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that. He thinks my real name is not very pretty.”
    “The cad! What is it, then?”
    “Fahgwat,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. She glanced up from beneath her long, silky eyelashes.
    Martha wished she could manage to make a glance look that sweet and beguiling all at once. Blast the girl! “Fahgwat?” Martha grimaced. She’d thought her parents didn’t love her! “It must mean something very pretty in your language.”
    Fahgwat smiled shyly. “I am named for little purple flowers that grow in desert rocks.”
    Martha wished she could be mean, but the girl’s expectant stare took the anger and the jealousy right out her like a quickly deflating balloon. She was so young, and Martha didn’t have the heart to be cruel. Telling herself she needed to be kind to keep her close, she said, “I think it’s a fine name, but maybe we could soften it. Do you have a nickname?”
    The girl shook her head.
    “Well, Little Flower’s a mouthful, but since you’re named for a purple flower, how do you like the name Violet? Violets are pretty purple flowers on Earth.”
    “Violet is also my favorite color,” the girl said, touching the fabric of her skirt.
    Reminded of the lascivious glance Cantor had swept over the girl’s hips, Martha said, “We really do need to find you something else to wear.” Taking Violet’s hand, Martha led her down the rock-lined path toward the communal longhouse.
    “Do you think he was very annoyed with me?”
    Martha took a deep breath. “Who?” she asked, pretending she didn’t know.
    “Can- torr .”
    Dear God! Martha groaned inwardly. The man would come in his pants the first time he heard her say his name like that. The last syllable purred, for chrissakes! Hell, her own toes curled in her sandals. The pain grew inside Martha’s chest. How could she compete with Little Miss Exotic?
    “He does not like me.”
    “He likes you just fine,” Martha said, tamping down her jealousy.
    “Then why did he look so angry?”
    Martha sighed and stopped in the middle of the path. “Men are strange creatures. When they like someone, they try not to show it.”
    “Why?” Fahgwat’s doe-like eyes stared up at her.
    Martha wanted to shake her. “Because, they think it gives a woman power over them.”
    A little frown creased the smooth skin between the girl’s dark brows. “I have a lot to learn if I am to make him mine.”
    Martha felt her mouth grow lax. Shit! “You want Cantor?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she felt like an idiot. What woman wouldn’t?
    “Yes,” the girl nodded, eager as a puppy. “I love him.”
    “But…you just met him. How can you know?”
    Fahgwat’s gaze slid away, and her cheeks grew rosy. “I just know. He makes my woman’s place wet.”
    Martha forced a stiff smile onto her lips. “You’re describing lust.”
    “Oh, I know it is love. I never feel this way when I look upon other men.” Fahgwat sighed. “But such a virr -ile man must have many wives.”
    Martha looked at her curiously. “Would that bother you?”
    “That he has many wives?” At Martha’s nod, she said, “No. Such a man would need many to satisfy him.  Besides, I do not want to be a wife.”
    “To Cantor?” How anyone wouldn’t want Cantor as a husband was beyond Martha, she wanted him so badly herself.
    “Not to any man.”
    That surprised her. Someone as lovely and untried as this girl needed a keeper in a rough place like this. “Why not?”
    Fahgwat’s expression turned solemn. “I was raised to serve a man, but I escaped that prison. Why would I seek another? You should understand that.”
    Martha felt the last of her resentment melt away. “I do understand, but I don’t equate marriage to prison—or a ha’arem. Not if I were married to the right man.”
    Fahgwat gave her a glance that was unnerving in its directness. “Do you love him?”
    Martha didn’t try to pretend this time she didn’t know whom she meant. “Yes.” She took a