“I think that when you stop trying to fly off into the world of the spirit, you have a way with words”
Three Ottoman officials sit in her chairs, around her large, oakwood table. Leonora stands with her back to the wall, combing her visitors with her eyes. She does not recognize them from Tzfat; and their clothing is not the regular Muslim dress of the agents appointed to collect the taxes and keep the peace. Red hats, gold trim around their coats, long swords dangle from their left sides.
She sits down. So. This morning she is to tolerate another tiresome interruption. People often ask her how she manages so much, and she usually gives the answer: I am in the habit of not interrupting my work. She is always surprised at how her words — so obvious — are taken as a nugget of wisdom, to ponder and examine.
“We have some questions to ask you, Donna Leonora de Dabela.”
“Indeed.” She straightens her back and threads her fingers together in front of her. “Well, I have a question to ask you first. Under whose authority do you come?”
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