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better than this endless work, with the three of us hanging on you, like ugly pots which you shall never sell.”
    My fingers clenched, inadvertently ruining the rim of the bowl I was shaping. “You and Mother and Father are my life,” I said, trying not to sound defensive. “You have never been my burdens. What I do is done out of love for you.”
    â€œLove that you would rather give another. I’ve heard you in the courtyard at night, you know. You are too practical to believe the Adonai will actuallysend you a husband, and you do nothing to find one yourself. Still, you yearn and pray.” He shook his head. “I don’t understand why you waste yourself on us, Abigail.”
    â€œPrayer, like hope, costs nothing.” I had never considered looking for a husband; it was not something a woman did. Besides, without a zebed, who would have me? “You cannot say that about your gambling and drinking.”
    â€œYou are right,” Rivai said, startling me. “I am nothing but a wastrel, am I not? Yet whatever happens to me, I shall have some good memories to warm me through the cold, hard years ahead. What will you have?”
    I would have my self-respect. Like prayer and hope, it was noble. Only now it did not feel very substantial. “It is late. We can stop.” I took the lopsided bowl from the wheel and mixed it back into the remaining clay. “My thanks for your help.”
    His eyes glittered as he slowly straightened. With tears or anger, I could not say. “I shall think of a way out of this, Abi.”
    That was good, because I could not see one for the tears in my eyes.
    After Rivai had gone to bed, I shelved the pots I had thrown so that they would dry overnight. In the morning I would put them, leathery hard, in the kiln for firing before I went to market. Since I could not tell my parents about Rivai’s debt, I would ask advice of Shomer, or perhaps Amri or Cetura. Theywere shrewd merchants as well as my friends. If anyone could help, they would.
    As I shook out my bed mat, I ignored the voice inside me that told me over and over that there was no solution, no possible way to save Rivai or my family.
    Because the night was humid and hot, I put my mat next to the wall beneath one of the windows. I was always too tired to stay awake, even on the hottest nights, but now I tossed and turned, unable to sink into the dark, blessed oblivion of sleep for several hours.
    At last I slept and fell into a dream.
    I found myself at our market booth. Beautiful pots painted with all the colors of the rainbow sat in neat rows, linked to each other by golden strings. They were lovelier than anything I had ever fashioned, and without thinking I reached out to touch the glossy surface of one blue and gray wine jug.
    The m’khashepah appeared on the other side of the booth, a strange, red-purple samla covering her thin body, her white hair smooth and anointed with fragrant oil. She pointed at me. The hand that works the clay shapes the world.
    My fingertips touched the wine jug and it shattered, releasing a puff of white smoke and, oddly, a familiar, cross-voiced complaint. For what the mason charges? I could build a new house.
    I snatched my hand away and looked over at Amri’s stall. It was empty, like all the others.
    Wife you shall soon be, the m’khashepah said as she walked around the booth. But whose?
    Alarmed, I tried to gather my wares, but every pot I touched disintegrated, releasing different colors of smoke and other, beloved voices:
    These figs are too green, child. You shall give yourself a sour belly if you eat them.
    I shall have to spend some extra hours at the wheel this night.
    The dice were switched, and the last were weighted, I swear it.
    The voices vanished, like the smoke, leaving me alone with the m’khashepah. The potsherds on the boards of the booth between us grew, the broken pieces multiplying and piling higher until I could only