Vinca changed in a commode in the Trade
Quarter into the clothes she'd worn when she first landed on Dinc,
stuffing the kirtle and petticoats and all that into a ruck she'd
grabbed when she bolted from the Bishop's Palace. She didn't know if
she could do it. She loved Mavi, she was even getting fond of the
brat, for all she still had to fight a reflexive flinch when he
lurched at her, giggling and happy because the sun was shining. All
things considered, he was a pretty good kid.
Mavi's mother, on the other hand,
seemed to be taking every chance she could to make Vinca's life hell,
pointing up her shortcomings, what she didn't know about Pachem ways,
and how this woman, or that woman, or any Dincani born Pachem woman
would be a better wife for him than a kafirlər who couldn't even
name the damn tenets of the faith. Even Nesim knew more than that.
Her prospective sister in laws weren't
much better. They meant well, for the most part, but every last one
of them was Dincani, Pachem born, and bred, and raised taking the
culture and the religion for granted because it was all they'd known
and they'd grown up knowing it. So what if she didn't know which god
was patron of nail clippings,
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