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name?’
    â€˜Mara,’ said the child, not stumbling over it.
    And now the woman looked at the little boy, who did not hesitate but said, ‘My name is Dann.’
    â€˜Good,’ she said. ‘And my name is Daima.’
    â€˜Mara, Dann and Daima,’ said Mara, smiling in what she meant to be a special way at Daima, who smiled back in the same way. ‘Exactly,’ she said.
    And now, the way Daima looked them over made Mara examine herself and her brother. Both were filmed with dust from the last bit of walking and there were crusts of mud all up their legs.
    Daima went next door and came back with a wide, shallow basin made of the metal Mara knew never chipped or broke or bent. This was put on the floor. Mara took off Dann the brown, slippery garment andstood him in the basin and began to pour water over him. He stood there half asleep, and yet he was trying to catch drops of water with his hands.
    â€˜We are so thirsty,’ said Mara.
    Daima poured half a cup of water from a big jug, this time made of clay, and gave it to Mara to give to Dann. Mara held it while he drank it all, greedily; and when Mara gave the cup back to Daima she thought it could happen as it did yesterday – yesterday?…it seemed a long time ago – when Dann drank all the water and it was not noticed that she had not drunk anything. So she held the cup out firmly and said, ‘I’m thirsty too.’ Daima said, smiling, ‘I hadn’t forgotten you,’ and poured out half a cup.
    Mara knew this carefulness with water so well there was no need to ask. When Dann stepped out of the basin, Mara pulled off the brown thing and stood in the dirtied water. Daima handed her the cup to pour with and Mara poured water over herself, carefully, for she knew she was being watched to see how well she did things and was aware of everything she did. Then, just as she was going to say, Our hair, it’s full of dust, Daima took a cloth and energetically rubbed it hard over Mara’s hair, interrupting herself to examine the cloth, which was brown and heavy with dust. Another cloth was used to rub Dann’s hair, as dirty as Mara’s. The two dusty cloths were thrown into the bathwater to be washed later.
    The two children stood naked. Daima took the tunics they had taken off to the door, slid it back a little and shook them hard. In the light from the wall lamp that fell into the dark they could see dust clouds flying out. Daima had to shake the tunics a long time.
    Then they went back over Dann’s head and Mara’s head. She knew they were not dirty now. She knew a lot about this stuff the tunics were made of: that it could not take in water, that dust and dirt only settled on it but did not sink in, that it need never be washed, and it never wore out. A tunic or garment could last a person’s life and then be worn by the children and their children. The stuff could burn, but only slowly, so there would be time to snatch it out of flames, and there would not even be scorch marks. There were chests of the things at home; but everyone hated them and so they were not worn, only by the slaves.
    Now Daima asked, ‘Are you hungry?’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Mara. The little boy said nothing. He was nearly asleep, where he stood.
    â€˜Before you go to sleep remember something,’ said Daima, bending down to him. ‘When people ask, you are my grandchildren. Dann, you are my grandson.’ But he was asleep, and Mara caught him and carried him where Daima pointed, to a low couch of stone that had on it a pad covered with the same slippery, brown stuff. She laid him down but did not cover him because it was already so hot.
    On the rock table Daima had put a bowl with bits of the white stuff Mara had eaten yesterday, but now it was mixed with green leaves and some soup. Mara ate it all, while Daima watched.
    Then Mara said, ‘May I ask some questions?’
    â€˜Ask.’
    â€˜How