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didn’t feel like talking about why she didn’t look like an Egyptian. “It was dark before, so you couldn’t see it.” She wanted to crawl underneath the covers and hide. Now he knew who she really was.
    “Even so, it is the color of corn silk. No, it is the color of the sun. It’s as if you carry the desert sun with you where ever you go. I like it.”
    Smiling, Tiy ducked her head. Perhaps the students at the royal school would accept her, after all. If a prince could accept her without question, why not the rest of the children? But an ache flared in her chest, reminding her it was too much to hope for. Her mother warned her about becoming a pessimist, but as far as Tiy was concerned, a pessimist was just an optimist with experience. She knew better than to dream of acceptance.

Chapter 7. Freckled Abomination
     
    Tiy’s reflection glinted off the choppy surface of the Nile. She said goodbye to the slimy fish that disgusted her, the black silt that cooled her, and the spreading palms that comforted her. She would miss her quiet haven near the river.
    It had been a week since she left Pharaoh’s camp. The barge that would escort her to Memphis, the capital of Egypt, would arrive today. She twisted a blade of grass around her finger and watched the river. She would be lying if she said she wasn’t nervous. She was terrified, in fact. It was as if a dozen Mbuta fish were flitting around in her stomach.
    Nebet ya had been more than willing to come with her, for which Tiy would forever be grateful. Nebetya had cried, of course, when Tiy asked her. Nebetya cried at just about everything and always managed to recover herself before tears ever thought about spilling over. Tiy found it endearing to watch her emotions unfold, especially since it took a beast of an experience to extract a tear from her own eyes. Nebetya’s friendship was genuine, Tiy knew that now, and she relied on it more than she could imagine.
    She had spent the morning and well into the afternoon with Nebetya, helping with the daily responsibilities. In fact, she spent most mornings with Nebetya. Her mother never knew, of course, and for good reason, too. If she discovered her only daughter degrading herself to such menial tasks as grinding grain or weaving flaxen thread, there was no telling what she would do. She would be furious with Nebetya for allowing it and furious with Tiy for risking the softness of her hands and the feminine frailty of her arms.
    Nebetya never questioned why Tiy wanted to work with her, but she never let her do anything too rough. “You must protect your hands, my lady” Nebetya would say. “A lady should have soft hands so that her suitors may know she was lavished upon and well cared for.”
    Nebetya must have heard this from her mother.
    “ I’m only twelve,” Tiy would protest. “There will be plenty of time for my hands to soften before suitors come knocking at my door.” If they ever come, she thought. Who would want her foreign blood in their family line?
    But Nebetya would never hear of it . “Even so,” she would argue, “we must protect your delicate skin.”
    And that was it —the real reason. Tiy had delicate skin, at least in comparison to everyone else in Egypt. She and her father shared lighter coloring than the natives, their skin a creamy alabaster rather than the liquid bronze of the Egyptians. Her father’s father had defected from Mitanni to Egypt with enough money to secure freedom, but not enough to secure acceptance. Her father had been the one to work his way up to the status of an Official to the Crown.
    Nebetya’s soft footsteps fell behind her and the memory vanished from Tiy’s mind, replaced by the feeling of another Mbuta fish jumping up from her stomach to tickle her throat. Tiy swallowed it down.
    “The household has ass embled to bid you farewell, my lady,” Nebetya said. And then she burst into tears.
    Tiy cocked her head to the side and smiled. “You are coming with me,