“I know not what to do.” Aster speaks to the closed front door through which Jocef has just departed. She raises her voice and shouts at the emptiness. “Papa is ailing you know that how can I pretend otherwise? And there’s nothing to stop us being sold as wives to sly old men or as handmaidens. And what of Regina? Without us she will be prey to some conniver who will work her to the bone.
“What should I do?”
She drops her head in her hands. Why did she not see this coming? For years she paid not much interest to her father’s commissions as long as there were coins to pay Regina to pay the butcher to buy fabric for clothing to buy chickpeas and olives and oil and leeks. To fix the roof and pay for the upkeep of the well and…
But then she remembers the scene that took place here in this very room. She maps it out in her mind: Mose in front of the hearth long hands gripped behind his back; Papa sitting at the head of the table as if he were made of stone.
Stop Aster. She pulls herself back to the present. Stop. “But I know not what to do ” she murmurs.
