May 1, 2013

(back up 2 paragraphs, not part of today's words)

“Mama.” Mavi raised his voice, keeping his arm around her shoulders as he strode through the room. Vinca had to skip every couple of steps to keep up.

“Yes, Mavi?” The Archbishop had retreated to an impressive chair, armed and with a footstool. She looked a bit drained, but smiling, surrounded by her family.

Mavi stepped behind her, sliding his arm around her neck, she started to stiffen, the stance, the arm position, was set up for a throttle hold, but he rested his chin on the top of her head, it wasn't a threat, it was affection. She leanedback against him. “Why is there no room in the Palace for Vinca?”

The Archbishop's smile was small, tight. “You didn't tell us you were bringing a guest with you, if we'd known I'd have ensured we had a place for her.”

“I didn't know I needed to, I thought you'd welcome her.” She heard the pain in his voice and touched his arm. “If not now, as Nesim's minder, then next year, as Pachem, and my wife.”

The Archbishop's mouth opened and closed, once, twice, and her face grew red, then pale, then gray. Mavi took Vinca's free hand, holding it. The old woman pushed herself to her feet, “I think we need privacy for this talk.” Her voice could've frozen the heart of a star. “You're not making sense.”

She picked up a cane that stood by her chair and began walking out of the room. Mavi released Vinca's throat and followed her, pulling her along. “You don't have to do this,” she said. “I'll be fine, I can probably – “

He stopped, turned and bent so his head was only an inch or so above hers. “Yes, I do. If I don't, she will select a wife for me and rule me all her days. Probably a widow.” He cupped her cheek. “You wouldn't abandon me to the widows, would you?” He said wistfully.

The widows were a worn joke by now, but she smiled at him, giving back the expected response. “Anything but the widows.” She looked past him, at his mother, glaring at them from a doorway into some kind of anteroom. “Your mother is waiting.”

“Your mother-in-law, after Harvest Tide,” he reminded her, walking again.

If she lasted out her self imposed year, to see if she could, if she decided he was worth becoming Pachem. She looked at his back, his shoulders, saw the bald spot she'd noticed first when he was bending over Nesim, changing a Stinky Boy diaper.