planet where you lived. You look like a lady!”
Margaret held back a broad grin, while vowing to remember to share Ethan’s mispronunciation with Ivor. In a way, all academics came by way of thesis, didn’t they? “It’s Thetis, Ethan, not thesis. But don’t the other women at the port look like ladies?”
“Lands, no,” Geremy answered. “They’re just women.” He clearly thought this was a complete explanation, so she let it drop. It amused her, as she thought it over, to realize that her own definition of what a “lady” looked like was based on appearance. Specifically, a “lady” looked like her stepmother, the Senator’s Lady. That meant blonde hair, short stature, and a generous bosom. Her red hair and yellow eyes had never pleased her. Her inches had been a trial since adolescence, being about a foot too many in the vertical direction, and four or five inches too few around the chest. She was very tall compared to Thetan natives, and even at the University, she stood out. She would have liked dark hair, like the Old Man had before he began to gray, and dark eyes like his, or gray-green eyes and golden hair like Dio. Dismissing these futile thoughts, she listened to the two boys identifying the various shops as they entered what was clearly an area devoted to the fiber arts.
“There’s the shop where my brother’s apprenticed, but you don’t want to go there. He makes bad imitations of Terranan cloth.” Geremy pointed to a shop with a deep counter covered with bolts of stuff. It did not look bad to Margaret’s untrained eye, but she could tell that Geremy was ashamed of the place.
“How does apprenticeship work here?” Margaret asked.
Both boys began to speak at once, flattered by her interest, and in a friendly competition to inform her first. She realized she was getting, effortlessly, information for which a cultural anthropologist would cheerfully have sold his mother, or taken out a mortgage on his soul. What they told her seemed well-considered and fair, not like some planets where the young were regarded as slave labor or mere property. It was a shame she had left her recorder behind in her room.
They turned into a street which appeared to be their destination. The signs showed pictures of finished garments, or in one case, just a very bright golden needle against a brown background, which she suspected indicated an embroidery shop. Where the bays in the previous street had been piled with bolts of cloth, now there were shirts hanging, or tunics. There was a great deal of embroidery on everything. She noticed fine chemises, almost sheer, and heavier and more practical ones as well. One or two of the shops boasted a dressed figure in what was clearly festive clothing—shiny, transparent stuff she guessed was the spider silk which Anya had mentioned. The sight of it gave her an odd shiver, and evoked a memory that was vague and disquieting. The mental doorway in her mind, behind which lurked some childhood fears, opened a little farther, and she felt her headache returning.
Ethan opened the door of a shop and guided her inside. A big man with black hair was standing behind a large cutting table, holding a bolt of cloth in his hands as if considering how to drape it and cut it. He had an abstracted expression on his face, the look of an artist in the midst of creation, and she was reluctant to break his concentration.
Her young guide clearly had no such reservations. “Uncle Aaron, this is the lady I told you about. Domna Alton, Aaron MacEwan.”
The man gave a little blink of heavily lidded eyes, then bowed gracefully. “Welcome to my shop, domna; you lend me grace. How may I serve you? A spider-silk gown for the Midsummer Festival in featherpod green, perhaps?” He gestured toward a bolt of shimmering textile leaning against the cutting table. Then he picked it up as if it did not weigh an ounce, and held it near her face, so he could see if the color went with her skin.
That
Margaret held back a broad grin, while vowing to remember to share Ethan’s mispronunciation with Ivor. In a way, all academics came by way of thesis, didn’t they? “It’s Thetis, Ethan, not thesis. But don’t the other women at the port look like ladies?”
“Lands, no,” Geremy answered. “They’re just women.” He clearly thought this was a complete explanation, so she let it drop. It amused her, as she thought it over, to realize that her own definition of what a “lady” looked like was based on appearance. Specifically, a “lady” looked like her stepmother, the Senator’s Lady. That meant blonde hair, short stature, and a generous bosom. Her red hair and yellow eyes had never pleased her. Her inches had been a trial since adolescence, being about a foot too many in the vertical direction, and four or five inches too few around the chest. She was very tall compared to Thetan natives, and even at the University, she stood out. She would have liked dark hair, like the Old Man had before he began to gray, and dark eyes like his, or gray-green eyes and golden hair like Dio. Dismissing these futile thoughts, she listened to the two boys identifying the various shops as they entered what was clearly an area devoted to the fiber arts.
“There’s the shop where my brother’s apprenticed, but you don’t want to go there. He makes bad imitations of Terranan cloth.” Geremy pointed to a shop with a deep counter covered with bolts of stuff. It did not look bad to Margaret’s untrained eye, but she could tell that Geremy was ashamed of the place.
“How does apprenticeship work here?” Margaret asked.
Both boys began to speak at once, flattered by her interest, and in a friendly competition to inform her first. She realized she was getting, effortlessly, information for which a cultural anthropologist would cheerfully have sold his mother, or taken out a mortgage on his soul. What they told her seemed well-considered and fair, not like some planets where the young were regarded as slave labor or mere property. It was a shame she had left her recorder behind in her room.
They turned into a street which appeared to be their destination. The signs showed pictures of finished garments, or in one case, just a very bright golden needle against a brown background, which she suspected indicated an embroidery shop. Where the bays in the previous street had been piled with bolts of cloth, now there were shirts hanging, or tunics. There was a great deal of embroidery on everything. She noticed fine chemises, almost sheer, and heavier and more practical ones as well. One or two of the shops boasted a dressed figure in what was clearly festive clothing—shiny, transparent stuff she guessed was the spider silk which Anya had mentioned. The sight of it gave her an odd shiver, and evoked a memory that was vague and disquieting. The mental doorway in her mind, behind which lurked some childhood fears, opened a little farther, and she felt her headache returning.
Ethan opened the door of a shop and guided her inside. A big man with black hair was standing behind a large cutting table, holding a bolt of cloth in his hands as if considering how to drape it and cut it. He had an abstracted expression on his face, the look of an artist in the midst of creation, and she was reluctant to break his concentration.
Her young guide clearly had no such reservations. “Uncle Aaron, this is the lady I told you about. Domna Alton, Aaron MacEwan.”
The man gave a little blink of heavily lidded eyes, then bowed gracefully. “Welcome to my shop, domna; you lend me grace. How may I serve you? A spider-silk gown for the Midsummer Festival in featherpod green, perhaps?” He gestured toward a bolt of shimmering textile leaning against the cutting table. Then he picked it up as if it did not weigh an ounce, and held it near her face, so he could see if the color went with her skin.
That
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