifted her hand in greeting. Rica waved back.
    Etta gathered her basket of silks and made for the castle. Rica turned toward her chamber, knowing Etta would come to her.
    Behind the heavy oak door, she stripped her surcoat and cotehardie, then poured a bowl of water from the pitcher. She scrubbed her face and neck and arms, sluicing away the dust and sweat of the journey.
    As she lifted her palms to her face, a waft of Solomon’s scent struck her nostrils.
    A panicky sense of guilt clutched at her and she rubbed more fiercely at her flesh, trying to erase the aroma of him, that scent of male and frankincense and fresh bathing. A tactile memory of his black curls, hot from the sun and springy to the touch, rose up to haunt her. In her ears, his soft groan of hunger lingered.
    Abruptly, she realized she was standing in her kirtle, with water dripping from her palms, her unfocused gaze fastened upon the whitewashed stone of her chamber walls.
    She took a fresh tunic from her trunk, caring little for the cut or color. It had just settled about her ankles when Etta entered the room. “Hello, sister,” Rica said. “How have you spent your day?”
    “As always,” she said and put aside her basket.
    “I brought you something.” Rica lifted a bangled belt. “Do you like it?”
    “Aye.” A gentle smile spread over Etta’s face as she accepted the offering. ‘“Twill look well with the new green surcoat I have just embroidered. Rudolf likes green.”
    A pluck of foreboding pierced her, but Rica proceeded with caution. “How goes your pursuit of the fair Rudolf, sister?”
    “I do not pursue him.” Her chin lifted in queer arrogance. “I simply allow him to pursue me—or rather you. He kissed me last night, after the dancing.”
    “None too gently, I suspect.” She touched a slightly swollen spot on her sister’s lip, as casually as she would touch her own.
    Etta pulled free. “‘Twas not all his roughness.”
    There was something odd about Etta today, something Rica could not quite place. Was it only the passion for Rudolf that had bloomed in her heart, or was there something more amiss? In a sudden fit of worry, she said, “Perhaps we should not play this game any longer, Etta. I am—”
    Etta whirled, her eyes glittering. “Will you take this thing from me?”
    “Etta, no! I am just—”
    “You are jealous!”
    Rica jumped to her feet, stunned. “No! I am only worried about what will happen.”
    “You think me simple, as all the others do.” Etta straightened to a haughty posture. “I am not.”
    “I do not worry over simplemindedness, but over your innocence, Etta.” With an imploring gesture, she extended one hand. “Please, let us end this spat. I do not care for arguing with you.”
    With a suddenness Rica found startling, Etta launched herself into her sister’s arms. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “Just do not take this one thing from me, I beg you. He is like the sun—when he appears, the world alights for me. I could not bear to—”
    ‘if you so long for this man, Etta, then you will have him. I swear it.“ She lifted her head. ”But there is something I must tell you.“
    “What is it?”
    “Come. Sit with me.” Rica mulled her words. She longed to spill the story of her turmoil over Solomon but did not dare, not even to Etta. “I have had a sense of evil coming—I knew not what. Today I went to the astrologer. The stars that govern us, sister, bode no good for the autumn. We must be very careful.”
    “What could happen?” Etta said with a soft smile.
    Rica took a breath. “You are no virgin, Etta. How will—”
    A strange, shuttered look crossed Etta’s face. “Tis cruel of you to mention it.”
    Exasperated, Rica squeezed Etta’s hand and leaned forward. “You must