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front of me. “Shh.” She put her hand over my mouth, anticipating the anguish threatening to pour out of me.
    I bit my cheek hard, until I tasted blood, forcing myself to stay calm.
    â€œLet me clean it up.” She arched her brows. “Can I let go?”
    I nodded, and she released me. Then, in silence, Shira retrieved a small woven box from the vanity chest, knelt down, and placed Tekurah’s kohl pots, rouge, brushes, and the application stick inside. She cleaned the mess from the destroyed cosmetic box, fetched a peacock-feather fan, and then held out a hand and beckoned me to follow.
    In a daze, I trailed behind her, dreading each footstep and sifting my thoughts. What could I do to lessen the blow? How could I protect myself?
    Nothing. I could only endure as my mother would. Stand tall. Accept the verbal lashing. Submit to the punishment.
    A graceful Syrian dancer performed for the guests in thehall, her enormous feathered headdress swaying in rhythm with the dance of the drums and pipes. Tekurah motioned for us to hurry and bring her the box. I drew in a deep breath and moved forward, but Shira stepped in front of me, walked up to Tekurah, and handed her the little woven basket.
    â€œWhat is this?” Tekurah opened the lid. “Where is my ebony box?”
    I opened my mouth, but Shira spoke faster. “Mistress, I must apologize. I caught my foot on the mat and dropped your box. It is broken. I am so sorry.”
    Tekurah’s face flushed scarlet. “You did what? That cosmetic box was a gift! How could you? You stupid slave!” Her voice spiraled louder and louder, and everyone stared at the three of us. “I would expect this out of Kiya, but you know better than to be careless with my belongings.”
    Tekurah glared at me. Did she know?
    But the Hebrew girl stood fast, her voice calm and firm. “It was entirely my fault, mistress. It is my responsibility.”
    I fixed my eyes on my bare feet, avoiding curious stares, but my mind reeled. Why would Shira put herself in the way of Tekurah’s wrath? Accept the inevitable punishment?
    Tekurah demoted Shira to the kitchens immediately. Then, without a blink, she ordered me to reapply her cosmetics. She must have done so with trepidation after the last incident. However, adept after months of applying my own kohl, this time I refreshed her makeup with ease.
    Shira must have assumed our mistress would be less severe with her. But how foolish! Standing in the way of another’s chastisement—and for an Egyptian who ignored her most of the time, no less. Although confusion and guilt warred in my gut, relief washed through me as well. There would be no reason for Tekurah to shred me in front of the guests.
    But still, shame gnawed at me.
    Trying to evade thoughts of what Shira would endure in the kitchen, I lifted my eyes, not enough to chance crossing eye-lines with anyone, but enough to survey the guests within the immediate vicinity of Tekurah’s table.
    Everyone in attendance was stunning.
    The women displayed the finest linens, delicately woven and brazen in their transparency. Oiled and hennaed bodies shimmered in the lamplight, competing with the golden sparkle of usekhs, bracelets, earrings, and jewels. The men, too, rivaled the women in plumage and ornamentation, their braided and beaded wigs bobbing along with conversations.
    The wine and beer flowed with abandon. In response, the guests grew louder and livelier. The music and dancers followed, but barely stirred the air in the stifling room. Even with the shutters on the high windows opened to the night, not a hint of a breeze drifted through. Shefu summoned more slaves with enormous ostrich-feather fans to cool the guests. I thanked the gods again that I no longer wore a wig. My simple shift, although coarse and roughly woven, hung relatively light, unlike the oppressive jewels and heavy collars most of the men and women wore.
    Next to one of the