I s Aster the only one in the house who cannot sleep? Papa nodded off soon after the evening repast and Clara’s eyes are closed and her face is like that of an angel. Only she lies in bed the stream of thoughts running through her mind a river that will not be dammed. She closes her eyes tries to relax each limb in turn but still still the thoughts come.
Aster was ten when they left Barcelona 11 by the time they arrived in Mallorca though the day of her birth had gone unmarked unnoticed. Papa had urged her on from the port even though she was exhausted and all she wanted was to sink onto the cobblestones by the harbor and lie down feel the hardness of land beneath her body.
Papa had placed one hand in the small of her back and pushed her onward though Clara little Clara only five years old had been like a weight on her right arm dragging her back. “Come daughters we must get there by nightfall lest the gates of the Call be locked. Think of the soft bed that awaits you.”
Now she knows how short the walk is from the harbor to the Call. But then her legs felt heavy and the ground was hard under her the soles of her shoes. The path was steep. The porter who had piled their belongings on a boney donkey lifted his stick and thrashed the creature. He had whined. Aster opened her mouth to object but tiredness had swallowed her words. By the time they passed through the gates of the Call dusk was upon them.
