Exile's Song by Marion Zimmer Bradley Page A

looked very expensive, and totally unsuitable, though her hands longed to caress the sheer stuff. Close to her face, it had a scent she knew—a wonderful, clean odor. Like so many other smells in the past few hours, it was evocative of the past. Was it the scent of the silk, or of the wearer which trembled on the threshold of her conscious mind. And what wearer—Dio or some other woman? She tried to banish the memory quickly because she could feel herself starting to tense and stiffen.
    Margaret rarely attended any functions which required her to wear anything more dressy than her academic robes, presently packed in a chest back on University. She hadn’t realized until that moment how often she had wanted to wear dresses like Dio did, for dinners with dignitaries, and the occasional ball the Old Man could be persuaded to attend.
    She gave a little sigh. “Thank you, but what I had in mind was something practical and simple,” she said. “I need some good sturdy warm garments, suitable for walking or riding. The kind of thing Anya wears, but for out of doors. Ethan?” she appealed.
    Ethan looked shocked. “But—my lady—Anya is old.” Margaret was surprised. Old? Anya looked fifty perhaps, which was not old by her measure. With the advances in rejuvenation technology, fifty was not even middle-aged. The life expectancy here must be much shorter than she had thought. Why? It didn’t make any sense. Then she realized that Anya was a matron, and probably past the age of childbearing. Lots of cultures dressed girls and young women differently than mature, married women. How could she have been so dull-witted?
    “Then the sort of thing Moira wears.
    “A servant, damisela ? But you cannot dress like a servant. Uncle, perhaps that russet outfit you made for Mestra Rafaella, that she did not like when it was done.”
    Aaron looked relieved. “The very thing,” he said. “It is completely unworn, domna, ” he told her. “The mestra decided the embroidery did not suit her.” His voice sounded thinner, and a little strained. Margaret gave him a hard look, and wondered if he were lying—and why. Then she decided she was being hypersensitive again. Really, she must get herself under control soon, or she was going to cease to function at all. Jumping at every smell and shadow. Enough!
    “The two of you are of a size, and of like coloring as well.” MacEwan continued, nodding as he spoke. “That boy is going to be a real help to me—he knows my stock better than I do. Manuella!” He did not notice the look of displeasure the comment brought to Ethan’s thin face. Margaret gave the lad a smile, and he brightened up immediately. She could barely believe that only yesterday she had been suspicious of him, thinking him a potential thief.
    The raised voice summoned a weary-looking woman in clothing similar to that worn by Anya, and she realized that she had guessed correctly. There was some distinction, invisible to her untrained eye, between what was appropriate for a married woman, and what was right for an aging spinster like herself. The thought startled her a little—she had not thought that about herself before.
    “My wife, domna. Take her in the back, my dear, and show her the russet outfit we made for that picky Rafaella. You, Ethan, run up to the loft and get that green rabbit-horn wool. It is light, but very warm. Then step over to Jason, the belt maker, and have him send a good selection of ladies’ belts and gloves. You, Geremy, go over Mestra Dayborah and have her send a good selection of undergarments for a lady—about the size of Mestra Rafaella.”
    Margaret found herself being tugged gently into the rear of the shop by a clearly embarrassed Manuella. “Please forgive him, domna. He is an artist, and sometimes forgets his place. He does not mean to order everyone about!”
    “I think he was deep in the throes of creation when we came in.”
    Manuella gave the sigh of a long-suffering wife, then