Quatrain by Sharon Shinn Read Free Book Online

give her a price limit; Sheba was much too sensible to ask for something she knew I couldn’t afford, and too canny to sulk about it.
    She gave me a swift sideways smile. “You should buy a present for yourself, too,” she said. “You never indulge yourself with anything.”
    “Maybe I will, then, today. Let’s start shopping.”
    We began with food, of course, and we munched on fried bread and baked apples while we wandered down the haphazard aisles. I was drawn to the bright scarves and bolts of cloth laid out at the Edori tents, and I couldn’t resist buying a length of red fabric shot through with streaks of gold and purple. Sheba held a fold of it against my face before the vendor wrapped it up for me.
    “These are the perfect colors for your skin,” she said. “You should wear bright clothes more often.”
    She was lured by the trays of jewelry laid out in the Jansai booths, though she didn’t like the traders themselves, and she actually pressed a little more closely to me while we picked through the heavy gold chains and the thin gold bracelets. I don’t much like Jansai men, either—most of them are loud and overbearing and feel such contempt for women that the scorn practically rises off of them like a smell. Their own women cower unseen in tents and wagons, though sometimes you can glimpse their veiled faces peering out as if they long to take in more of the world.
    “I want a bracelet, but I don’t want to buy it from him ,” Sheba whispered, after we had considered and rejected a number of baubles.
    “Then let’s go see what the Semorran merchants have to offer,” I said. The wares tended to be more expensive when they came from Semorrah, but the buying experience was much more enjoyable, and she ended up with a lovely gold bracelet hung with clattering charms. Ruth and Hara were at a booth nearby, and I did not object when Sheba wanted to run over and show them her new acquisition—and I did not refuse when she turned back and asked if she could spend the next few hours wandering the fair with them. She had been so good, and goodness is so often not rewarded. I waved and let her go.
    And then I was alone at the fair.
    I glanced at the sun. It was mid-afternoon, and I had plenty of time before I was to meet Hope for dinner. I found I was hungry again—something about roaming through the open air of the festival stirred up my appetite, or maybe it was just the sheer luxury of being able to eat a meal that I had not had to prepare with my own hands. I stopped at every booth selling any kind of food and took samples of everything, from meat to bread to sweets. It was all delicious.
    I was near the northern edge of the fair, at the last cross street that held any booths, when I heard the singing. My hands resting on a pile of apples that I had been sorting through, I turned my head to listen to the effortless harmonies drifting down the alley.
    “Angels,” said the woman running the fruit stand. “They’ve been singing all day. I feel drunk with the music, and I’m not one who’s ever cared much for singing. I guess I never heard angels before.”
    “I’ve heard them,” I murmured. “But it’s a fresh shock every time.”
    “Do you want that apple?” she asked.
    I shook my head and put my empty hands in my pockets. “Maybe later,” I said. “I’m going to listen to the singing.”
    It was easy to guess which building held the performers, since a crowd of people had spilled out of the door and into the street, listening raptly to the heavenly sounds. As gently as I could, I pushed my way through the mob till I was almost at the door—close enough to hear every note, not close enough to see inside. And then I stood there, jammed hip to shoulder with complete strangers, and let myself be claimed by music.
    Right now, two women were offering a complicated duet—not holy music, not something that would be presented at the annual Gloria, but something serious and sublime nonetheless.