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twitching as she walked. As he moved to the back of the shop, he eyed Shimei, daring him to mention a single word. Shimei spread his hands in a depreciating gesture and moved away. Zibeon looked through one or two baskets until he found what he was looking for. He unwrapped the soft leather covering and held up a beautifully carved leather box with inset jewels. He examined it carefully and nodded his head. He stood for a moment, savoring his thoughts, and then returning to his stool, he picked up his tools. He brought the mallet down again forcefully on the awl.
    Now the betrothal ceremony was over. He had only to bide his time. Zibeon continued to muse, ignoring his mother and brother. He had what he wanted. Let his mother’s words flow over and around him like a small breeze. Let her celebrate. He had the wife of his choosing and Athaliah would have her grandchildren. He nodded to himself and lifted his cup of wine.

     
    Across the village, Marah also thought of the betrothal ceremony. She had served the guests with downcast eyes, her mind troubled. Even when the betrothal scrolls were signed, she couldn’t bear to look at Zibeon. She had already determined to be a dutiful wife, and tried to convince herself that perhaps the rumors about his first wife were untrue. Perhaps he had changed. Casting about in her mind, she sought for all the positive things that she could find, yet that night she trembled inwardly when he was near her. She watched Zibeon partake freely of the wine that was offered, and now and then he would glance her way from under his heavy brows. She looked away. Whenever he tried to get near her, she would find an excuse to move elsewhere.
    Reba circled Zibeon, laughing a little too quickly at his remarks, bending a little too close as she fussed over him pouring the wine, exclaiming how pleased she was with her new nephew. Marah wondered if their neighbors and friends saw through the transparency as easily as she did. Once or twice she caught some of the women whispering among themselves and nodding knowingly toward Reba and Zibeon. Then their eyes turned toward Marah who looked away and busied herself. She did not need or want their pity!
    Suddenly, Marah looked up to find Zibeon directly in front of her. The smell of the wine was strong, and he bent over her with a smile that turned to a scowl when he saw the fear in her eyes. He bent to whisper a few words and then with a laugh turned away.
    Marah went white and Hannah, standing with Simon as witnesses to the betrothal, saw the brief scene and moved quickly to Marah’s side.
    “Child, you are pale. What has happened?”
    Marah felt she was going to be ill. She wanted to scream and run out of the house, losing herself in the dark hills. Hannah took her arm and hissed, “Smile!” in her ear as she firmly propelled Marah to her aunt. Hannah looked Reba in the eye.
    “Our bride-to-be is clearly overcome with all the excitement. Perhaps she should rest?” It was more of a demand than a question.
    Reba was at first irritated and then, seeing that Marah was on the verge of fainting, chose to be benevolent. It would never do for the girl to be visibly sick at this moment. She dismissed them with a cursory wave of her hand.
    “It is time for our bride to rest. So much excitement,” she purred as she moved among the guests, urging more wine and food as Hannah and Marah went quickly up the steps to the roof of the house. They could hear as the guests began to drift away to their own homes.
    “Ah . . . a fine match, Reba.”
    “You have done well for the girl.”
    As though there had never been such a betrothal event and never a more gracious hostess.
    Marah heard Zibeon’s voice as he too departed, but it was low and she could not make out the words.
    Marah stood quietly, with Hannah’s hand upon her shoulder. She calmed herself, taking deep breaths of the cool evening air. Staring out into the night, she was rigid with unshed tears.
    “Child, what