T he morning air is still crisp and clean and Aster stands at the doorway breathing it in when a little boy — son of the baker who manages to pop up everywhere and in every place maybe he has a twin or triplet — thrusts an envelope into her hand. She looks down at it looks back up at the boy but he has already run off down the street.
The Mapmaker
That is all the text written on the envelope; it is a confident hand with a touch of artistry — there is a long flourish after the r. Aster turns the envelope over: The red wax seal is imprinted with a picture of a lion and a snake. She returns to the house and places it carefully on Papa’s desk. Then she unrolls her parchment and looks impassively at the sketches she has drawn.
The light is dim and she picks up the parchment and walks outside into the courtyard. She sits down on the old wooden bench tilts the parchment toward the sun and looks closely at the outline of the rivers.
She hears the rustle of a long skirt the slight click of wooden soles. She looks up. Clara.
