Shadow Spinner by Susan Fletcher

Author:Susan Fletcher
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atheneum Books for Young Readers

Chapter 13

She Should Have Been Strong

LESSONS FOR LIFE AND STORYTELLING

There is a proverb I have heard: “Life under the wing of a fly is still better than the sleep of the grave.” I used to believe that, if you had a choice, you should pick life under the wing of a fly.

Especially if you were someone’s mother.

There were many wrinkles that had to be pressed out of Dunyazad’s plan.

One was the part about dressing up as boys. Dunyazad had fallen in love with the idea, but it didn’t make sense. “Girls can get along in the outside world just as well as boys,” she said. “Princess Budur proved that when she dressed up as her husband and nobody knew the difference. She even ruled and nobody knew.”

“I’m glad you were listening,” Shahrazad said, “but her situation does not apply to you. In the first place, she’s a made-up person. In the second place, you need to be as covered up as possible, which means veiled, which means dressed as a woman, not a man.”

Eventually, Dunyazad saw reason and gave up the idea. I was glad. I didn’t want to go traipsing through the city unveiled.

Another wrinkle was those footsteps I’d heard that morning on my way to see Shahrazad. “You’re certain you’re being followed?” she asked.

“I think so,” I said.

“Do you know who?”

“I didn’t see but. . . I think it may be Soraya.”

Dunyazad jumped up, pushed open the door, and went out. She returned in a moment. “It is Soraya. When she saw me, she fled down the stairs and ducked into a room.”

“Hmm.” Shahrazad bit her lip, looked thoughtful. “We’ll have to do something about that.”

Yet another wrinkle was the part about both of us leaving the harem. Dunyazad was even more in love with this idea than with the dressing-as-a-boy idea. But Shahrazad wouldn’t allow it until we came to the next wrinkle.

Which was: How could we make sure that this would be the last time either of us had to leave the harem? Once had been bad enough. But twice. Far more dangerous, because now the Khatun was suspicious. This next time had to be the last.

“How much more of the story was left?” Shahrazad asked. “Did he say?”

“He said . . .” I tried to remember. “Something like . . . ’There is much left to hear.’”

“More than he could tell you in a morning? In a day?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I should have asked.”

Shahrazad rocked on her cushion, hugging a small satin pillow. “That makes it hard.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Not even Dunyazad had an idea.

Then I thought of Zaynab and her pigeons. They were trained to return messages to the palace. If the storyteller had some palace pigeons, he could send back bits of story.

“Ah!” Shahrazad said, when I told her what I was thinking. She turned to Dunyazad; they exchanged a long, meaningful look. And I felt. . . cut out of the conversation. The way I had been before, when they planned how I would get out in the chest.

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